Pangaimotu Sunday

Pangaimotu is a small coral islet about one mile off the docks of Queen Salote Wharf in Nuku’alofa, the main-island capital of the Royal Kingdom of Tonga. It’s a small family-operated pleasure resort on its own little island, and is host to one of the kingdom’s largest coral reef reserves.

On the boat ride from the wharf, Pangaimotu catches your eye like a not-so-distant paradise. With the hot Polynesian sun beaming down on you, the little motorboat that ferries you there just isn’t fast enough. After ten minutes, you’re there. The wooden ramp on the dock leads you straight under a banana leaf thatched roof. You order a drink at the beachfront bar.

Pangaimotu is especially popular on Sundays, because just about everything else in the kingdom is closed. On the Sabbath, it is unlawful for Tongans to work, trade or even create noise disturbances. There are no sporting events and all contracts signed on Sundays are void. The only people allowed to do business are a few select foreigners that operate somewhere off the main islands. Such is the case at Pangaimotu.

Everything here is so tiki, but it doesn’t look like it was done on purpose. You get your drink and find a seat on one of the wooden benches in the dining area. You're right on the water's edge.

People from everywhere, mostly Tonga, are laughing, splashing and playing in the warm clear water below. They’re on the beach playing volleyball, lounging on the sun-drenched deck and lying around in hammocks. Some are out snorkeling over scores of tropical fish, while others are busy eating under the restaurant’s shady canopy.

Food is a big deal in Tonga. Plates stacked high with fresh tropical fruits and huge servings of local seafood are brought to the table next to you. You also order a meal.

After lunch, you spend most of the day the day strolling around the pristine beaches, and wading in what feels like a heated fishtank. About 100-feet offshore, there is a half-submerged ship wreck that you can climb-up and dive from. But, you’d have to swim in line with a bunch of youngsters in order to get your turn. You end up snorkeling.

Little florescent blue fish brush by your legs, and a couple sea cucumbers explode when you step on them, emitting huge white stands of sticky-icky nasty goo that clings to your feet and legs like some jelly adhesive. Jumbo starfish stare up at you from underneath the water; they are orange, and yellow and purplish black.

After an hour or two, your skin begins to prune and the bar begins to lure you ashore. You spend the rest of the afternoon making friends and sharing drinks. Within a few hours, Pangaimotu gets quieter, and folks start gathering around the deck area to watch the fabled Tongan Sunset.

Smears of pink, red, and tangerine begin to glow across the tropical sky. The fresh ocean breeze picks-up and hundreds of palm trees gently rustle in the background. It becomes one of the most tranquil experiences you could ever imagine. You just sit and watch. Amidst the wavering silence and the unquestionable beauty, you can’t help but thank god for Sundays...and Pangaimotu.

Garden of Edo

The city of Edo (modern day Tokyo) was a deliberately planned environment. Attention was paid to how it would grow, and how it grew - and eventually, it grew out of control. The face of the city changed drastically as it blossomed, and the many fires, or “flowers,” of Edo helped to make that possible.

The “Seeds” of Edo

When the powerful and patient warlord, Tokugawa Ieyasu, finally seized his opportunity to take administrative control of Japan, he knew just what to do. By waiting until after the death of his rival for autonomous power, Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1537-1598), and then slaughtering the armies that supported him at the consequent battle at Sekigahara (1600), no more daimyo warlords would be able to stand in his way. Ieyasu was Shogun. De facto ruler of Japan.

When Tokugawa Iyeasu relocated to Edo in 1590 it was a swampy little fishing village, marked by a neglected fortress built by Ota Dokan in the 15^th century. But it had potential. It was far enough from Kyoto to start a new shift in government.

In essence, Edo was re-born as a dream. It was an intentionally planned metropolitan seat of power and protection, well positioned both spiritually and geographically, and it was built to grow in a particular fashion. The city’s inhabitants would adhere to the strict social codes and standings within the hierarchal order of the shogunate regime.

The civic development of Edo would be paid for by the daimyo warlords of Japan. Each of the wealthiest families would eagerly give a large portion of their resources to the construction effort of the Shogun’s castle, as well as their own grand estates in Edo. All of these new homes were situated close to the main compound where Tokugawa and his entourage lived, so that strict levels of social control could be enforced, collectively.

“Alternate attendance” further pledged daimyo allegiance to Tokugawa rule, and kept them nearly incapable of becoming wealthy or powerful enough to pose a threat to the regime. This would also ensure his lords that the fate of his domain and family would be shared by the fate of their own.

“The Flowers of Edo”

The population in Edo grew fast, and most of the homes in Edo were made of wood and other combustible materials. They were often packed very tightly together, with little or no space between them.

Fires broke-out regularly, especially in the Low City. Many were far-reaching and often destroyed much of the city, causing many fatalities. About 100 fires broke-out during the 15 generations of Tokugawa rule in Edo Japan. These fires were often started in the most densely populated areas of the city during the dry winter season, when Edoites warmed their homes with burning charcoal.

“The city was proud of its fires…and occurred so frequently and burned so freely that no house in the low city could expect to last more than two decades.”[1]

As devastating as many of these fires were, they were often seen with a bit of irony, not only as deadly catastrophes that left Edo and its inhabitant in ruins, but also as catalysts of civic change and the cause of redevelopment and reconstruction, which often addressed the practical and social needs of the changing times.

“Edo no hana” (the flowers of Edo) became a concurrent theme throughout the history and fine arts of Japan.

A “Flower’s” Bloom

“The Great Fire of Meireki turned Edo into ‘Great Edo”’[2]

Reports of arson were not uncommon in early Edo[3]. On the 18^th day of the 3^rd year of the Meireki Imperial Era, an uncontainable fire began to spread wildly from the Hongo district in the Low City, up toward Kogimachi and Edo Castle, consuming the property and lives of many on its way.

Otherwise known as the Furisode fire, it was the worst in Japanese history at the time, destroying 60-70% of the city over three days in 1657. The Meireki fire is estimated to have claimed the lives of over 100,000 people.

Tokugawa Ietsuna himself, the 3^rd shogun, barely made it out of his keep alive, after the flames breeched his powder magazine and caused a horrific explosion.[4]

In the days following the Meireki fire, people gathered the corpses of their family members and neighbors. Many of the bodies were sent down the Sumida River to Honjo, for a mass burial. It is at this site that “Edo-in,” or the Hall of Prayer for the Dead was built as a historical marker, in memory for those who died in the consuming inferno.

In the weeks following the blaze, and for nearly 2 years after, reconstruction efforts became a high priority for the people of Edo. The shogunate utilized this opportunity to re-organize his city, and address various social and practical civic situations, particularly concerning the degree of vulnerability Edo had displayed to the Meireki fire, and how it could spread so rampantly within Edo.

Alternate attendance was temporarily suspended, and about 900 tons of near-burnt rice was dispensed to encourage the reconstructive effort.

Taking fire safety and wind factors into account, entire districts were re-planned for safety. Also many daimyo homes were relocated further away from the castle, so as to serve as natural fire breaks. Homes in Edo had to be built in adherence to strict code, and were no longer allowed to display lavish ornamentation and exquisite entryways, which were usually made of highly flammable materials such as wood and bamboo.

Many streets were widened, especially in the Low City, and the far-reaching suburbs of Edo became the city’s outer-limits, decongesting the city to some degree. Old shrines and warrior centers were moved away from the more densely populated areas for protection.

Because of these changes in scope and design, future fires, or “flowers”, of Edo, would be far less devastating than they might have been, at least for the immediate future.

A “Flower” for Love

The best known arsonist in Japan was a 17-year-old girl, Yaoya Oshichi, who lived in Edo with her greengrocer family toward the end of the 17^th century.

In late 1682, she and her family fled from the city as a wild blaze approached her neighborhood. They sought refuge in Enjoji temple, where she fell in love with a boy that she met, who lived there under the care of its resident monks.[5]

Destroyed in the fire, her family home had to be rebuilt, and upon its completion, Oshichi worried that she may never see her newfound love again. She figured that only a tragedy such as the one that first brought them together could bring them together again.

Early in the following year, Oshichi set fire to a building, hoping to able to see her distant love again. The blaze she started grew out of control and destroyed much of the city.

In Edo, arson was capital crime, rightfully so, as the city was prone to massive death and destruction by such acts. Oshichi was dragged through the streets of Edo in shame, and publicly executed for her disregard for safety and the law.

Yaoya Oshichi was pitied by some of the citizens of Edo because of her youth and beauty, but a great deal more were outraged. Either way her story is an immortalized legacy within Japanese culture and is the focal point of many kabuki plays, books, and woodblock prints.[6]

Hikeshi: Tending to the “Flowers of Edo”

“Sonae areba ureinashi” is a Japanese proverb which is similar to “An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of remedy,” as expressed in English.

Certain precautionary measures which deterred the massive outbreak of fire became law, early in the Edo period. For instance, shopkeepers were required to store large buckets of water, just in case they were needed.

Fire brigades would soon be established for each district, and numerous watchtowers would be erected, so that if a blaze did break out it would be noticed, and then isolated, quickly. This way, these “flowers of Edo” could be more easily nipped at the bud.

Even before the great Meireki fire, the Tokugawa required all daimyo to organize fire brigades (hikeshi) that would operate on a rotating basis, following the Okecho fire of 1641.[7] Needless to say, the great fire of 1657 proved these daimyo brigades inadequate in dealing with blazes on a large scale, so the government organized additional brigades that would be directed by retainers.

The first brigades responded only to blazes in and around the areas where the city officials resided. If a fire were to break out in the Low City, where most of the commoners lived, the firefighting brigades of the elite were not ordered to assist in extinguishing the flames. For this reason, the city commission developed even more brigades to protect the people and property in those areas.

Firefighting techniques in Edo usually consisted of fire isolation. Neighboring homes would be torn down to create a fire break in the immediate vicinity of a blaze. They also used manually-operated wooden water-pumps, which produced just enough water to wet the roofs of the surrounding structures, so that they wood be less likely to add fuel to the flames.

Highly revered in popular Edo culture, the firefighters themselves (gaen) were usually rowdy, young and energetic men from the lower classes, that were esteemed with a certain degree of courage and recklessness, which was implicitly necessary for the operation fire control in a mostly wooden city.[8]

The different brigades (hikeshi) were known for their rivalry amongst competing factions from other districts. Fistfights among them were not uncommon.

These firefighters shared a strong group mentality and expressed it in a number of ways, including traditional Japanese tattoos (horimono), as a display of masculinity and solidarity amongst comrades.[9]

The Wilt of the Tokugawa Regime

Tokugawa government could not sustain itself, nor its original codes of conduct and social control forever, not only because the warrior leader was not very highly revered after a couple hundred years of peace. The times were changing again, and the people of Edo, as well as many other parts of Japan, were growing tired of the out-dated administration.

The 15^th shogun, Tokugawa Yoshinobu, lived in Kyoto while mass rebellion began to blossom in Edo.[10]

Early in 1868, Tokugawa forces were defeated in the first battle of the Boshin War, and by the time of the massacre of his loyalist’s armies at Ueno in 1868, the shift was very clear. Actually and metaphorically, it was mostly a battle between swords and guns. The Tokugawa shogun had lost.

In 1869, the young emperor Meiji came to Edo to re-situate his administration, and secure its control over the country’s most burgeoning city. By this time, the “flowers of Edo,” as well as the influences of the west, were both well on their way to becoming the blooms of Tokyo modernity.

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[1] Seidensticker, Edward. Low City, High City . 1st . New York : Knopf, 1983.

[2] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

[3] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

[4] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

[5] Shimbun, Yomiuri. "Access My Library." www.accessmylibrary.com. 13 November 2003. 13 March 2007 .

[6] Stevenson , John . One Hundred Aspects of the Moon . Leiden Netherlands: Hotei Publishing , 2001.

[7] Kido, Okamoto. "Hanshichi Torimonocho." Japnese Lterature Publishing Project. 14 Mar 2007 .

[8] Kido, Okamoto. "Hanshichi Torimonocho." Japnese Lterature Publishing Project. 14 Mar 2007 .

[9] Stevenson , John . One Hundred Aspects of the Moon . Leiden Netherlands: Hotei Publishing , 2001.

[10] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

Times

Throughout our own histories, there are a number of pivotal moments that help each of us to define ourselves, both in terms of our past identities and those of our futures. Group identities are formed when a number of people share an experience, geography, or ethnicity, creating a unified psychographic which is integral to the coherency of any given society. Each of us has our own interpretation of that identity.

My experience with earthquakes seemed pretty sheltered until October 17^th 1989.

I’ll never forget it.

My friend and I were playing Nintendo on one TV and watching the ‘Battle of the Bay’ World Series on the other. My mother was cutting hair in her make-shift salon in the laundry room of our 1-bedroom duplex in Redwood City, CA. It was 5:04 PM.

It came all of a sudden. It was like I heard it coming. I dropped my video game-

controller, sprang to my feet and shouted ‘it’s an earthquake’ almost before the floors of my home started trembling beneath my feet. I braced myself within the closest doorway.

When my mother came running over with her apron on and everything, towing her client in full perm-dress and smock, and my friend and 5-year-old brother started approaching, I realized we were all seeking refuge under the same door way.

We just huddled there as our home was shaking violently around us. Things were falling. Things were breaking. We were freaking out. It was crazy.

When it all stopped, the first thing we did was turn to each other, and then the TV.

The only network news we could actually tune-in to, with our little ‘bunny-ear’ antenna receiver, was running its station on generator-power. They were reporting heavy damage as well as power outages all over the bay area, on channel 7 ABC News, shortly after the 6.9 Mw (moment magnitude scale) quake and its minor aftershocks struck.

This was the first major earthquake in the San Francisco Bay Area since 1906. According to the University of California at Berkeley Seismological Lab[1], it caused 63 deaths, 3,797 reported injuries and close to $6 billion in damages, making it the most costly natural disaster in United States history at that time. The rumble itself lasted only 15 seconds.

In Chapter 5 of A History of News, Mitchell Stephens writes: “Societies depend for their unity and coherence on a sense of group identity. A group identity can be forged by geography, ethnicity or shared experiences.’’

We, as an identity group, forged by our shared geography, and consequential experience, have many different memories of that day, and timeless little stories to tell.

Most of us who experienced the great quake of 89’ remember exactly where we were when that big one hit, and exactly what we were doing. We all share a certain definition of ‘our’ natural disaster, and how ‘mother nature’ pertains to catastrophe in our little cities by the bay.

I was fixing a sandwich, almost 10-years later, in the kitchen of my then girlfriend’s messy 1-bedroom apartment. It was ‘4/20’ (April 20^th), the day that all of my stoner friends and I would celebrate our love of marijuana with a trip to Golden Gate Park for yet another ad-hoc gathering of pot-heads. It’s an annual thing.

In 1999, however, the date took on another meaning for me.

My girlfriend called me back into the living room and pointed to the TV set. I just remember thinking: ‘Oh my god! That is Terrible! What a buzz-kill!’

A couple of teenagers, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, went and had a shooting spree at their high school in Jefferson County, CO.

After their homemade bombs failed to detonate and explode in the cafeteria during lunchtime, according to Slate[2], they shot and killed 12 of their fellow students and a teacher, leaving 24 others wounded before finally committing suicide in the library of Columbine High School.

Aside from being utterly heartbroken for the families of the students that were killed in this massacre, I felt angry at the parents of these psychopath youngsters for not paying close enough attention to the activities that developed under their roofs.

I remember being concerned for my own family, and thinking about what kind of example I was setting for my younger brother. I realized that in this ‘crazy world’ we need to keep an eye on each other sometimes, as well as be there for each other when and before it really counts. I spent the rest of that day at home with my family.

The Columbine Massacre became a source of trepidation in people’s lives; just hearing about the event on television, and in the newspapers, caused moms everywhere to sweat in fear.

Because of Columbine, another one of my “group identities[3]” has been forged. Together, we are continually shocked at what the human being is capable of.

On October 30^th 2006, I flew out of the house, running late for my commute to class. I hollered ‘Bye Nonni’ on my way out the door.

Nonni (Italian for Grandma), who I had lived with since I was 13, was making pumpkin soup in the kitchen. It was the day before Halloween, her favorite holiday.

My long day at school ended with me listening to a voicemail from my mother, telling me to call her immediately because of a family emergency.

It turns out, while I was in class, my Nonni had been struck by a pickup truck while crossing the road, just blocks from our family home in Redwood City. She was pronounced dead the next morning at 2:00 AM, October 31^st 2006.

Until that day, she was a sprite and healthy 73-year-old woman. She has a whole lot of friends and family that love her. Hoards of people showed up at our house crying and offering support, neither of which really seemed to help matters much.

On the eve of her death, I spoke with a reporter from the Redwood City Daily News about my grandmother in great lengths. As a 1^st semester journalism student, I was dealing with news from the inside out, and for the first time. It was hard to do.

My entire family is devastated, having never dealt with death in such a tragic way. Together, we are trying to pick up the pieces and do what we can to make her proud.

By Mitchell Stephens’ definition of “group identity,” my family identity has been forged by an experience that has changed all of our lives, forever. Our identity, much like our Nonni, is truly preserved in our memories, aspirations and values.

News has not only kept me informed over the years, for better or for worse, but it has also carried the terms of my identity, as an individual, and as part of a larger group. For this reason alone, the news I seek should be consistently responsible, reasonable, thoughtful and fair, as any great society, and individual should be.

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[1] http://seismo.berkeley.edu/seismo/faq/1989_0.html

[2] http://slate.msn.com/id/2099203

[3] Mitchell Stephens. Chapter 5 of A History of News