P.N.ZOYTLOW

The Boar’s Mochi

NOTE: Rules for these Field Reports, mainly the 75-minute observation limit have, of late, been conscientiously recalled. Thanks to those of you, forbearing readers, who expressed your concerns about recent lapses. Be assured that this Report conforms to the highest standards currently available for the sciences (the social ones).  There is every expectation that this incoming Year of the Boar will be fortuitous for these Field Reports.

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Being even briefly in Honolulu tends to inspire interest in the Japanese. They are a long-established and generally prosperous group, especially on Oahu, where they make up 25% of the population. Honolulu is also a huge magnet for tourism from Japan. Their motives are varied: warm weather, a customary place to get married, and a chance to visit the United States in a culturally comfortable manner e.g. you can shop at Prada, Gucci and Nieman-Marcus and someone will speak Japanese as will the bus drivers and hotel personnel.  Restaurants cater to these generally cautious visitors who prefer the familiar foods of Japan.

Japanese tourists fascinate. Whether they are honeymooners from Osaka, trios of willowy Tokyo secretaries, or graying retirees from some far-flung prefecture, they are the dominant life form along Waikiki’s main shopping avenues.  The things that astonish social scientist observers may include: Japanese make no eye contact with anyone other than their immediate familiars.  It is quite common to be in a place with a dozen or more of these visitors and have that odd sense of non-being, as if one has become invisible. The women may wear flip-flops but more typically torment themselves in high-heeled shoes. The men take enormous amounts of photographs even in sub-marginal conditions. They are a quiet people, evidence of a presumed cultural preference for remaining unnoticed. As the saying goes, “the nail that sticks out must be hammered back into the wood.”  Detractors of Japan have (unkindly) called its people “robotic,” unless chemically altered (alcohol) to promote euphoria, drop the self-effacing mask, and, fleetingly, cause eye contact.  So the theory goes. But how paltry a set of impressions for so venerable and vital a people!  Is there not more that can be said?

Before observing the crucial focus of this Field Report–a New Years celebration– a modest preliminary probe into the Japanese cultural marrow occurred at the Fuji Ramen, a noodle house frequented by Japanese tourists. This effort yielded nothing. Not to say there was nothing to learn there, but whatever it was must have been throbbing at a wavelength far too low for this observer.  All except two of the twenty-seven patrons were Japanese.  The other two were white folks who, according to their ball caps and t-shirts, had also once visited Illinois. The place was studiously quiet except for an occasional clatter of pots or exclamation from the kitchen. Noodles were the focus; noodles were consumed; that’s all.  And they, the Japanese, were lined up outside the place, awaiting a chance to sit at the counter for ramen with egg, ramen with octopus, ramen with shrimp, ramen with beef, ramen with tofu, ramen with teriyaki chicken or ramen with tempura of one sort or another.  A profound event, no doubt suffused with precious revelations about the authentic Japan, but hardly the sturdy stuff of Field Reports.

By chance, an item in the Honolulu Advertiser called attention to what had to be an opportunity to uncloak the missing cultural insights. A “New Year’s ‘Ohana Festival” was set for a Sunday in mid-January at the Japanese Cultural Center.  A big event, all day, everyone welcome and bring the family. The word “ohana” means “family” in Hawaiian (not Japanese) and looking back this was a crucial clue (missed!) about the event. The sponsors and participants were largely Japanese who had lived in the Hawaiian Islands for at least a generation or more. They were assimilating, borrowing words, and already distant from Japan in numerous ways.  In other words, Japanese Americans.  Authentic Japanese tourists were not here; they were miles away doing what they had come to Honolulu to do.

Since the Japanese had been in Hawaii, especially on Oahu, for well over a century, they are now well established as immigrants. Hawaii’s two U.S. Senators are Japanese-American. So, no surprise that the Japanese Culture Center was a prosperous-looking five-story building, headquarters of an important organization very similar, as it turned out, to ethnic organizations whether Irish in Boston or Polish in Chicago. Such organizations are deeply dedicated to preserving pieces of the cultural past. Though they were not the original focus of this research, surely observing Japanese who were not tourists but locals could reveal something? More than anything the event resembled a folk festival/carnival, a mix of whatever the community chose to recall about the past blended with elements common to Anglo-American county fairs.  In the latter case, you could get a ride on an antique fire engine, eat hamburgers, send your children to roll and jump on a series of inflated shapes that looked like generic European castles, etc.  To lean more towards the Japanese side of your bicultural being you would chose activities suggesting fidelity to older traditions. Mochi pounding was one of these.  But we will come to that.

Looking over the events in the Cultural Center and adjacent Mo’ili’ili Field, it made sense to visit those places where the largest number of visitors had gathered. These events were:

Gyotaku.  For kids.  Take a fish (dead) out of a cooler. 

Daub poster paint on it. Take a piece of paper and press it against the fish to make an impression. An old art form. It is said that an elderly artist somewhere “on the windward side” of the island will do large ocean fish for you as a trophy.  Not cheap.

Keiki Kimono Dressing. For $70 your child will be carefully dressed in the most                   exquisite traditional style. Samurai outfits for the boys, kimonos for the

girls.  Photos extra. Very well done.  An emotional gift for the grandparents.

Animé.  A joint effort by several high school animé clubs to spread the word about the famous Japanese cartoon genre.  Soft-spoken, dignified teen-aged advocates politely offer to tell you what to look for as you stare at the videos. Sample: “Sir, do you know animé? May I show you a few things about it?  It‘s very compelling.”

Tea Ceremony. Not for everyone. Requires at least a half hour and legs which do not cramp and fall asleep while kneeling. You must attempt to read non-verbal hints as to when to bow, in which direction and how deeply.

And so to Mo’ili’ili Field and the event that had the largest crowd, mochi pounding.  On the way, $6 and ten minutes spent waiting in line to buy okonomiyaki (“sizzling, nutritious, Hiroshima-style, topped with Otafuku Okonomi Sauce”).  Noodles, eggs, cabbage, eggs, pancake and more. Indefinable? Kind of an omelet?  Overheard: “What makes ‘em Hiroshima-style anyway?” Excellent question, the voice of the skeptic.

Mochi pounding (mochitsuki ) seemed as if it might be the climactic event, the one in which was most probably galvanic for persons whose origins were in the Land of the Rising Sun.  Mochi is made from a specific rice that is highly glutinous, sticky, and slightly sweet. The supermarkets in Hawaii feature it, small lumps of smooth rice flour.  But those commercial mochi are made with machines. Real mochi, the kind associated with New Years, are made traditionally. Mochi pounding drew the biggest crowd, maybe because of the taste, more likely because of the significance of the dramatic way in which it had always been produced in the old days.

From a distance it looked as if this ethnic festival had borrowed one more attraction of American carnivals, the event where hopeful machos smack large clubs in hopes of making a bell ring. The difference was that three men were coordinating their blows and despite this massive effort, no bell rang. They were striking a huge ball of cooked mochi rice in a massive stone basin and with each blow walloping the sticky ball into a rubbery paste in which, soon, no grain of rice was visible, only a silky dough which would be eaten in small portions, either plain or filled with something sweet like red adzuki bean paste. Teams of three took up the large mallets, each one a yard long and with a striking face four or five inches across. Since alternating strikes were delivered, the coordination of the three was critical. To strike the hammer of another, to hit the rim of the basin, or to weaken and interrupt the pattern was bad form and bad luck.

For this session on this Sunday afternoon, young men of the Tenrikyo Church, each wearing identical deep-purple t-shirts, pounded mightily while a large crowd watched quietly and occasionally moaned when a blow missed the blubbery mass in the basin.  A radio personality, apparently known to the audience, narrated the event, offering encouragement, but often betraying an impatience as the bludgeoning went on for nearly half and hour.  A short distance away, stolidly patient, were the women of Tenrikyo Church, whose duty it would be to pounce on the prepared mochi and pinch it into small portions to be passed out to the expectant crowd. Old-timers pointed out to the youngsters that “this is the way it used to be done” and other sage observations. In contrast, the radio personality, joking into an overly loud microphone took the trouble to tell his captive audience that, no kidding, this was the first time he had seen this done. Way cool!  Hey, didn’t mochi come only in packages in the supermarket?  The crowd ignored him and his banter, another irritation he must have suffered during the long wait for that mochi to be pounded to meet the standards of Old Japan.

The sweating Tenrikyo men saw it differently: mochi pounding was a “self-purifying or self-reflective act” something usually done in December to prepare for New Years in January.   The pounding of mochi attracted good fortune. Small cakes of mochi would be placed in the family shrine or “in some other prominent place for households without a shrine.” A flexible approach.  The Tenrikyo Church believes in a god that “created human beings to live a joyous life and to share in that joy.”  As they see it, the deity lends our bodies to us, but our minds belong to us alone.  Fair enough.

Eventually, but without exhausting the patience of the onlookers (though a few white folks had politely departed) the mochi was complete, pronounced good, passed to and filled by the women, and shared with everyone.  The radio personality had gone on to the next event where he made much of asking an old woman in a kimono for assistance in pronouncing the name of a drum group due to perform next.  And then he stumbled through it. “Wish I could say it like she does, folks,” he laughed in the mindless way of radio personalities everywhere,  “but, you know me, I’m American-educated.”  Since he was ignored, the question must be asked: did he exist at all?

Mochi may be timeless, but the 75 minutes allowed by the immutable laws of social science field reports were soon exhausted. It would have been a fine thing to take a seat and relax while the drummers thundered away, but it was time to go forward, satisfied with the quality of this research and the promise of good fortune into the Year of the Boar.

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NOTE: At that moment, dingy wisps of doubt appeared, plaintive moans of woodwinds, the odor of funereal blooms and so on.  Standing at a bus stop, this observer noted (nearby) a number of karaoke bars. The wisps of doubt thickened into a dismal fog.  Karaoke is wildly popular among the Japanese, so much so that it is thought to be an irrefutable key to their world.   Without it a researcher could surely expect derisive giggling and worse,  braying anathema.  But, alas, the 75 minutes were gone and the bus arrived.