Grappling with Japan. A substantial writing challenge

After their shock 2-1 win over Germany in the 2022 FIFA World Cup in Qatar, the Japanese fans paused their stadium celebrations to bag up all their rubbish. Japan is another country; they do things differently there.

Cleanliness is next to godliness for the Japanese. Ritual purification is at the heart of the Shinto religion. Sumo wrestlers cleanse the ring by scattering salt prior to their bouts. Japanese children swab their schools top to bottom at the end of the day.

Working in Japan in the 1980s, I experienced such cultural differences first hand. Initially tongue-tied, I had to depend on my powers of observation to try to make sense of the world around me.

It was not straightforward. Back then foreigners were still a curiosity. Children would point at us in the street. Adults would comment as they passed. We were largely segregated, kept at arm’s length.

The Japanese did not expect us to play by their rules. Our gauche behaviour conformed with their image of foreigners. A view reinforced every time we put our foot in it.

But over time, I started to piece it together. My wife being Japanese, I had unusual and privileged access to Japanese family life.

We would visit her parents in Yamanashi Prefecture, the fertile area north of Mount Fuji at weekends to help with rice planting and other farming tasks. Through them, I was privy to a side of Japan not often witnessed by foreigners. The complete lifecycle from birth to death.

Gradually I started to feel at home. But then something would bring me back to earth. Some unintentional faux pas on my part. Once again, I realised I was still only scraping the surface.

Against this backdrop, it may seem a bold move to set my three novels in “The Chrysanthemum Thrillers” series in Japan. A minefield of misinterpretation primed to explode in my face.

I was well aware of the potential pitfalls: the temptation to resort to stereotypes; to use well-trodden locations; to voice familiar Japanese clichés.

But at the same time, the novels had to connect with my non-Japanese target audience. I had to provide some recognisable landmarks to help the readers to navigate the stories. A difficult path to tread.

One helpful technique was using non-Japanese central characters. In my first book “The Consignment”, a Swedish mother and her daughter find themselves adrift in Japan. As they puzzle out their situation, the reader is invited to join them on the journey and see Japan through their eyes.

My first novel actually starts in Thailand. I travelled to Phuket one year after the catastrophic tsunami of 2004. While I was there, I visited some of the areas most affected.

This chastening experience stayed with me. When I returned to my desk at Reuters, I scribbled the opening chapter to a novel based on what I had witnessed. Then the pressure of work forced me to put it aside. I only took it up again when I retired four years later.

The Internet proved an invaluable research tool. I only had a superficial knowledge of Thailand. When the story eventually made landfall in Japan, I set the action in Osaka, a city I had only visited once. The Internet fleshed out the details, creating the backdrop to bring the story to life.

Picture taken on Mt. Fuji.

My second book “Sea of Trees” on the other hand required me to walk the walk. From our base in Yamanashi Prefecture, my wife and I meticulously explored the novel’s settings around Mount Fuji and the Miura Peninsula.

Oddly, I discovered too much research proved to be a distraction. To justify all the painstaking legwork, I tended to give it too much airtime in the novel. Later I found myself having to strip away superfluous details.

Rather than screwing down every nut and bolt to achieve realism, I decided it was enough simply to be plausible. As a reader, when a story grips me, I find I’m more than willing to suspend disbelief.

Writing can be something of a confidence trick. One reader congratulated me on my in-depth understanding of nuclear fusion, which I had cobbled together from some pages on Wikipedia.

Another difficulty I encountered was rendering Japanese dialogue into English. English idiomatic expressions sounded odd coming from the mouths of Japanese characters. Japanese translations likewise came across as stilted and unnatural.

My two central detectives, Kazuo Yamaguchi and Yuki Sekikawa, in particular had to sound authentic. Their relationship deepens over the three novels. Their exchanges needed to reflect their increasing intimacy set within the constraints of Japanese professional formality.

Of course, I could not have embarked on writing “The Chrysanthemum Thrillers” without back-up. Throughout the process, my family have pored over the text, rigorously pointing out my shortcomings.

There is more work in store for them. For my next challenge, I’m writing in the first person, a gothic mystery narrated by a 35-year-old Japanese woman.

Wish me luck!

This article first appeared in the February issue of "Red Herrings", the monthly magazine for the Crime Writers' Association.

Stepping back into ancient Japan

Some years ago, my wife and I completed a pilgrimage in Japan. In a land where pilgrim trails abound, ours was a path less travelled.

The Kumano Kodo Ise-ji route starts at Ise Grand Shrine. Unmatched in importance to the Shinto religion, the shrine has drawn Japanese pilgrims throughout the ages. According to records, in just two months in 1625, more than 3.5 million pilgrims passed under its imposing torii gate.

Ise is in a constant state of renewal. Every shrine building is re-built from scratch, as exact replicas, on a 20-year cycle.

The Ise-ji pilgrimage route does not receive the same attention. It has largely fallen into disuse since its heyday.

It winds its way south from Ise along the Kii Peninsula, hugging the coastline, before heading inland. Its destination is Kumano Sanzan, three great shrines enveloped in the peninsula’s mountain recesses.

Most modern-day pilgrims choose to approach Kumano Sanzan from Nara, Japan’s ancient capital. The trail is well marked and maintained. There is plentiful accommodation. It is foreigner friendly.

Not so the Ise-ji. In places, the route is barely discernible. Armed with a well-intentioned map from the local tourist office, we often found ourselves wandering astray.

Other walkers were few and far between. Locals in the villages expressed surprise and concern when we passed. They pressed satsuma oranges on us, asking to be remembered in our prayers at our destination.

The pilgrimage was not without its perils. Bears prowled through the mountains. Someone had been attacked recently. It was best to carry a small bell to warn the animals of your presence.

In the depth of the forest, we were completely alone. Hardly a sound. As tradition demanded we paused at every tiny shrine to pray. Red-bibbed Jizo statues, the guardian deity of children and travellers, watched over us from the undergrowth.

At points the track would disappear or be barred by fallen trees. Some communities made an effort to keep the paths clear. Others let nature take its course.

It was physically demanding. Aided with bamboo staves, we had to clamber up massive stone stairways carved into the mountains.

We were stepping back into the past. The boulders bore the imprint of centuries of pilgrims. In the villages, we witnessed ancient inns, now just crumbling hulks.

I pictured the procession of pilgrims from all walks of life. The noisy street vendors, the crammed accommodation, the hustle and bustle.

Slowly a novel formed in my mind. The intersection of past and present. As we walked, the outline of my characters kept pace.