afraid of going out to sea, we were adventurous and risk-taking. To the extent that we are a maritime nation, I think we ought to assume that thereis that underlying trait in the Japanese psyche. But the more we isolated ourselves from the rest of the world, the less of that boisterousness and buccaneering spirit we were able to retain. I like the buccaneering image of
shimaguni
. But when it is used as shorthand in conversation, it is definitely used to mean an isolated island mentality, inward-looking, not looking beyond your shores.’
Funabashi said it was true that Japan had once been outward-looking but had turned in on itself during the Edo period of the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1868). However, even in the so-called period of
sakoku
isolation, the country maintained more links to the outside world than generally realized. ‘
Shimaguni
can mean an island that separates itself from the world or an island that connects with the world. In Japan’s case, our island mentality makes people tend to believe that we can go back to being a secluded island of peace. But that’s never going to happen, and never did happen actually, not even in the Edo period. It’s a fantasy of Japanese seclusion.’ He paused again. ‘I think it’s dangerous. We cannot go back to the Edo era, we cannot seclude ourselves. One way or another, we will have to live with the world.’
PART THREE
Decades Found and Lost
6
After the Fall
It was never clear whether Nui Onoue herself or her large ceramic toad was the true oracle. Either way, when Onoue held her weekly séances over which the one-metre-tall, brownish toad presided, there were lines of limousines parked outside Egawa, her exclusive restaurant in the Sennichimae entertainment district of Osaka. This was the height of the 1980s bubble and her clients came for tips about which Japanese companies would perform best and thus on which shares to place their lavish wagers. A former hostess, by then in her early sixties, Onoue had established the exclusive
ryotei
restaurant in the ardently commercial western city of Osaka. As time went on, her clients came not so much to dine as to invest.
For some reason, in Osaka toads had come to be associated with wealth. Japan’s second-biggest metropolis had been the commercial hub for hundreds of years, a centre of rice trading and home to the world’s first futures market, established in 1730. It was a city where people sometimes greeted each other not with
konnichiwa
, but with
mokkari-makka
, ‘are you making money?’ Because of the amphibians’ reputed money-making properties, some Osakans refer to their wallets as ‘toad mouth’, or
gama-guchi
in Japanese.
Onoue’s toad was extra special. It received trading tips from the gods and at one stage, through the auspices of Onoue herself, controlled a portfolio of some $20 billion, an astronomical sum even for the heady days of the Japanese bubble. Word of the toad’s remarkable track record – for it was rarely wrong – spread far and wide. The sort of people who came for advice were executives of some of the country’s most prestigious financial institutions. They included officials from Industrial Bank of Japan, the
crème de la crème
of the bankingworld and, at the time, one of the largest financial institutions in the world. Executives from Yamaichi Securities also regularly attended. A prominent securities trading firm, Yamaichi was to become one of the biggest casualties of the stock market crash, ceasing all operations in November 1997. A financial subsidiary of Matsushita, the company that made the Panasonic brand, was another firm that put its faith in Onoue, entrusting her with Y50 billion. When the bet went sour, Matsushita’s humiliated president did the honourable thing. He resigned.
Japan’s Nikkei stock average, the one most often quoted on the pages of the business press, came within a whisker of 39,000 on the last trading day of 1989. That proved to be its last
shimaguni
. But when it is used as shorthand in conversation, it is definitely used to mean an isolated island mentality, inward-looking, not looking beyond your shores.’
Funabashi said it was true that Japan had once been outward-looking but had turned in on itself during the Edo period of the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1868). However, even in the so-called period of
sakoku
isolation, the country maintained more links to the outside world than generally realized. ‘
Shimaguni
can mean an island that separates itself from the world or an island that connects with the world. In Japan’s case, our island mentality makes people tend to believe that we can go back to being a secluded island of peace. But that’s never going to happen, and never did happen actually, not even in the Edo period. It’s a fantasy of Japanese seclusion.’ He paused again. ‘I think it’s dangerous. We cannot go back to the Edo era, we cannot seclude ourselves. One way or another, we will have to live with the world.’
PART THREE
Decades Found and Lost
6
After the Fall
It was never clear whether Nui Onoue herself or her large ceramic toad was the true oracle. Either way, when Onoue held her weekly séances over which the one-metre-tall, brownish toad presided, there were lines of limousines parked outside Egawa, her exclusive restaurant in the Sennichimae entertainment district of Osaka. This was the height of the 1980s bubble and her clients came for tips about which Japanese companies would perform best and thus on which shares to place their lavish wagers. A former hostess, by then in her early sixties, Onoue had established the exclusive
ryotei
restaurant in the ardently commercial western city of Osaka. As time went on, her clients came not so much to dine as to invest.
For some reason, in Osaka toads had come to be associated with wealth. Japan’s second-biggest metropolis had been the commercial hub for hundreds of years, a centre of rice trading and home to the world’s first futures market, established in 1730. It was a city where people sometimes greeted each other not with
konnichiwa
, but with
mokkari-makka
, ‘are you making money?’ Because of the amphibians’ reputed money-making properties, some Osakans refer to their wallets as ‘toad mouth’, or
gama-guchi
in Japanese.
Onoue’s toad was extra special. It received trading tips from the gods and at one stage, through the auspices of Onoue herself, controlled a portfolio of some $20 billion, an astronomical sum even for the heady days of the Japanese bubble. Word of the toad’s remarkable track record – for it was rarely wrong – spread far and wide. The sort of people who came for advice were executives of some of the country’s most prestigious financial institutions. They included officials from Industrial Bank of Japan, the
crème de la crème
of the bankingworld and, at the time, one of the largest financial institutions in the world. Executives from Yamaichi Securities also regularly attended. A prominent securities trading firm, Yamaichi was to become one of the biggest casualties of the stock market crash, ceasing all operations in November 1997. A financial subsidiary of Matsushita, the company that made the Panasonic brand, was another firm that put its faith in Onoue, entrusting her with Y50 billion. When the bet went sour, Matsushita’s humiliated president did the honourable thing. He resigned.
Japan’s Nikkei stock average, the one most often quoted on the pages of the business press, came within a whisker of 39,000 on the last trading day of 1989. That proved to be its last
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