War of the Gifts
In Japan, always bestow gifts. But get ready for a never-ending gratitude contest.
When I first moved to Japan, I read several of those handbooks giving daily life tips. You know the ones: take your shoes off, don’t put soy sauce on your rice, don’t lather up in the bath. Trouble today is, those books were all written circa 1960 so many admonitions no longer pertain to modern life—particularly in big cities like Tokyo or Osaka.
I never forgot one of the “musts.” It rang so odd to my western ears, how could I?
When moving into a new place bring small inexpensive gifts to the neighbors when introducing yourself. “A simple set of hand towels or a gift box of oil, vinegar, or soy sauce would be welcomed by most,” one book said.
Hard to forget.
The advice wasn’t wrong…decades ago. In earlier times, Japanese did live side by side in single houses. But the advent of less-personal apartment block living from the Bubble Era meant that this nicety of gifts and self-introductions was quickly eroding by the 1980s.
When we moved to Frog’s Glen, however, Toru insisted that we buy small gifts for the households closest to us in the valley. Although he himself had never done such a thing in the four or five times he moved around Tokyo, I immediately saw his point. Frog’s Glen is serious countryside (think ‘prying eyes’ and ‘gossip that you can’t shake’) and we were plopping our city asses down into it like intriguing, but potentially dangerous aliens.
Toru picked up small gift packages of curry rice crackers. Personally, if I was going to receive snacks from new neighbors, there are a million other munchies I’d choose but what do I know?
On our third day after the move, we grabbed a few curry cracker packages and marched out to ring some of the closest doors. In Frog’s Glen, nobody is next door—rather, you target “that two-storey house over there by the bamboo” or “the grey one with the barking dog just over that rise.”
One of our neighbors works a vegetable plot across the “road” from us, but he lives in another direction past a thick stand of trees. His name is Mr. Yamauchi, but Toru and I just call him The Daikon Guy in our shorthand.
It seems he liked the curry crackers we had recently left with his wife, so the next time he saw us he asked if we want some daikon radishes from his field.
Critical cultural sidenote: Following up a gift with a reciprocal gift is an entire chapter in those “How to Not Fuck Up Your Stay in Japan” books. The guides don’t however tell you that brinksmanship “gift wars” can continue for months if not years, as gifters and receivers slowly crank up their offerings in an escalating contest of manners. “Last time he brought me beer. I should bring vintage Hibiki Whiskey next.” That kind of thing. Foreigners quickly lose this game because we just don’t have “contests of manners” in our blood, but Japanese can go over a cliff with this stuff.
“Go ahead, please just pick some,” said Daikon Guy as he motioned toward the first three rows of his field. “I have way too much, so take a ton of them.”
Toru: One would be so great. They are really fresh! Tonight I can make…
DG: One? Puh-lease! Take at least three. Want them to rot out here? I can’t use them.
T: That’s way too...
DG: Okay, fine. I’ll just throw them out.
T: I could take two—one for me and one for my sister.
DG: Take six.
Daikon Guy I think successfully loaded about 5 into Toru’s arms. They were dinosaur sized, making us wonder where our Tokyo supermarket sourced the sickly daikon we normally bought. “Probably China,” said Toru with a raised lip.
A week later Toru’s sister visited, and Daikon Guy somehow got her alone to polite-bully her into taking another large bagful. We all laughed at the mountain of radishes in our entranceway.
He and I didn’t discuss it, but I think this was the point when Toru began quietly planning a strategic, yet culturally acceptable disengagement from the game. Not sure how this is done, but again I leave these sorts of things to the locals. I just smile broadly and cluelessly say Good Morning to everyone.
Daikon Guy doesn’t just talk to us about his vegetables. He gives us tips on life in the valley and is happy to fill us in on the other people. (“Saito’s a good ward captain, I guess. Better than the criminal Takeshita we used to have. You don’t want to know.”)
Interestingly he always finds a way to mention that he has been diagnosed with cancer. It’s an odd tic it seems. We can be talking about the rain yesterday or the coming firework festival and he will work in, “I’ve been diagnosed with cancer…”
He functions incredibly well though. This 70-something man marches out to his plot every morning at precisely 6:40AM. He tills, combines, fertilizes, waters, and inspects. Oftentimes he just sits on a folding chair alone in his field watching it grow.
And despite the nickname we gave him, he grows much more than radishes. The plot produces cabbage, onions, spinach, chingensai, carrots, eggplants, watermelon, pumpkins, and more. All of it arranged in to-the-millimeter straight rows with irrigation.
A few weeks passed after our Curry Snacks 2 – Daikon 9 competition and a truce somehow was called. (Thanks, Toru?) I’m glad. We now get regular conversation, all of us are happy, and no one has to shop for beer or pricey whiskey.
“I hope one day he gives us some eggplant,” Toru once confided in me as we walked past the plot. “Unlike daikon, I could really use those,” he laughed.
This custom is actually still alive and well. We always get treats from new neighbors.
Our best neighbors are the Tanabes. Anything we give them, they upgrade it. We just love it.
Speaking of neighbors' and acquaintances' nicknames, here are a few my wife and I regularly use:
- the German Lady
- the ex-virgin
- the sick man
- Stinky-Fatty-chan
Sadly, our local daikon guy died on Monday. He was always pottering about and had the strategic deafness that some people develop in old age when you bore them etc. He was active up until a few days ago, then faded and passed. Now the funeral gift giving begins.