Prof Suguira: on Maternity harassment

Background: 

She worked as published for 16 years before giving it all up and turning to academia.

Research Focus: 

She feels that becoming a mother in the context of Japanese society is a highly contradictory process. this is because as one becomes a mother, she is also expected to work like a normal person which is physically quite impossible. A woman is torn between fulfilling the requirements as a mother and meeting the expectations of a good worker.

In most cases, maternity harassment means female workers facing discrimination in the workplace during the course of their pregnancy and while bringing up their children. However, her definition of maternity harassment focusses on the internal paradox that women face between fulfilling the expectations of both motherhood and her career.

Before academia…

During her time at the publishing company, she recalled that even when she was heavily pregnant, her company still expected her to work long hours and put in the same number of hours as men. She strongly disagreed with such treatment as she knew it was physically damaging and taking maternity breaks should not be seen as a weakness.

While women may perceive discrimination as maternity harassment, others may seem it as ensuring the quality of work. How do you point out the difference? 

After WW2, society became very male-centric as the economy required the “salarymen” (work long hours, pledge loyalty to one company) to increase productivity and recover from the war. However, more recently, when women joined the workforce, the “salaryman” expectations were imposed on them too. By then, the “salaryman” persona had started degenerating into the “careless man” persona – one who works without consideration of the needs of his own family.

The irony is that while society enforce equal expectations on both men and women workers, equality is not truly achieved as these standards are male-centric and not attuned to the demands of motherhood.

Hence, to differentiate between maternity harassment and ensuring quality work, the definition of “equality” has to be more clearly ironed out.

Why is maternity harassment still present in the workplace even if there are laws that prohibit companies from engaging in maternity harassment? 

There are no fines for violating the laws!

Even with the law, only a small percentage of women will benefit. The law only applies to permanent staff who work in more law-abiding companies. 60% of female labor work as temperature staff and do not enjoy such benefits from the law.

However, the irony is that even as the law is being enforced which is in favour of permanent staff, the number of females in permanent positions has not increased. This is because, the government has also enforced a higher tax rate for dual-income households. more women are still pushed to temporary jobs to avoid higher tax rates and as a result end up in temporary jobs and are subjected to a higher likelihood of maternity harassment.

How do women usually respond to maternity harassment? 

Most women do not staying anything. Recently, however, women have become more outspoken and have resorted to suing companies that treat them unfairly. However, she feels that even if women stand up to speak out against it, it is not enough to completely alter such deep rooted institutional sexism. More recognition should be accorded to these women for having the courage to speak up and success should not be measured solely based on the outcomes.

Going Wild

(I apologise in advance for the long post… I was too beWILDered by this topic)

I often say that it would be great if humans can go back to our caveman days – to lead simple lifestyles and have ourselves integrated back into the ecosystem. It would solve so many of the world’s current problems: waste, climate change, poverty, even mental health. But if I think about it, would I be able to lead such a life? I don’t think so. I can’t even climb a mountain without following a set, man-made path (we had to circle the mountain we wanted to hike up and nearly gave up because we couldn’t find the entrance…). We can’t even tell what kind of plants are edible – we ended up foraging on the path up the mountain as there were so many sweet-smelling fruits, but we had no idea if they were poisonous. It hit me then that we were so used to just picking up anything at the supermarket that we don’t actually have the ability to tell whether what we were holding was edible. On top of that, having lived a sedentary lifestyle as a stressed and lazy student for almost all my life, my body is so weak that I find simple farm work tough. I am inevitably stuck as a modern, spoiled human being who is weak, delicate and unable to survive in the wild. Perhaps I can adjust to it, but it will take a long time and require many uncomfortable changes to my life.

When we think about food, something we don’t often think about but is vital is where our food comes from – whether it is farmed or wild caught. Previously I never really distinguished between the two, but experiencing life in the Ishikawa prefecture has made me think twice. While farming organically is great, the concept of farming in itself is destructive. It requires massive land use change. I often wondered to myself what land we stood on looked like before it was transformed into the farm it is now: was it a temperate forest? Or perhaps grassland? We will never know, but even for something that is touted to be great like organic farming, there are hidden tradeoffs like the destruction of landscapes (although this would probably have happened very long ago). Even the natural plants/animals that reside in these areas are labelled as ‘weeds’ and ‘pests’ by us humans and forcibly removed, whether by hand (organically) or by herbicides/pesticides. And even with organic farming, if the soil is not treated well, the topsoil can be easily eroded and lack the nutrients it requires to sustain farming.

Farmed animals then come with a whole new set of problems, to do with ethicality. Are the animals treated well? Do they have sufficient space/freedom/food to sustain themselves healthily (both physically and mentally)? Even with such intimate contact with our hosts at the poultry/dairy farms, it is impossible to answer these questions. For one, we’re not animal experts, and we have no idea what the hosts do when we are not around. Labels such as cage-free and organic feed may not be all there is to the picture – it’s also about where they buy their animals from, how they treat them, whether their ‘cage-free’ space is large enough, and more often than not these factors cannot be controlled.

However while farming has its cons, Yuuji, one of the owners of the organic farm we first visited holds a life philosophy: that we learn the most when we try to do things by ourselves – which includes creating your own food. He made his own tofu recipe from scratch with a lot of experimentation (which is super good by the way), and is making upgrades to his house all by himself (like building a second floor and solar panels). Unlike many other farmers, he comes from Tokyo so he’s had a taste of city life and comfort, yet he decided to move to the countryside and farm for many years now, which must have been a leap of faith, motivation and lots of courage. We remarked during one of our dinner conversations that the farm looked perfect; the veggies looked and tasted great and we’re always so amazed by everything he does, and wondered how he even did it. And he told us about a Japanese proverb ‘石橋を叩いて渡る’ (which means to tap on the stone bridge before you cross it). It teaches one to not stop oneself from doing anything because you’re afraid of failure, because the bridge is stronger than you think. And he told us that the reason why he’s able to look so successful now is because he’s made many mistakes and failed at everything he’s done, which allowed him to learn how to succeed. He only knows what to plant because he’s had the experience of failing to grow and harvest his plants, and I’m so inspired by his attitude and there’s so much to learn from him. We almost expect him to be this really perfect person, but then he starts telling us about how his solar project is totally failing right now – and I find it so admirable. The other farmers we visited also followed similar philosophies, although they didn’t articulate it. For instance, the farmer in Noto, Ishikawa learned to forage and eat whatever he could find in the mountains and sea by himself – he asked questions (especially ‘why’), but always seeked the answers by himself. This is also how he perfected the feed he produces for his cows, and learned by himself how to keep the soil healthy through experimentation. They are really proud of what they have done, and have learned so much in the process. Farming one’s own food has its virtues too – and I am in absolute awe of the philosophy behind farming.

In Kaga-shi and Noto-shi in Ishikawa, where we stayed with a poultry farm and dairy farm, the farmers consume wild boars caught from the mountains, and fish wild-caught from the sea – the Ishikawa prefecture is flanked by mountains, valleys, rivers and the Sea of Japan. As environmentalists, we often try to keep to a plant-based diet in order to reduce our carbon emissions and eat more sustainable food. However, observing their diets in the Ishikawa prefecture has entirely changed my perception of what makes food ‘sustainable’. I felt really weird and my conscience pricked at me for eating wild boar and sashimi so often for meals because I don’t usually consume so much meat (I’m a flexitarian).

But in this area, eating meat-based proteins may actually be sustainable, as long as they’re caught sustainably. Wild boar populations boomed after the loss of predatory species such as wolves (in Kaga), and when they moved into areas where wild boar are not native to due to extreme weather in other regions (in Noto, from colder areas like Niigata). As I learned in Ecology and Ecosystems, a module I took this semester, the large increase in population of any species can upset the balance of the ecosystem and cause the destruction of landscapes, as large numbers of wild boar feed excessively on the shoots and trees in the area. This makes wild boars a pest to nature, and hunting them down can actually ripple into a positive effect for the environment, as it allows the forests to recover from excessive grazing.

My usual dinner at Noto – with イノシシ (wild boar) and saba sashimi

As for fish, because we’re literally right beside the sea, there are little food miles incurred when we consume local seafood, and because they are not farmed, there is little carbon footprint incurred in the process. However, the question of sustainable fishing still remains and will remain unanswered – otousan was trying to convince us that the locals fish sustainably by ensuring that they don’t overfish, but it is impossible for us to verify this information of course (unless we stay with fishermen – but unfortunately we won’t have the chance to do so). But judging by the price of fish in the supermarket, you can buy an entire fish for less than 200yen (ard $2.50), which is absolutely insane, the fish in the area might really be in abundance. It was also really interesting to consume local fish, which is different from what we normally see in other areas. In Noto, we had fish like あじ aji (horse mackerel), れんこ鯛 renko tai (crimson sea bream) and 鯖 saba (mackerel) caught fresh in the morning and eaten as sashimi (otousan will always emphasize that you can’t have these fish as sashimi anywhere else as it isn’t fresh enough – he also fillets them himself, and is self-taught) or grilled. We also occasionally went to the shore to catch 栄螺 sazae (turban snails) along the seawalls, and otousan even broke them apart for us to try raw right there and then. All this felt like such a luxury, but I was appalled at how cheap and available everything was. The concept of sustainability is complex, and requires a deep understanding of the local environment – there isn’t a single one-fit answer, and it isn’t always the least luxurious sounding option.

Fish at the local supermarket

The sazae we caught!

Otousan is always so excited to introduce us to good food, and often splurged on food. He called himself (and us) 食通 shokutsu, which means a gourmet/foodie, and was always really excited to have good food; sashimi is his favourite food. Of course good food doesn’t just include extravagant food, as he also appreciates other foods such as sea snails, wild mulberries, random roadside flowers and his own vegetables and milk. But this made me think a little – while an extravagant diet happens to be somewhat sustainable and available in this area, it’s not a lifestyle that everyone can and should strive to afford (especially people living in cities, or places like Singapore where all food is imported etc.). Are we, as humans, entitled to eat good food?

Through this trip, I realised how much happiness food can give to people – on top of being a necessity for survival, it is also vital for one’s wellness. The happiness I feel having good food – a huge privilege – can energise me for the entire day and warm my heart, and I acknowledge how powerful this can be. Many are food insecure, and more are food secure but lack access to a variety of foods – just having grains for every meal for instance can be detrimental to one’s health and wellness. As someone who doesn’t usually have access to luxury foods such as sashimi and wagyu (many things I’ve had on this trip were a first for me), I was honestly really touched and grateful for the random and very casual opportunity to try such great tasting food. On one hand, I wish everyone had access to such food which can really boost one’s well being, but on the other hand, is it a necessity? It’s not sustainable for everyone to live like this and have access to such foods, and it can create inequalities especially in large cities where the price of such foods is hiked up due to increased demand. This effect is going to be exacerbated as climate change hits, and food availability drops even further. I don’t want to imagine the day this will be a reality, and this impending crisis makes food sustainability even more important than ever.

Blogpost #2 Hello Siem Reap: Lotus stems & miracle thread

16 hours’ worth of bus rides and a day later, we arrive in Siem Reap.

Crossing the thailand-cambodia border was no easy feat. The little in-between town was filled with people yelling and engines blaring; the lone traveller would surely be no match against the criss-crossing alleys and misleading dirt footpaths that all seemed to lead to the arrival checkpoint. Memories of it include the intense smoke and heat, and the 100 baht we had to pay the immigration officers to get across the border. (Kimberly, on our daily expenses, wrote the words “corruption-300 baht”. Its not a lot of money in a sense, but its still something that we weren’t used to as Singaporeans with “the best passport in the world”)

The bus rides have been long and winding so far, but also a great time for reflection and some sleep. Our experiences with the artisans in Phrae have left us with wide-eyed wonder for the hidden communities and trades that we never considered previously. We were awed by the knowledge of the ladies we talked to about both natural indigo dyes (Hom) and weaving fabric, and their almost instinctual connection to their surrounding nature and process. Process, for them, is something slow, thoughtful and dignified – it was something that gave them economic benefit and value, as well as something that gave their life purpose. Artisanship is as much about the people as it is about the final product – the artisans, their friendships with each other, and the support it gives to their families and loved ones, as well as the wider communities these sustainable processes benefit.

Artisanship becomes a far wider concept than we could possibly frame within a singular definition. It is both a product and process, and it concerns both the beginning, the middle and the end of the production process. Yet for the people at Mai Kam Fai, it was a way of life, a living wage, and an intimate community of women. Artisanship was also “folk wisdom” – knowledge passed down from their ancestors that they strove to preserve and pass on,

So here in Siem Reap we were excited, but cautious. After our experiences with the weaving community in Mai Kam Fai, we wondered how Siem Reap would be like. We were visiting Samatoa Lotus Textiles, which was a far more international brand than Mai Kam Fai. What would be their focus? How would they differ from what we had already seen? Sometimes, the fear lies in not liking what we might see.

My scepticism faded after conversing with the owner of Samatoa. A Frenchmen who began a lotus thread weaving workshop in Cambodia, Awen told us that his main concerns were the natural environment, and the process of craft. One thing that struck me was his belief that our human processes should fit and adapt to our surrounding environment, rather than the other way around. This was evident in the practice of the artisans and thread weavers there – I remember staring, mouth agape, when I saw the women pulling apart lotus stems to reveal the many microfibres within them, and then pulling them and rolling them into strong looking white thread. A loom stands in a corner and two women sit on it, weaving long rolls of fabric. All from the lotus stems!

I was shocked to see how the tiny fibres in between lotus stems could form such strong, beautiful fabric. The women worked simply in a wooden workshop, shaded from the sun, with knives to cut the lotus stems and water to wet the thread. “A lotus is a living thing, so water is an intrinsic part of the process,” says Awen. The process was unbelievably simple, and ingenious. Typically, lotuses would be harvested in Cambodia for the flower and the seed. The stems would be discarded or composted, but now the stems have led to sustainable fabric being produced, and more women working in safe conditions with a fair wage. It is amazing to see how thinking alongside nature, and adapting our processes to our natural environment, could have such great results.

The loveliest thing, I think, was to see the circular economy at work in this workshop. The focus on process was evident in every small step in the process of making lotus textiles. Yesterday, we saw the lotus stems being turned into thread, than fabric. Today, we visited the nearby lotus farm where Samatoa works with farmers to get their lotus stems. The farmer was a lovely bespectacled old man with a dog named “Shorty” in Khmer. He was a jolly man who laughed a lot at us young girls with our cameras and equipment. He told me how he had to stay in a hut near his farm so he could make sure no one stole his lotuses. Because it was summer season, he was using some of the fields to plant rice, and would only start planting lotuses when the water level rose. Being able to see the origins of the lotus stems, the exact person and farm who grew them, brought me unexpected joy and warmth. It was the first time I could safely see each and every single person who contributed to the making of my clothes, and recognise their simple yet important stories.

I think the farmer was intrigued by my curiosity, and he went around his farm to get me a bunch of lotuses so I could eat its seeds. I wish I got his name! (and not just the name of his dog) But in the moment I was too busy trying to convey with my nods and smiles that we were immensely grateful he let us tour his farm and talk to him, and basically give us the time of day!

A lotus bouquet full of edible seedy goodness!

Of course, my team and I have recognised over the trip that our goal is not to “convert” everyone to artisanship. Artisanal goods are still considered expensive and inaccessible to the usual mall crowd. But we have come to see it as more than just a good, but a concept and way of viewing consumption and production. Artisanship is a lens we can use to view the world around us – placing process, rather than product, at the forefront of our considerations. The question “who made my clothes” will no longer be a far-off concept but the first one that comes to mind when we finger a fabric. It is a way of thinking that reminds us that there are always people and communities behind the final products we use and see, and that they are not as far away or as unrelatable as might think.

These are the girls who work at Samatoa lotus textiles. Most of them make thread, some of them weave. (I told them to do a funshot!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Food Sustainability’ – Small Communities

(continued)

Apart from farming organically, another problem we touched on during our meals was Genetically Modified Organisms (GMOs). GMOs have not penetrated Japan’s market significantly, but that is changing. They shared that the government has changed the law such that the regional governments will no longer have to keep a local seed bank, which is highly problematic. The local, non-GMO seeds are highly precious as they are a huge part of Japan’s history and culture – with food being such a vital part of our everyday lives, and are especially precious to organic farmers who are trying to preserve this food culture.

A part of Japanese culture which I really admire is the sentiment of もったいない (mottainai), which means ‘what a waste’ (I will expand on this in another post). People in the past, and some people now still carry this value and make sure that nothing is wasted during their cooking/consumption process, down to the last drop of soup. However, with food becoming more available in the market, there is an increasing invisible yet very problematic issue, which is cosmetic filtering. While the sentiment of ‘mottainai’ exists, it is increasingly eroded by the power of the capitalist market and the strive of Japanese companies to become perfect. This means that the external appearance of food sold in Japan is taken into careful consideration when it is packaged by the farmers and companies – both producers and consumers only want to see excellent produce on the shelves. This hits organic farmers especially hard as their produce will rarely be perfect. Working at the organic farm, we see how many perfect vegetables are rejected every single day and kept for ourselves/neighbours just because they don’t have a perfect appearance. Even if these organic vegetables taste way better than everything else, consumers have no way to know, and only judge them by their appearances and/or price. The sad truth is that the vegetables we always see are laden with chemical fertilisers/pesticides which makes them look perfect, while organic produce looks (and tastes) the way it is supposed to be – slightly misshapen.

One of the moments that we thought was truly ‘mottainai’ was when we went for a short hike at a nearby mountain on our day off, and we saw so so many plum and mikan trees, full and ripe. But as we didn’t know whether they belonged to someone, we only took one mikan and a few plums with us (which was so fun!). When we got back home, we found out that those trees didn’t belong to anyone and were usually abandoned because those mikans can’t sell in the market (they’re not sweet/large enough), even though they taste perfectly fine. We were really baffled, but then we visited a supermarket in Kyoto in the next few days and we understood – those mikan wouldn’t stand a chance beside these beautiful ones sitting in the supermarket. What are consumers demanding from farmers, and is it worth all these chemicals and waste?

One of Coco’s beautiful pictures of the mikan trees!

However, one of the organic farmers’ more informed customers really inspired us. She leaves her own bags with the farmers and comes over occasionally to buy ugly vegetables and leave another one of her bags behind. She is truly an exemplary of sustainable living – she brings her own bag (no packaging waste!) and buys ugly fruits and vegetables that the farmers don’t usually sell. The farmers are thankful for her and hope that more consumers can be like her.

With so many problems with food production: what exactly is the solution? The farmers think that the best solution to these issues is to create 地域社会 (chiiki shakai): small, tight-knit communities all over Japan, where people can come together in a sharing economy. Even though they are subsistence farmers, they acknowledged that it is impossible for them to live alone. They often rely on the supermarket to buy other essentials, but another alternative is to just share. For instance, neighbour A makes X type of veggies and grains, and neighbour B makes Y type of veggies and fruits, and neighbour C runs an egg/poultry farm. If they all share a little bit of what they make with each other, they would have enough for an entire meal. Doing this allows for the building and strengthening of relationships, and the circulation of surplus food, which reduces food waste. We have observed this at all three farms we visited, where neighbours will randomly show up at each others’ houses and gift each other whatever they’ve made and would like to share. With the farms we visited being pioneers in their respective fields, they also often give advice to their neighbours and provide them with the resources they need, creating small and strong communities.

We did not only hear this from Yuuji-san and Masako-san, but rather everyone we talked to mentioned the concept at one point (even without us prompting). We talked to another organic farmer from Tokushima, the founders of Food Bank Kyoto and the farmer from the poultry/egg farm in Kaga, Ishikawa, and they all mentioned the small communities concept, even though they are all from very different parts of Japan. The most common response we got was “ahh, too bad that Singapore doesn’t have 田舎 inaka (countrysides)”.

They mentioned that with this concept, not only is it easier to live sustainably, it also promotes physical (keeping fit with farming – the Ono farm farmers are 60 and still really fit: in fact, they’re 3 times our age and work 3 times as fast!) and mental health (as you maintain your relationships with others and build a supportive community). And it seems that every little town/village we’ve visited practices this.

My question now would be: can cities and larger communities also create such “small communities”, and if so, how? How do we provide platforms for trust building and the support of such communities in our scattered and dense cityscapes?

A Delightfully Poopy Day

It’s almost noon and Jing Ying’s napping while I’m sitting on the floor of our room, waiting for lunch although we just had ice cream. Be warned, this post may not be as coherent or organized, so keep your expectations low 😛 We’re currently at our third farm — a commercial dairy farm which also has a large veggie farm for their own consumption — and our daily routine looks like this: 

7-7.30am Breakfast

7.30-8.30am Veggie farm work

8.30-10.30am Milk the cows and clean their poo poo after

10.30-11.30am More farm work / eat and nap

11.30am-2pm Lunch then rest time i.e. nap again

2-6pm Rest, farm work, shopping and/or touring around

6-7.30pm Dinner

7.30-9pm Milk the cows and clean their poo poo after

Today’s our sixth day in this farm, and it’s been the poopiest day so far. Cow dung was literally flying everywhere in the milking room this morning, and even though I consider myself pretty skillled at dodgeball, my face and glasses were not spared. We also spent the longest time cleaning up, and while at it I couldn’t help shuddering at the thought of slipping and falling flat on the brown slurry mess left behind. 

But how do I feel about working at this farm? Extremely blessed! The host family has been so generous, kind and welcoming, feeding us way too much food and way too much GOOD food, (think fresh sashimi every day, Wagyu beef, wild boar, organic black garlic, fancy cheeses, the sweetest strawberries and sweet potatoes, and of course the richest, tastiest milk no exaggeration intended), offering us pills and creams for our various ailments (cuz we’re weak city-dwellers) and giving us one too many nap times and car rides to various attractions around the area. 

Beyond these luxuries, I am also extremely thankful for the opportunity to meet Hashimoto-san (whom we call Otou-san, which means father) and his family, for their commitment to sustainability and cohesion as a family have inspired me greatly.

Otou-san always harks back to the concept of ‘BALANCE’ whenever he talks about his dairy farm or other environmental issues. To him, that’s the key to sustainability and optimal environmental, animal and human health. He cautions that simply being organic is not enough — many organic farmers misunderstand that organic inputs are all it takes for healthy produce without looking into the quality of their soil or the composition of their compost. He also takes great pride in his dairy farm, whose cows produce excellent milk because of the decades of meticulous effort he has put into nourishing the barren soil with compost and ensuring its nutrients are well-balanced to grow quality pasture. Being unusually passionate about sashimi, he also tries to convince me (a vegetarian) at literally every meal that eating fish at Noto, Ishikawa, is ok as they are caught sustainably. He explains at length how both the law and the residents themselves guard against overfishing, and that having local fish as a main protein source reduces food miles significantly (Noto is right along the sea!). On that note, his family also exclusively eats local produce — their fruits, veggies and meat are all either grown or caught by themselves or sourced from other farms in Ishikawa. He also shares enthusiastically how farmers in the region have been collaboratively planting trees since ancient times to counter deforestation for timber, thus allowing Noto’s mountains to still be flourishing with lots of flora and fauna. His knowledge extends beyond Noto — eating local also applies to mountainous areas of Japan where people eat snakes and insects for protein as they do not have easy access to fish.

The camaraderie between Otou-san and Okaa-san (his wife) also deserves a mention. They started their dairy farm from scratch after their marriage and have been working cooperatively till this day, both showing the same dedication and sharing the same love for this family business. They consult each other on all issues big and small, be it about the dairy farm, their own veggie farm or what to eat for dinner. As true epitomes of life-long learning, they both continue to read widely and share with each other new things they learn every day. Even though they bicker all the time, they never fail to get work done together and to care for each other, acting like a couple on honeymoon whose bickering is just how they show affection and even how they work together. I believe it is this mutual support, common vision and shared diligence that at over 70 years of age they are both still able to work day in, day out on their farms together with their son and an old friend. One afternoon, after working on the veggie farm (more like standing aside listening to the two bicker about how to plant the new crops), we found ourselves being driven by Otou-san to a rose orchard nearby because Okaa-san loves roses and saw on TV that now’s the best time to see them. I’m amazed enough that they continue to work so well together after five decades of marriage, while divorces are getting more common these days, and even more amazed to learn that theirs was an arranged marriage!

AWKWARD AND ALONE: Tourists, Transits, and Artists in Bangkok

LINK to my song written & recorded in Bangkok, my second city on this Travel Fellowship: https://soundcloud.com/isabella-nunez-331676613/summer-scene-bangkok

I’ve spent eight days in Bangkok, which has felt brief in a sense, but also seems to be longer than the average traveler/hostel-goer’s stay. I think a commonality I have found and am likely going to find across the rest of these Southeast Asian capitals is that most tourists, especially Western tourists, tend to limit their stay in the city to a few days unless they have come to find work, preferring to spend more time in the rural, ‘authentic’ cultural spaces or beaches. This is not really the topic of this post, but I wanted to give it a mention, since this trend usually has less to do with whether people actually prefer non-urban environments and more to do with problematic tourist-crafted (and power-dynamic-inducing) images of authenticity in non-Western spaces.

I split my week between lodging in two different places: a hostel by Khao San road, near to Wat Pho and accessible only by bus/ferry, and a solo room Airbnb nearer to the downtown, accessible by the MRT and BTS lines. I moved in order to be able to better record and move around the city faster, but I also really enjoyed the opportunity to experience different neighbourhoods and transit arrangements. I realised this will be the last city of my summer where public transit will play such a large role in my stay, which is definitely going to be an adjustment for me — not just in terms of ease and price, but also in terms of personal interest. Growing up in a city with very little public transit (a underfunded and not expansive bus system), I have always been fascinated by systems in other cities: when living in Bogotá, living in Singapore, or even visiting cities such as Denver, NYC, and Berlin. I think in KL and Bangkok, one thing I have noticed is the array of different companies involved in public transit: both the KLIA and MRT in KL and BTS and MRT in Bangkok run rail systems, but through different payment card systems, and in Bangkok I’ve also spent more time using the majority-cash bus and ferry systems. Although when transitioning from Singapore’s very centralised transit system, I was pretty confused by what to use and where and how, I do really appreciate how these systems are growing to fit public needs. I think, at least to a degree, it shows a commitment to making living in the city as accessible as possible, even when there may not be funding or organisation for a singular, overarching system.

Aside from collecting all of the aforementioned loose Urban Studies-esque thoughts, I have have also of course been here on a SOLO MUSICAL JOURNEY, and that’s what this is really all about. In my week, I was able to visit three very different small concert venues and various other art spaces — and in the end I’m extremely glad this is not my last time in Bangkok, because it has only been a very small fraction of what anyone arts-oriented can tell you is a large and vibrant scene. I’ve been focused on small, alternative venues both because it’s the type of music I am most interested in and because they often offer spaces where it is not too difficult to meet interesting people who are willing to share stories. Coming away from the production of my songs from KL and Singapore, I realised I was lacking conversations and artist voices in my work, so I made a goal to meet and see more musicians in the cities I’m going to.

That being said, this new directive has also made me feel very viscerally alone and awkward. The process includes several things which I am particularly uncomfortable/unskilled at doing

  1. Going to bars and concerts alone
  2. Talking to people
  3. Asking said people if I can record what they’re talking about
  4. Explaining why I’m there, where I’m from, and where I’m really from (I guess this is a separate rant just like my thoughts on authenticity, but let’s give it a shoutout nonetheless !!)

A couple of nights ago I was talking to a guitarist, and then when he went up to play his set his friends from various social circles — all a good 15 years older than me on average — came to the table and met each other and were like, “Oh you work with Ron?” And instead of giving a normal answer I responded, “Haha no I’m basically just a stranger. Hi. I’m alone.” This is a pretty accurate summary of my week. But, it allowed me to hear some really interesting stories, and I am very excited for what it’ll add to my newest song.

To an extent, we can expect more of the same situations in Vientiane. However, due to a combination of slightly misunderstanding a Facebook message and a general lack of international musicians frequenting Laos, I will actually be the musician in the scenario this time around. That’s right, your local summer CIPE-r has JUST BOOKED HER FIRST SOLO PAID MUSIC GIG! I’ll be playing a few nights at small bars/restaurants in Vientiane, which I’m hoping will also let me meet more people — since, as we have discussed, I am both awkward and alone.

Being Hours Away

It’s a strange feeling to now be hours away from the flight that would take us to places I’ve only read about over the past few months.

What I see when I think of Auroville is the official .org website that contains information on virtually everything, from its history to how visitors will need Aurocards and can only get one if they stay in an Aurovillian guesthouse. Then my mind shifts to the Matrimandir in all its grandeur, the centre of Auroville and its spiritual temple, reflecting the sunlight in its golden facade. From pictures, the rest of the township looks like a myriad of red mud roads, Glenn Murcutt-esque “touch the earth lightly” eco-structures and dense greenery. These spread out in a circle around the Matrimandir.

Contrastingly, Chandigarh exists in my mind as a series of near perfect rectangles, all so regularly and thoughtfully laid out, filled with austere concrete buildings permeated by bursts of bright paint or brick. Google satellite images of the City Beautiful are very satisfying to look at – it almost looks like the structural column grids I used to draw in architecture school.

Then, I think of the possibly overwhelming atmosphere of roads bustling with traffic (and street food), full of colour, when I think of New Delhi.

At this moment, I feel like I know these places, and yet I don’t.

Today I’ve been advised on the many things I should be aware of in India. My aunt, someone who has lived there for over a decade, told me about how you can’t enter airports without printed flight itineraries, and how the white chalk marks that may appear on your luggage indicate that security might want to open your bags. Someone also said to wear sunglasses and that I must try the samosas. Another two of my aunts met me to give me chrysanthemum flowers hand-packed into teabags for me and also spontaneously bought me a mini-fan.

All their kind concern filled me with some dread, but also questions about what being in the cities we’re headed to will truly be like. Will Auroville feel like a small town where everyone knows everyone? Would the heat really be that unbearable, and would Chandigarh actually be a lively, welcoming place because of her people, despite her brutalist architecture?

Right now it’s much like I’m only seeing buildings from a distance – I see the form and can generally identify its materiality. I can guess at its interior layout, but not really. I can see the grey, unfinished concrete walls, but I’m not yet close enough to see the blemishes and darker streaks of water stains that show age.

I’m not going to pretend I’m not the least bit filled with trepidation (yes, Delhi belly is a thing to worry about, among other things), but I’m also excited about getting close – walking on streets, meeting people and being immersed in soundscapes. And that’s what I think this travel fellowship is to me, experiencing the diverse atmospheres we’ll encounter: the phenomenology of a place.

A few more hours to go.

-Chelsea

Conversations over good food and the best homemade Umeshyu

Note: written on May 24

Meal times are my favorite times at Ono Farm, not just because of the delicious organic food and by no means because the other activities are unenjoyable. At the dining table, we have had conversations about anything under the sun, and as the days pass our conversations have become deeper, more honest and more personal.

A typical meal at Ono Farm looks like this: when Masako-san is done cooking, Jing Ying and I would hustle into the kitchen to help set up the dining table. Yuji-san would return from the farm all sweaty and tired and take a quick shower while the three of us take our specific seats. Upon joining us, though, Yuji never brings his fatigue to the dining table and never lets anyone worry about him, instead fully recovering his amicable smile and outgoing demeanor. We next excitedly chant “Itadakimasu” together, upon which we are allowed to dig in to the delicious food Masako has made with fresh organic produce from their own farm. We would first share about what each of us have accomplished, and then move on to discussing anything that any of us spontaneously brings up. Our conversations develop organically (literally too) but are in no way superficial — all four of us happen to share a similar passion for a few issues and wider interest in many other topics, and more importantly, we share the same desire to learn and same open-mindedness to unfamiliar grounds.

At the dining table, I’ve discovered many things about Japan that I have been completely ignorant of and/or have not expected. Particularly on its food safety. Many of us in Singapore have this image of Japan as a country with quality produce due to their superb agricultural technique and perfect climate. We tend to attach their quality in taste and looks to their nutrition value as well, hailing them as health foods and elevating them to the same level as their organic counterparts. Unfortunately, this cannot be further from the truth. Ono Farm is one of the rare few organic farms in the Awa province. Even in the Tokushima prefecture and in Japan at large, organic farming has barely caught on as well. Most veggie farms still depend heavily (in fact increasingly so) on pesticides, herbicides, artificial growth stimulants, chemical fertilizers amongst others, with multiple causes behind this. For one, the government-initiated Japan Agricultural Cooperatives group (JA) are blatant opponents of organic farming. Not only do they promote (or rather, compel) the intensive use of highly subsidized chemical inputs, they are extremely unwelcoming towards organic farmers who try to join the cooperative and work with other farms. This has been a huge deterrent for farmers considering to switch from conventional to organic farming. Because of the Japanese government’s agricultural agenda coupled with its general lack of transparency, many Japanese remain ignorant about the deleterious impacts of such chemical-intensive farming on both environmental and human health. Neighbors of Ono Farm, for instance, would kindly offer to spray herbicides on Ono Farm when they see it infested with weeds, and are baffled when Yuji and Masako reject the offer. What compounds this problem is Japan’s culture of respect, reticence and deference, where one is inculcated from a young age the primacy of preserving the integrity of existing systems over airing one’s opinions. Yuji and Masako find it hard to explain their commitment to organic farming for fear of offending the conventional farmers around, just as the masses fail to question the government’s agriculture policies and concealing of information for fear of disrespecting the authorities and disrupting status quo. So yes, the perfect-looking Japanese rice, Kyoho grape and Wagyu beef that we covet are probably laden with chemicals.

Our conversations about Japan’s food security have also enlightened me in surprising ways. I came to Japan with the perception that Japanese take great pride in their local produce and depend little on foreign imports for food sustenance. Again, I am proven wrong. Japan cannot live without soybeans — its staples like natto, soy sauce and tofu are all made from that. Yet, three-quarters of its soybeans consumed are currently imported. While Japanese soybeans are all non-GMO, much of the imported ones are, but Japanese remain largely clueless about that fact. Soybeans are actually really difficult to grow, not to mention organic ones. The Japanese diet has also evolved from plant-based meals made from locally sourced ingredients to meat- and dairy-heavy meals thanks to Western influence, hence putting significant pressure on Japan’s soil to support animal agriculture, particularly highly polluting dairy farms. Such phenomena have compromised Japan’s ability to meet its own food preferences and dietary needs, making it more vulnerable to international fluctuations in food supply and climate change.

With a cup of home-brewed Umeshyu each (except Yuji who’s allergic to alcohol) loosening our tongues every dinner, beyond those two pet topics, we’ve talked about our travel experiences, our family, our schooling experiences, youth apathy and even our biggest regret in life. I’ve learnt about the the unimaginable hardships that Yuji and Masako have gone through as organic farmers in Japan swimming against the tide, receiving little to no support from family members, the community and the government. These conversations remind me how knowledgeable, wise, resilient and kind the pair are, and I will continue to hold them dearly to my heart.

Just some fangirling over the owners of Ono Farm

Note: Written on May 18

It’s only been a week but I’ve learnt so much that I don’t even know where to begin… My time at Ono Farm has been beyond superb, giving me many new experiences in farming and rural living, and many new insights into diverse topics ranging from organic farming to Japanese culture to the farmers’ own life histories. In this reflection, let me share about how amazing the owners of Ono Farm are.

Yuji-san and Masako-san, husband and wife, have been running their own organic farm for over thirty years. The sixty-year-old duo manage every single part of the farm themselves, from crop production to sales and marketing to delivery. Each of these aspects in turn comprise many different activities. Crop production, for instance, includes planting, weeding, fertilizing, watering, harvesting and cultivating the soil, and each crop requires different methods of doing each of these steps. Across an entire year, the two grow almost a hundred crops in total, scheduling them according to their seasons and spreading them across their 10 rental plots. Again, each crop has its own season which frequently overlaps with other crops, and scheduling + keeping track of all of them requires as much meticulousness as it requires big-picture thinking. 

Not only are they impressive strategists, their commitment to agroecology is highly respectable as well. Organic inputs, minimal use of automated machinery and crop rotation are some of the ways they ensure that their farm stays ecologically sound and sustainable. And this is by no means easy. As I was sprinkling oyster shell powder (lots of calcium!) over an empty field to prepare it for new crops, I couldn’t help but wonder if there already is a machine that could do the job much more efficiently and painlessly. After all, having to move around 20 bags of that stuff, each weighing 20 kg, and then toss them all over the field from a pail I could barely hold on to was far from effortless. Having to go to the fields at 6.30am to rummage through the pea plants for peas while repeatedly squatting and bending also made me recall the mechanical tomato harvester I read about in my Intro to ES course. That course has taught me about the environmental harms and social inequalities brought about by these machines, but hands-on experience at Ono Farm has allowed me to better empathize with those who have adopted such technology not because they are out there to exploit but because it is intuitive for them to say yes to whatever solution available that can get them out of hardship. It has also impressed upon further me how resolute the two are to do the right thing. Engaging in such tough manual labour every day, it is so easy for them to give in and take the easy way out but they remain committed to organic farming till this day.

Despite having 1001 things to do and working from dawn to dusk, they have no intention to slow down any time soon. In fact, at sixty years of age, they still have many things planned ahead while most of their counterparts are already retiring. They remain just as excited to try out new crops, explore new markets to enter and experiment with new farming techniques. And their zest for life goes far beyond farming. In this 100-year-old house that they moved into three years ago, they continue to take up an eclectic mix of projects like installing solar panels on their roofs to charge their electric car, building a second floor for guests and making drinking straws from rye. And they do these all by themselves, learning the steps through books, troubleshooting with their own intelligence and literally building things up with their own pair of hands. Their continuous quest for self-improvement without the fear of failure is truly inspiring. On that note, their knowledge on issues all around the world is also remarkable, something I admittedly did not expect at all from rural farmers who have dedicated their lives to farming. This, I will explain further in my next reflection on our dinner conversations at Ono Farm.

First leg, Phrae: Indigo dye, weaving & a long bus ride

Phrae 

In Phrae (pronounced “preh”), you cannot escape the mountains. Every which way you turn, the blue-green shadow of sloping mountains peek through. Our friend told us that Phrae is like a pan – it is flat but completely surrounded by tall mountains on every side.

(A view you get at the end of every road)

The 8-hour bus ride from Bangkok to Phrae with little to no WiFi meant a good amount was spent (somewhat pensively?) staring out of the window. It is fascinating how the landscape slowly changes as we began the upward drive to Phrae. The roads started winding, and we were shrouded by endless green – large expanses of farmland and forests. I see trucks crammed with cattle driving past me, and Tammy whispers, “to be slaughtered!”

Along the journey to Phrae, I witnessed several of what seemed like roadside communities. These communities lived directly by the road, sandwiched between huge expanses of farmland and the long stretch of road. They live in between towns, in between cities, seemingly unconnected to where we came from or where we were going next. It appeared to me like a strange, disconnected life. Of course, I could be making assumptions from a privileged person, but their geographical location, where they lived, seem to greatly affect how they lived their lives, and how they could see their futures.

In particular I remember a scene of several watermelon stands next to the empty road, and behind there is farmland. I automatically assumed they were watermelon farmers.They sat next to their watermelon stands, rows of red watermelons cut open to reveal fleshy juicy insides, flies buzzing. The heat was strong, and the road was empty other than our bus and some trucks. I wondered who they could be selling for. It seemed hard to envision they could have many customers other than the odd tourist. Perhaps they could be supplying watermelons to the nearby communities.

The idea of the three of us on our travel fellowship, then, became almost dissonant in its privilege. I didn’t want to feel guilty, but I acknowledged that my geographical location – Singapore, where things were close by; the city was small and accessible – has greatly shaped my freedom to aim and strive for things that I wanted. In turn, there are also communities and people living in the nooks and crannies of Thailand that seem almost forgotten or unheard of, their daily striving for food on the table something many people do not see or recognise. In a country that is big, sprawling, where roads are long and land plentiful, people can easily be cut off from opportunities and growth. This 8-hour bus ride became a small, limited window into what might be a daily reality for some who live by the road. I wanted to remember that there are people everywhere trying to make a life for themselves. And I wanted to remember that aspects like geographical location, urban planning and the environment could have very real and present impacts on individual lives.

 

The artisan community: Mai Kam Fai 

The moment we stepped into Mai Kam Fai, we were warmly greeted by an elderly woman with curly hair and a large smile. This short and sweet woman was actually the original owner of Mai Kam Fai who had the ambition and hope to continue the traditional practice of weaving and natural indigo ink dyeing. Over the next few days, we learnt that the craft carries the weight of over 200 years of tradition which originated from Laos, something that was very unexpected to me.

She was welcoming and open to sharing her remarkable story of who she was and what Mai Kam Fai meant to her. She proudly shared how Mai Kam Fai has grown since their humble beginnings in 1999 where they have since been recognised by the Tourism Authority of Thailand and have won several awards. She affectionately talked about the artisans that worked for her, consisting mostly of elderly women who weave as and when they please. She went on to share that she was extremely happy that Mai Kam Fai gave the women around her a job and has bonded her community even more ever since indigo dyed fabric became Phrae’s speciality product. And this proved to be true as we explored her workshop and met the weavers. It became very apparent to us that artisanship was much more than a skill. Many of the women working there mentioned that they enjoy their work not only because it provided greater financial stability, but also because they could return to their friends and have a place where they could talk.

However, like so many products that are steeped in tradition, there is a fear that these trades will not be passed on to the next generation and ensure its continuity. The co-founder, Beau, has expressed that her 14-year-old daughter is adverse to the idea of becoming a weaver or continuing the business and we soon learn that Phrae’s youth tends to be uninterested in these traditional crafts, choosing to leave when for bigger cities like Bangkok and Chiang Mai when they are independent. This led us to reflect on the importance of continuity of tradition and the value of artisanship. I am left with this uncomfortable feeling of guilt where I can easily say that I love artisanship and the significance it holds in culture and utility but cannot say that I wish to become an artisan. What can I do to protect this practice when the issue is not with the lack of demand but rather with supply? What happens if this practice dies out? I still don’t have any answers but this experience has surely left me with some confusing perspectives of the significance of artisanship and its future.