Thursday, August 31, 2006
"No no no! Not hair: God - God!" he said, making a gesture of prayer to help me out. I hadn't at first understood what he wanted to talk about; the Japanese words for hair and god are quite similar. When he sat next to me at the station my heart did not leap with joy. He looked like the kind of slightly crazy old man who have on a couple of occasions chased me down the street shouting "Whereyoufrom", "WhyyouliveJapan", "WhayoulikeJapanesefood" in order to practice their English. But although he shared the dark brown weather beaten complexion of the rough sleeper, his manner and dress were different. His beard was short and neat, and his garment, though filthy, was interesting - a baggy grey boilersuit-like item which emitted an ecclesiastical echo, an effect enhanced by his wooden sandals. Before he sat down, he asked if he might ask me some questions. So - an off-duty monk who wants me to give him some money.
But he just wanted to talk about God with a gaijin. He'd clearly done it before, because he had that rarest of skills, the ability to make himself understood in his own language. Most can't - when I misunderstand, or ask about a word I don't recognise, they panic, or try English. The range of techniques he used was impressive: mime, paraphrase and even scribbling the kanji on his palm - no good to me because I don't know the kanji for "The Crusades" but it might have been helpful had I been Chinese or Korean. An odd smell came off him. Not the cigarettes and alcohol typical of the homeless man, but similar, although sweeter. Perhaps it was incense - years of prayer and contemplation in smoke filled rooms had perfumed him.
So we talked about God. He was mildly surprised to find I lacked any particular religious conviction - such a gaijin he had never met: was I German? It was the kind of conversation where limited powers of expression were advantageous. I didn't understand either why the two sides in Northern Ireland were fighting, but thought it was a great shame. Nor did I understand why people were fighting each other in Croatia, but agreed that it too was a great shame. Everyone in the world is the same, aren't they. My banalities were met with smiles of approval. He gave a prayer for peace. As my train pulled in, he bowed before me, and offered a blessing, and so we parted.
But he just wanted to talk about God with a gaijin. He'd clearly done it before, because he had that rarest of skills, the ability to make himself understood in his own language. Most can't - when I misunderstand, or ask about a word I don't recognise, they panic, or try English. The range of techniques he used was impressive: mime, paraphrase and even scribbling the kanji on his palm - no good to me because I don't know the kanji for "The Crusades" but it might have been helpful had I been Chinese or Korean. An odd smell came off him. Not the cigarettes and alcohol typical of the homeless man, but similar, although sweeter. Perhaps it was incense - years of prayer and contemplation in smoke filled rooms had perfumed him.
So we talked about God. He was mildly surprised to find I lacked any particular religious conviction - such a gaijin he had never met: was I German? It was the kind of conversation where limited powers of expression were advantageous. I didn't understand either why the two sides in Northern Ireland were fighting, but thought it was a great shame. Nor did I understand why people were fighting each other in Croatia, but agreed that it too was a great shame. Everyone in the world is the same, aren't they. My banalities were met with smiles of approval. He gave a prayer for peace. As my train pulled in, he bowed before me, and offered a blessing, and so we parted.
