A Local Encounter that Changed my Perspective - Viva Shinjuku!

spanishflavour — Sat, 6 Apr 2013 17:01:26 GMT

Shinjuku is one of the twenty-three city wards of Tokyo with a population of over 300 000 and the busiest train station in the world. Hotels, offices, and businesses jostle for space in the densely populated second 'centre' of the city, alongside Japan's biggest red light district. Visiting it in the daylight is shady – but after sunset, it explodes into shameless, attention-grabbing neon. Shinjuku also houses the country's most out-there gay neighbourhood, in Ni-chome (2nd Block), where the perfectly groomed go out to let their hair down (then restyle).

Though attitudes towards homosexuality in Japan have changed over the last decade, queer society still resides on the margins: its taboo history flusters the conservative Japanese. So it's no surprise you'll find other dissidents using Ni-chome as headquarters. On the fringe of the 'gaybourhood' sits Cafe Lavanderia, an activist/artist-run space cum cafe cum bookshop. Inspired by South American revolutionaries, spouses Yumiko and Takahiro have created a hub to take on the Man.

I popped in one afternoon and found myself amid preparations to protest the corporate acquisition of a public square by Nike. Surrounded by flags of Basque Country and Australian Aborigines, I spoke to the couple about Japanese national identity while they prepared the protest banners. We talked about the shame of the past (the red sun insignia of the country is associated with a military history, explaining its absence in civic spaces, and abundance only at sporting events), and the future-looking capitalist mentality that they fear is deteriorating the socialist undercurrents of their society.

DIY culture has little traction in Japan, so when Yumiko found out I made zines back home, she enthusiastically gifted me two self-published books of her own. Delicate and handcrafted - they were as perfect and professional as only a Japanese punk could make. I sipped my homemade ginger ale while she introduced me to the resident kitten, Zapata, named by the musician, Manu Chao's dad. Her husband was then compelled to show me his collection of Latin American pop records - his enthusiasm for the music was unbridled, as was his passion for counter-consumer culture. But I pondered how small an activist's voice must be in this flat, business suit-grey ocean of skyscrapers.

I couldn't attend the protest, so thanked them for their stories and joined the river of people outside, winding past brand names and yen signs into the train station.

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food

spanishflavour — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 14:44:23 GMT

I lived ten minutes walk away from Pilar's building, and yet it was on the other side of town in Valencia de Alcántara in rural Extremadura. To get there, I made my way through a maze of white and brown terraces, under archways and stork's nests, tripping over cobbled stone paths, and past the gaze of a black-clothed abuelita sweeping her patch of pavement for the third time that day. Pilar was a biology teacher at the high school at which I taught English. She had once studied it herself and was keen to keep it alive. Being bashful about money, we made a deal that in return for English conversation, Pilar would show me how to cook Spanish dishes. We ate lunch – the main meal of the day – while we talked.

I told her about my time so far in the country; how I had got used to the supermarket aisles. The tomato aisle, the tuna aisle, the legumes aisle, the olive oil aisle and fresh and cured produce. I watched Pilar do most of the cooking on the stove top with a handful of ingredients, and asked, “Is that it?”. She explained that the basis of Spanish cuisine was to keep flavours simple. Let foods speak for themselves. The lack of choice didn't inhibit good eating; you had to learn to enjoy the subtleties within each staple. This might be a hangover from rations during the civil war, but I thought it encapsulated the Spanish character well.

During the colder months, Pilar and I spent lunch with heavy blankets on our laps. Pilar eschewed the traditional brasero de mesa – a heater put underneath the dining table. She laughed and said that it was a silly invention: your legs burned and you caught a cold through your back. Though, when a Spaniard laughs at their own traditions, it's as if they have a rapier at your throat daring you to laugh with them. “What about it?” they might say, eyes narrowing to size you up. “This is all we have. Laugh and freeze. Laugh, and you choose to starve.” It was thus I took great care to start listening to what the food had to say.

Sam Rodgers

A Local Encounter that Changed my Perspective - Viva Shinjuku!

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food