Hermit Crabs and the Human Hermit

I love to watch the thumbnail sized hermit crabs that scurry along the shoreline at Onna-son carrying their personal choice of seashell homes on their backs. They look like animated pastel sculptures enlivening Nature's sand-and-driftwood still life artwork. Nothing is cuter than these busy little bugs scampering about in their pink and white all-natural mobile homes.

Not so cute are the giant, fist-sized, blue hermit crabs of Iriomote Island. Iriomote is one of the islands in the southwestern fringe of the Okinawa chain, and it is home to many unusual species of plants and animals. For instance, there is the very photogenic Iriomote Wildcat.

The blue hermits are, frankly, a bit grotesque. They become even more unphotogenic when, instead of skulking around in borrowed shells, they have to resort to wearing battered plastic containers that have floated in on the tide from who knows where.

What are human beings thinking when they turn their garbage loose on unsuspecting nature? Do we think we are the only ones making this world our home? You'd think a creature smart enough to invent plastic would be capable of inventing an environmentally-friendly method of disposing of it.

Ya Gotta Yukata?

Pardon the slang, please, maybe it's the heat...

July and August are festival season. It's blazing hot, the drums are pounding, and you have to get up and dance. What do you wear to dance in a Japanese summer festival? A yukata, of course.

The yu in yukata is the symbol for hot water. It doesn't mean that dancing at a festival while wearing a yukata can land you in hot water. It means that the yukata was originally a kind of bathrobe, something to put on when you emerged from a hot springs bath.

Yukata are still used for that purpose--very light cotton, almost always in a blue and white pattern. If you stay at a hot springs resort, they are pretty much the uniform. You'll see guests wearing them to dinner in the main dining room.

However, there is another kind of yukata. To see one is to want one. While dark blue--the color of a lake when the sun is going down--is still the preferred background color, it isn't the only color. The dyed-in patterns range from subtle to neon, and the whole thing is tied up in an obi that spreads beneath your shoulder blades like the wings of a butterfly.

At least the young women's obi is. Men and older women tie a narrower obi around their waists like an ordinary sash.

As for the men, they have two choices. One is the kimono-like yukata. The other is a knee length pajama-like outfit called jinbei. The tops and bottoms match, like a suit, and if you ask them, the men will say they would like to ditch their modern suits and wear jinbei to work instead.

In the old days when farmers and craftsmen ruled the workplace, I suppose they did.

Silent Summer

The semi is not a pretty bug, and neither is the shell it leaves behind. After spending 7 years underground, this brown tank-like critter fights its way to the Earth's surface. It sheds its carapace and lives the wild and free life for 7 thrilling days. Its song--a shrill and prolonged miii-miii--is the sound of summer.

This is one of the lucky ones. It made its way to the Earth's surface in a gorgeous, wooded, suburban park.

Nine generations ago, the silent summers--the summers when semi don't sing--began.

When the bugs were put to bed beneath the Earth in 1938, they expected to wake up like every generation before them and emerge into a hot, drowsy city of wooden buildings with paper shutters and reed floors. There were supposed to be little boys in summer kimono running around trying to catch them in their cheesecloth and bamboo nets. Trees should have been waiting for them to cling to while they shed their shells and prepared to fly. It should have been summer, and their's should have been the clarion cry of summertime.

Instead, seven years later in their year--1945--Tokyo was aflame. Houses burned, people burned, and of course even the bugs buried underground burned. It took many generations before the sound of a semi in a summer of a year that was 1945 plus 7 was heard again.

Seven years of preparation and then...disaster.

If it's bad for a bug, how much worse for a child ready to take its first steps in life, only to find the world it was born into devoured by the flames of war.

Have some tea?

Sure, but what kind? Only the fresh vegetable section takes up more space than the tea aisles in Japanese supermarkets. This is a new phenomenon.

Until recently, "tea" meant Japanese green tea, with its many variations. Then black (fermented) tea--English, Indian, Sri Lankan tastes--joined the market. Chinese tea (partially fermented)--for instance the dieter's friends oolong and pu'er--have also earned their own shelves. The newest newcomers are Okinawa teas--sanpin, goya, hibiscus, ukon, and guava lead the pack.

Sanpin is basically for refreshment and is similar to Chinese jasmine tea.
Goya is made from bitter melon and is said to be good for digestion and for warding off diabetes and excess cholesterol. It is always--without exception--drunk unsweetened.
Hibiscus uses dried flowers and is known for its bright color, sour taste, and vitamin C and E--its gifts to beautiful skin.
Ukon comes from a root similar to the curry spice turmeric, has a pronounced yellow color, tastes almost unbearably bitter unless heavily diluted, and is claimed to be liver friendly for people who enjoy awamori and other alcoholic drinks.
Guava, made by drying fresh spring leaves from guava trees, is said to be a stomach soother and another good source of vitamin C.

Like most Japanese teas, the leaves or flowers are dried--sometimes roasted--but never fermented.