Japanese Slang (38 page)

In the Okinawan countryside the dialects change from valley to valley. As one drives north out of Naha city on Route 58, the rurals' “h” becomes more and more like “p.”
H
mi
gradually changes into
homi,
and then as one passes the U.S. airbase at Kadena, into
homi, hhomi,
and then
bhomi, bomi,
and
phomi.
By the time one reaches the extreme northern part of the island, with its rugged hills and dreamy fishing villages, the southern
h
mi
has changed into
pomi.

The next port of linguistic interest is Miyako, a flat pleasant island about ten hours byboat from Okinawa. In the harbor of Hirara (population 50,000) the dock crowd use
ujanma,
while the inhabitants of the town of Gusukube, on the southeastern side of the island, prefer their own exclusive word,
pssi.

The southernmost outpost of Japan's empire, and the end of the travelers' linguistic journey, is the isolated archipelago of Yaeyama. Weather permitting,
the ferry from Okinawa makes its way over the two hundred sixty miles of sea only once a week. One of the larger and wilder islands of the group is Iriomote, whose mountains and tropical rainforests separate its two towns, Ohara and Funaura. In Iriomote beach slang, the words for the female organ are
gutchu
(dug out) and
gira
(shell), pronounced by some as a heftier, drawn-out
giiira.
On Kohama, a tiny island off Iriomote's coast, the hardcore local words are
mitoma
and
piishii.

The most remote of the Yaeyama islands is Yonagunijima, whose two thousand-odd inhabitants speak an exotic dialect they call the Dunan language, known in the region for its long, tongue-twisted words. A virginal organ, for instance, is
bingasanuminuka'agami,
while an aroused female organ is described as
minukagaranderuchiru.
The fashionable crowd on the island enjoy bouncing foreign expressions (that is, expressions from nearby islands) about in their speech. Favorites are the general Okinawan word
hi
and the Yaeyama word
piishii.

A few decades ago Yanagita Kunio, the renowned father of Japanese folklore, went on a similar word mission through Japan, one that took him over rugged mountains and through perilous valleys. His interest, however, was in snails. As he left Kyoto, the old capital, snails turned from
dedemushi
to
maimai
to
katatsumuri
to
tsuburi.
To Yanagita's surprise, the further afield he roamed, the older the words for snail became.

The distribution of words for the female organ, however, was much more spirited than that of the snail. Throughout the Middle Ages small sailing vessels transported these words from port to port, all the
way from Hokkaido in the northeast to Kyushu in the southwest, and from Kyushu to the Kingdom of Okinawa, to the southernmost tip of Japan. At every stop thousands of
funajor
(ship prostitutes) lay in wait, ready to barter risque local words.

7
Sushi Slang

ONE OF the brightest and most challenging forms of Japanese slang is spoken down by the port in the wholesale fish markets of large cities in the dark hours before dawn. By 4:00 in the morning gigantic markets like Tokyo's Tsukiji, Osaka's Kuromon, and Hakata's Yanagibashi are churning with action. Thousands of fish stalls have been set up and box carts, fish wheelbarrows, vans, trucks, and huge sixteen-wheelers jam the streets and alleys. By 4:30 the city's top sushi chefs arrive with their drivers, and crowds of bustling fish brokers, auctioneers, wholesalers, and traders eye the catch and chatter in loud
besshari
(an inversion of
shaberi,
“talk”), the earthy market slang.

These early morning markets, known in vendor jargon as
seriichi
(competition markets) and
ichiasa
(from
asaichi,
“morning fair”), are hotbeds of linguistic creativity. While the city sleeps, thousands of exotic slang words surge through the stalls as tons of fish exchange hands, millions of yen flow from one pocket to another, and chefs whose reputations are at stake fight each other tooth and nail for the best fish at the best price. By 5:00 the auctioneers—
tankashi
(curse masters)—launch into their loud
tataki
(banging), the
hard sales drives that artfully pitch the retailers against each other.

To these specialists a mackerel is not simply a mackerel, nor is a chunk of tuna just tuna. Ask a wholesaler for the Japanese term for herring, and swarms of non-dictionary words come pouring out:
berotsuke, nishio, miyaki, segai, kado, chango, k
raiiwashi.
A herring can be
kaku
(horn) if its head is particularly pointed,
kakutobi
(flying horn) if it has a well-developed, athletic body,
ba
(large wing) if its fin is eye-catching, or
koha
(small wing) if it is not. The healthiest, most expensive herring are discreetly referred to as
tobiuo
(flying fish);
nakatobi
(inside fliers) are herring of medium interest, and the smallest of the batch are
haitobi
(rope fliers).
T
nishin
is a herring that has been caught in deep ocean waters out of season. Watanabe Shigeru, in his 1955 book
Hokkaido H
gensh
,
identifies
t
nishin
as a Hokkaido dialect word.
T
,
he claims, is an Ainu term for swamp that was added to
nishin,
the standard Japanese word for herring. A herring thatis sold after its treasured roe has been pressed out is
tsubunishi.

Even more words tumble across the fish stall counters when the vendor is asked about dried herring. A popular southern word is
hanishi,
while
kachanishi, sakkaranishi,
and
nishipa
migrated down from northern Honshu and Hokkaido. If herring have been both dried and cut they are called
hokawari, somenishi, teppira,
or
sasakinishi.

When a wholesaler manages to hawk a whole consignment of herring, surprised colleagues describe him as doing
kakubei.
The only term for herring that never seems to appear in private market talk however is
nishin,
the word used by everyone else in Japan.

The biggest and most famous fish market in all of Japan is Tokyo's Tsukiji, which locals lovingly refer to as
T
ky
no daidokoro
(Tokyo's kitchen). This market has been the single largest mover-and-shaker of modern Japanese slang. Year in year out, Tokyo's toughest hard-selling and hard-buying individuals match their wits in early-morning auction halls, in wholesale depots, behind fish tanks, and in market aisles. New words travel fast.

A woman driving a sixteen-wheeler might, for instance, say in jest that she has no patience with what she calls
p
raroido boizu
(Polaroid boys): when you press their button in bed there is a big flash and the fun is over. A fish-box carrier, known in market slang as
karuko
(light child), might call someone
furuf
su,
(full face)—the sprightly implication being that the individual's face extends all the way to the back of his head (i.e., he's completely bald). A nearby wholesaler hears the inspired neologisms and cheerily passes them on to a retailer, who passes them on to a sushi chef. The sushi chef gives the expressions a debonair public send-off by weaving them into over-the-counter anecdotes. Businessmen, secretaries, students, and car mechanics, having enjoyed their fresh Tsukiji market tuna at the sushi counter, bow, thank the chef, and take the new words home.