Feb 21

Kirsten’s World: 焼き芋 (Yaki-Imo) of DEATH

Food & Drink, Humor, Writers Add Comment (2)

By Kirsten Phillips (Niigata-ken, 2005-08)

Dudes, I have a confession.

I am scared shitless of the yaki-imoyasan.

Granted, I am a petit pussois and many things creep me out. But I will chalk this up to sheer cultural ignorance and unexplainable skeevies. The potato man is out to get me.

For those not in the know, a yaki-imo is a roasted sweet potato and a yaki-imo ya san is the elderly chap designated by some hellish force to peddle it. Oh, the sweet potato man ain’t lookin’ for your money or to warm your cramped fingers, friend. Nah-uh. He wants your soul. You’ve been warned.

Now, the traditional method for hawking a tuber in Japan is to wander the streets pushing a cart and wailing in a plaintive, ghostlike manner:

“Ishii yaaaaaaaki-mooooooooo! oishii yakiiiiiiiii-mooooooooooo!”

Antiquated and charming or haunting and forlorn?  You decide.

The first time I encountered such caterwauling, I thought someone had died. How perplexed I was to learn that such noises were aimed at selling me something. What do they play at funerals, then? Britney Spears? If, like me, you are too slow to put the words “yaki” and “imo” together, you may very well imagine that something dreadful has occurred.

Times they have changed. Fathers are no longer raising their sons to be yaki-imoya sans. Gone are the pushcarts and the meowing. Now they have these slow-moving vans with the song playing on a tinny pre-recorded loop. Hurrah for modern technology. Kashiwazaki had such a van lurking the streets. But our van played no songs. Oh no. Shall I describe the horror? Those faint of heart, please look away. For those of you with a brave heart and who have stayed, I go on.

Now the inaka ain’t so well lit. Aside from a few flickering neon snack bar signs, there really wasn’t much to see by on the main drag. Dark shapes zipped frantically overhead and if you wanted to, you could fool yourself into pretending they were not bats.

It only comes out at night.

Something moves behind you on the road, a hovering 赤提灯 emerges from the deserted highway slashed with kanji that for all you know reads “PURGATORY”. Beneath it, a phantom white van creeps up the pavement, making sounds like none you’ve ever encountered. Is it not the very sound of lost yams being exorcised? A high-pitched hollow keening inching steadily closer.

“AGH! Go away!” I covered my ears the first time I heard it.

“YAY!” My Japanese friend was all smiles. “Sweet potatoes!”

“Dude! Sweet potatoes of death! I’m not going near that thing!”

“Whatever, your loss silly foreigner!”

*whimper* *cower* *whine*

Beware the streets at night. People are trying to sell you a root.