Furano - for lavender and melons

Sapporo, the capital of Hokkaido, Japan’s northern island, is a flat, sprawling city, surrounded by low hills. The downtown area, with classy department stores, high end dining, and tree lined boulevards, is lovely. But the outskirts are not attractive: mile after mile of car dealerships, used car lots, and pachinko (gambling) parlors.

Beyond the city, Hokkaido’s countryside is breathtaking. Forests, rolling hills, farms, salmon streams, fast flowing rivers, crystal clear lakes. The forests are rich in bear, deer, foxes, and smaller creatures. The beaches are clean, and although too cold for bathing most of the year, are deserted and ideal for beach combing. The surrounding seas supply plentiful fish and crustaceans, which the Japanese love to eat raw, steamed or grilled.

We were hunkered down in Sapporo for months, first by winter and then by Covid-19, and were impatient to travel. Infection numbers were down, our Covid fatigue needed a cure, and Furano was the obvious choice. I had been there three years ago and loved the place.

Hokkaido’s economy depends on farming, fisheries, and forestry, but Furano is best known for its lavender fields and melons. The flatness of the terrain is, in a mountainous island, quite astonishing. The hills can be seen all round in the far distance, but what lies in between is farm after farm, in near-perfect rectangles, swathes of gold (ripening wheat) and shades of green - rice, corn and onions. In between are the numerous greenhouses for the precious melon. Copses of trees dot the landscape. Irrigation channels spread the water from mountain streams throughout the agricultural fields.

Hokkaido agriculture was developed under American guidance, so the farm houses, the barns, and the silos have a distinctly American appearance.  But, these are not humongous farms like in the USA, but much smaller ones, the farmer and his family living on site, in houses that add much color to the landscape. In Japan, every aspect of farming – tilling, planting, weeding, spraying, harvesting – is mechanized, from two-wheeled tractors to tankers with extended arms that spray water onto the onion fields.

The Bed & Breakfast was in the midst of an onion field. During my walks, I saw fields basking in the glorious summer sunshine and the farmers going about their work diligently. The Japanese value aesthetics highly, and this extends to the farms, which are kept in near perfect order, to blend easily with the landscape and the neighboring farms. The irrigation ditches are cleared of sludge, and the crystal clear water flows smoothly. I read that water distribution is harmonious and well regulated.

Furano is most famous for its lavender fields, which, on our last visit, were packed with tourists. This time, with the airport closed for international flights, only Japanese visitors were around. To enjoy them the most, one must spend time with the lavender, strolling among the fields, inhaling the scent deeply, or sit at a nearby bench and simply gaze, while butterflies flutter and bees go about their work.  A cone of Japan’s heavenly soft-serve ice cream, lavender flavored, of course, in hand, adds to a sense of calm that is precious during these troubled times.

Lavender is big business. Mainly used in the manufacture of perfume, lavender has also been applied to a mind boggling number of products, ranging from sachets of potpourri, to oil, soap, candles, pillows, hand cream, and tea. Lavender flavored ice cream and wine are also big hits. 

One evening, we had dinner at an izakaya, a type of small neighborhood pub/eatery popular in Japan. Usually run by a husband and wife couple, or a chef and an assistant or two, they have a vast range of dishes on the meu, and a loyal clientele. One pushes the sliding door to a side, parts the half curtain to peer and step-in, to be greeted with "irasshaimase" meaning "welcome, please come in". Robata, the izakaya in Furano where we ate, is a tiny, quirky place, where the chef owner is assisted by a younger man. A weird collection of artifacts hangs from the ceiling, and all around are bottles of liquor, masks from Noh drama, endless menu items with price tags, and coolers. Only the square seating area is in any order, chopsticks balanced on tiny, colorful plates, all social distanced. Traditional Japanese music (high pitched wailing, usually), sounds in the background. Everything is covered in a sheen of dust, but who cares: we came to eat and drink.

Upon being seated, wet towels are passed around, and small bowls of edamame (boiled soybeans in the pod) served. We take our time over ordering, because the meus are many and varied, but eventually go with the chef’s recommendations – cold draft beer, sashimi, cold tofu, grilled fish, and yakitori (grilled chicken on skewers). Izakayas are boisterous places, but tonight the mood is somber, Covid being not far from everyone’s mind. The chef keeps on a bantering with the customers (the only gaijin (foreigner), me, being a point of interest), soft cries of “kanpai” (cheers) are heard, and we savor the warm ambience. The bill is not itemized, instead rounded to the nearest thousand. We step out to a cool evening, the bright lanterns leading the way magically down a narrow lane.

Another day, away from Furano, we come across an old soba place in a rustic area. Soba is buckwheat noodle, served in a warm broth in winter and cold in summer, usually with tempura - vegetables, fish or meat battered and deep fried. Cold soba and vegetable tempura are among my favorite Japanese dishes. While waiting our turn to get in, another customer told us that the restaurant, Onada Soba, was the setting for a popular TV drama series in the early 1980s named “North Country”. When we entered, I wondered if anything had changed since then. The walls had hundreds, if not thousands, of business cards and boarding card stubs left by fans from all over Japan and elsewhere, some going back nearly 40 years. A coat of dust covered everything. An elderly man did all the cooking, helped by his wife who waited and washed up. The menu had only four items, and we ordered cold soba with onion tempura, and the waitress told us that two servings of tempura, not three, would be enough. When the meal arrived, I saw why. The tempura was a generous portion, fried to a golden sheen. With a generous serving of green tea, I enjoyed perhaps the best soba meal.

Now for the melons. The Japanese are fond of water melon, cantaloupes, and honey dew. Furano cantaloupes are highly prized, and are given as gifts. I’ve seen melons priced at US$50, but we didn’t have to pay that much for the sweetest melons. We gave one to our neighbor back in Sapporo, and, with a sparkle in her eyes, she ran to place it on her late husband’s alter before consuming it later.

We returned from Furano relaxed and rejuvenated, longing to go back in a few weeks. But, Covid had resurged in Japan, so we’ll have to wait.

Trinity College, Kandy, Jokes

Mistaken Identity

A prominent politician, who was the MP for Kandy in the good old days, had three sons at Trinity.  Two were twins.  As was his custom, the feared vice-principal and disciplinarian Mr. Sahayam was doing his rounds of the school when he spotted one of the twins standing outside the classroom.  Upon enquiry it was revealed that he was thrown out of the class for being a disturbance.  Mr. Sahayam sent the boy back into class asking the latter to see him at 3.05pm at his office when school closed for the day.  

3.05pm - Sahayam had forgotten about the matter.

3.15pm - Looking outside from his window at the end of school, Sahayam sees the culprit scooting away.  He immediately shouts and gets him into the office, and the usual 3 cuts follow.  

Just as he finished, a knock on the door and in walks the other twin, the real culprit! 

The first one did not know why he was caned till then (one never questioned Sahayam).  The second was not let off - he was given 6 cuts, 3 being the punishment for the disturbance and the other 3 because it would be profoundly unfair that he should receive just the same number of cuts as the innocent one! 

An unforgettable leaving certificate

One troublemaker was regularly sent by the class teacher to the vice principal’s office for punishment, and whenever he turned up, the 3 cuts were perfunctory. One day, the troublemaker turns up as usual at the office. Without a word, Sahayam rises from his seat, approaches with the cane, asks the subject to bend down, and metes out the usual punishment. Sahayam returns to his desk, only to see the boy still loitering in the office. “Why are you still here?” Sahayam asks, only to be told that the boy had already left school some time ago, and had only called to collect his leaving certificate!

The missing full-back

The Trinity rugby side had gone down to Colombo by train to play Zahira. Bob Harvey is doing the commentary on Radio Ceylon when Abdul Majeed of Zahira picks up the ball and speeds all the way down the flank to touch down for a magnificent try.

The returning Trinity team is disembarking at the Kandy railway station where the Trinity full-back is met by his father, who sternly inquires where the son had been when he was supposed to be playing rugby in Colombo. "What do you mean?" retorts the surprised full back, "I was doing exactly that". "Stop talking rubbish" says the irate father in choice Sinhalese, "even Bob Harvey was saying when Majeed scored that try, ‘Where is the Trinity full-back? He is nowhere to be seen!’”.

(from various sources)

Six years in the Heart of Dixie

Six Years in the “Heart of Dixie” – Part I

In 1988, when I was a year from finishing my doctoral studies at the University of Texas at Austin, I had arrived at a crossroad. Fawzia and Roy had joined me only the previous year, and Fawzia was working towards a second bachelor’s degree while Roy was  in high school. If we stayed on in the USA, Fawzia could go on for a master’s and Roy could enter university. But, in the back of my mind, I also thought of returning to Sri Lanka.

All that changed in October, when a letter arrived from my father back home, warning me that it was a dangerous time to bring my son back. Roy was only 15 at the time, but tall for his age, and two conflicts were raging in Sri Lanka: one between the Sri Lankan forces and the LTTE up north, and another with Marxist rebels waging a brutal armed revolt in the south. My father feared that, in one way or another, Roy would become the victim of these conflicts.

Alabama license plate – “Heart of Dixie”

Now that the choice was made for me – staying on in America - the only way to continue was to find a job, and, in my field of applied linguistics, teaching. So, I scrambled, looking somewhat desperately for any openings.

I faced a challenge even before my job search began. I am not a native speaker of English; while that would not matter in science, engineering, computer science and every other field in finding a teaching position in America, would I be welcome in an English classroom where the students were native English speaking Americans? In English departments throughout the country (3000 universities and four-year colleges), hardly any nonnative speaker professors were visible. So, I would be venturing into the unknown.

New Orleans

One of the largest academic conferences in my field, the annual meeting of the Modern Language Association (MLA) was to be at New Orleans at the end of December, between Christmas and New Year. Many job interviews are conducted at such conferences, because both professors and graduate students attend them. So I applied for every job opening that had scheduled interviews at the conference, and waited anxiously for invitations, by phone or letter, in those days without email. In the end, I was invited to 11 interviews, the most among my contemporaries in the foreign language education and English departments.  (I did have unusually good credentials.) When academic departments have a vacancy, a small recruiting committee of professors is formed to vet applications, and being invited for an interview meant that I had cleared the first hurdle.

In late December, I traveled to New Orleans with three friends from the English department, all literature majors. They, too, had applied for jobs but only one had managed to land an interview. The others went, hoping for walk-ins. The job market was very tight those days, and more so for literature majors.

In New Orleans, the weather was cold and rainy, the streets slush with mud. The interviews were usually conducted by the chairperson of the respective academic department at the hotels where he/she stayed. Not being familiar with New Orleans and the hotels, and before the days of cell phones, I was literally running all over town, panicking at being late and denied interviews. Having to dress formally, in jacket and tie, added to my nervousness.

The interviews also gave me a window on future bosses. One department chairman, who had obviously scheduled too many applicants, timed each interview with a timer. Barely 10 minutes into my interview began, the timer went off and he abruptly ended the interview. Some seemed confused when I turned up, perhaps expecting to meet a white person, not having read my CV carefully to discern the Sri Lankan origins. I could even read the disappointment on some faces when my accent and skin color didn’t match my name. The interview I best remember was with an elderly gentleman, who introduced himself as James Dorrill. He was easy going with the questions and we had a friendly chat.

On-Campus Interviews

The next step in the hiring process is the on-campus interview, for which two or three of those interviewed in New Orleans would be short-listed. About two weeks after returning from New Orleans, I received invitations for three interviews, one in Mobile, Alabama, where James Dorrill taught, and the other two by universities in Missouri. These were all expense paid trips, with two or three nights’ hotel accommodation and roundtrip air travel. I would meet with the English department teachers (professors and instructors), make a formal academic presentation to them, and be interviewed by the recruiting committee. A tour of the city and available housing options (usually conducted by a real estate agent) might also be on the itinerary. A professor or two would accompany me to every meal.

When I arrived in Mobile, AL, I was met at the airport by Professor James Dorrill himself, this time in a Roman collar! He was a Catholic priest. From then on, my presentation, the interview, and informal meetings with teachers and students went quite well. Mobile is an old port city, in a very traditional Southern state. Most professors were older gentleman, and there were a few ladies as well. Most were gracious and curious about me. Prof. Dorrill, being was from Boston, was quite an anomaly.

Colorado Apartments, married student housing at the University of Texas at Austin

But the most memorable interview was at Springfield, Missouri, a beautiful town into which I flew on a tiny plane. As we came into land, I saw a colorful landscape with sweeping hills in the distance. (I am a sucker for distant hills.) The English department staff were comparatively young and very friendly. My visit lasted three nights, staying at a comfortable hotel, and I was wined and dined. One of the professors was especially impressed when she learned that my thesis supervisor was Prof. James Kinnevy, and called him the “father of modern rhetoric”, which in fact he was. My presentation and the formal interview went smoothly, and an enthusiastic real estate agent showed me the town and some houses on the market. I felt that the English department staff were keen on me coming there. I learned that the actor Brad Pitt was from Springfield, and that the Holiday Inn chain of hotels started there. The entire department came for the lunch before my departure, at a nice Chinese restaurant with an open kitchen, and we again got along quite well. I knew that Springfield was the place for me.

Upon my return to Austin, the wait for follow-up phone calls and letters was nerve racking. Would I get a job offer? What could I do if I did not? To bolster my morale, I talked frequently with my classmates who were also on job hunts. We were desperately trying to finish our thesis writing, while also teaching two or three freshman writing classes for the English department and taking courses ourselves.

A disappointment, and a job offer

The first rejection came from the other Missouri university. It was just a polite a form letter. I hadn’t liked that place much, so wasn’t very disappointed. One down, two to go. About a week later, I was overjoyed to receive a letter from Prof. Dorrill, in Alabama, offering me the job, setting out terms and conditions, including the salary, and giving me two weeks in which to decide. But my first choice was the position in Springfield, and when a letter from there finally arrived, I opened it nervously, only to have my hopes shattered: despite all the positive vibes I had received during my visit, they had turned me down. Thinking back 30 years later, I realize that my life, and that of Fawzia and Roy, may have taken an entirely different turn if that Springfield job had come through.

So, I accepted the Alabama offer. Not all my friends were pleased. One, a woman from New York, said that she would “not stop to change a flat tire in Alabama”. I was aware of the terrible legacy of the deep south, of which Alabama was a part, in terms of the Civil War, slavery, the KKK, and the murderous treatment of black people. These areas were also notoriously backward in terms of literacy, standard of education, and healthcare. But, most universities are open minded communities, and English departments oases of liberalism, so I felt secure. In any case, I did not have the luxury of choice.

Mobile, Alabama

The next step was to visit Mobile to find housing and attend to paperwork. So, a few months later, I drove the 600 miles from Austin to Mobile in my small Isuzu car, going east on Highway I-10, passing through Louisiana and Mississippi. I can’t recall if I stayed overnight during that long drive but I did pass through a landscape that was quite foreign to me. The polluted, oil refining area of east Texas and Louisiana, the swampy, pine forested backwoods, the small and larger towns along the highway that flashed past because I had no time to stop. I would get to know these areas better in a few years’ time.

Without the pressure of a job interview, I saw Mobile and the University of South Alabama more clearly. Compared to the University of Texas at Austin, South Alabama was a small university, with no history, having been founded only in 1963. A state institution, it did not have the red brick, ivy covered buildings that are the landmarks of revered old universities. Most buildings were utilitarian, lacking any aesthetic value. The founding President of the university was still in charge after more than 25 years.

Downtown Mobile street

Linda Callendrillo was the English department’s writing specialist and the director of freshman composition. She was on the recruitment committee and had pushed for my hiring. I got along well with her and her husband, John Guzlowski, who taught American literature. (His parents had been Auschwitz survivors.) They showed me around town, suggesting suitable apartments that I could rent.

Downtown Mobile was where the wealthy old families lived in their beautiful homes along oak lined streets. It also had the magnificent Catholic cathedral, and a few quaint restaurants. The tallest building, the Holiday Inn, was owned by the President of the university. But, I also saw rundown homes, the shotgun type, where poor black people lived.

As the city spread west beyond the I-65 highway, the shopping areas and less affluent houses could be seen, along with apartment complexes. I found a suitable apartment on Hillcrest Blvd., not far from the university, put down a deposit, and said goodbye too Linda and John, looking forward to working with her when I returned in September. But she had a surprise for me.

Finishing-up in Austin

Fawzia was finishing her second undergraduate degree and Roy his sophomore (second) year in at Austin High School. I had transferred to UT at Austin in 1986, and they had joined me the following year. Their first year was a difficult one; Fawzia faced a major health issue soon after her arrival, and the culture shocks and adjustments were hard on her and Roy. We struggled, living in a small, subsidized apartment provided by the university to married students, and barely surviving from paycheck to paycheck. It was very hot in summer, because the air conditioning couldn’t cope with the blistering Texas heat.

Completing a PhD in three years is a challenge, and I had taken on other activities (running the Sri Lankan student’ association and keeping the peace between Sinhala and Tamil students), starting an academic journal), so the three years in Austin were the most hectic of my life. Even that summer, I was taking courses to fulfill the required credit hours. But, we were ready to go in August.

U-Haul towing a car (stock photo)

Our many friends came to say goodbye, and helped load the hired U-Haul with our furniture (all bought second hand), pots and pans, clothing, and other brick-a-bat. So, on a steamy morning in August, we left Austin, towing the car, with Fawzia and Roy sitting with me in front. We stopped at a motel in Louisiana for the night, and reached Mobile the next afternoon.