LAND OF THE RISING ELBOW
Hugh Levinson on the favourite leisure
activity of Japanese men — and increasingly of women
THE PROFESSOR — an expert in medi- aeval Welsh literature — darted his chop- sticks into the plate of raw blowfish and lifted a morsel to his lips. 'Delicious!' he hooted, chewing the delicacy, which, if pre- pared wrongly, can be poisonous, even lethal. Then a gasp. He clutched his throat and collapsed onto the tatami mat, writhing in agony. The other professors, kneeling around the low table, chortled with laughter. The Welsh expert looked up, stopped gasping and resumed his posi- tion, guffawing insanely.
The scene, at the best restaurant in an obscure farming town north of Tokyo, was my introduction to the peculiar role of alcohol in Japan. I had no idea of what was going on. To a newly arrived and very junior English teacher, pretending to die of blowfish poisoning seemed a pretty puerile joke at best. But all normal rules of judgment were suspended, all bets were off, for one reason: the profs were plas- tered. Or, I should say, were capable of getting plastered. Because the mere pres- ence of booze, of ice-cold bottles of Kirin lager among the raw fish and miso soup, meant we had entered another world. Alcohol unlocked the door. We could drop the normal forms of Japanese society which had kept us bound with excruciat- ingly detailed rules of precedence, politesse and formality. Now, anything could go, and most of it did. Which is why a group of elderly academics were hugging each other, insulting each other and specu- lating about the availability of the library ladies. As the Japanese would say, we had forgotten our tatemae, the outward form, and revealed our honne, the real truth of our hearts.
It's no wonder that booze is big in Japan. Alcohol has an honoured role in traditional culture stretching back to `First, we'll angle the back and graduate the sides with subtle layering in order to show off your natural highlights.' ancient times. Huge straw casks of sake line the approaches to Shinto shrines on festival days. Marriages are solemnised not by the exchange of rings, but by drinking sake together. In one of the great kabuki scenes, the heroic servant Benkei proves his man- hood by emptying a sake bowl about the size and shape of a satellite dish. For Japan's modern corporate warriors, being drunk is no disgrace. One top businessman is much admired for his habit of visiting at least eight bars on his way home after a formal dinner. The sight of a blue-suited salaryman splayed out insensibly on a sta- tion platform, briefcase at his side, is so commonplace in Tokyo as to be hardly worth noticing. Kindly station attendants help them crawl onto trains home and long-suffering wives roll them into bed at the other end. Even television ads cele- brate the joys of insobriety. In one recent commercial for shochu — a type of cheap and often vile spirits — a couple imbibe freely and then pass out on the living-room floor. Their young son then snaps a cheeky picture of his paralytic parents.
Cute. Or perhaps worrying. Gradually, Japanese society may be waking up to the realisation that there may be a hangover after the party. Unlike most other industri- alised nations, alcohol consumption has increased consistently in Japan in the post- war decades. The Japanese still drink as much sake and shochu as ever, but they are knocking back growing quantities of for- eign drinks like whisky, taken either mizuwari de (watered down) or on za rokksu. Red wine, because of its health benefits, is becoming both more popular and cheaper. But beer is easily Japan's top tipple, thanks in part to frenzied marketing competition between the four big brewers. i Although total alcohol consumption is relatively low, it is highly concentrated. Roughly 45 per cent of the Japanese can hardly drink at all. They have what Is knows as 'the flushing gene,' meaning they lack the enzyme which helps process alco- hol. As a result, half a glass of wine Is enough to make them turn a startling shade of scarlet. A whole glass will have them flat on their backs. Heavy drinking is left to the remaining 55 per cent, especially the legions of salarymen in their 40s and 50s. For them, drinking has been as much duty as pleasure. Socialising with col- leagues is thought to bind companies together, and missing out on the after-work trip to the beer hall or karaoke bar is a bad career move. What's more, wining and din- ing contacts, whether suppliers, buyers or especially government officials, has long been an essential ritual in the Japanese business world.
With drinking subsidised by the compa- ny and an indulgent eye turned on drunk- enness, many salarymen have found themselves turning from frequent drinkers into hard-core alcoholics. But now the stereotype is changing. As the recession bites, companies are cutting back sharply on entertainment allowances. A campaign against bureaucratic corruption has also meant a freeze on corporate hospitality. Firms are slashing overtime hours, so salarymen are finding themselves in the odd position of spending more time at home. But those with a drinking habit find it hard to give up. Instead of drinking at a bar with the chaps from the office, they are bringing their drinking home. As one therapist says, this is creating unprece- dented stress in the modern Japanese family. Many wives are unused to their husbands spending much time at home at all, and the presence of this relative stranger is putting a strain on their rela- tionship with their children. When the stranger is drinking as well, the strain becomes almost unbearable. 'I hid bottles everywhere,' one recovering alcoholic in Osaka told me, 'in the entrance hall, in the futon cupboard. My wife would find them and throw them out. Then bad things would happen.'
Women too are acquiring a taste for the hard stuff. As Dr Susumu Higuchi, direc- tor of research at Japan's main alcohol treatment centre, puts it, this is one of the less welcome effects of Westernisation. As Japanese women seek — and slowly gain — equality, they are drinking more. The drinks industry has responded with a range of pastel-coloured, fruit-flavoured drinks, advertised by feisty actresses and aimed straight at the female market. Dr Higuchi also points to the fact that both men and women are starting to drink younger. Although the minimum drinking age is 20, the law is widely ignored, not least because anyone can buy beer, sake or whisky from any of Japan's 180,000 alcohol-vending machines. One survey found that four in five high-school-age children were drink- ing. The drinking game of ikki nomi (`down in one') is a standard initiation rit- ual at Japanese universities. Every April, around ten freshmen die from alcohol poi- soning after an ikki nomi session.
Campaigners against the demon drink face an uphill battle. They have had some victories, and thanks to their efforts antko- horizumu has become part of the Japanese vocabulary. The school curriculum now includes warnings about the dangers of alcohol. But government awareness has some way to go.
Recently one ministry suggested boost- ing tax revenues by selling booze at motor- way service stations. It took a reporter's comment that this was hardly compatible with the country's tough drink-driving laws to make the ministry beat a hurried with- drawal.
Hugh Levinson is a producer of Crossing Continents. The first programme, on Japan, will appear on 5 November on BBC Radio Four.
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