Remember the Hoppo Yonto!

Thursday was Hoppo Yonto day in this part of the world. For those of you not up to speed on East Asian geo-political flash points, the Hoppo Yonto are a group of four islands off the east coast of Hokkaido, the start of the long, arcing Kurile chain. Prior to WWII the islands were Japanese territory, but in the dying days of the conflict the Russians invaded (as Russians do) and have occupied them ever since. The Japanese still consider them an integral part of their nation (they are featured on all official maps of the country), and insist they be returned. 



Lest their citizens forget this ongoing injustice, February 7th is officially designated 'Hoppo Yonto Day' and every year the current prime minister, regardless of party alliance, flies up to the godforsaken reaches of Nemuro and makes a perennial speech about not resting until those communist bastards return what is rightfully Japan's.
The Russians for their part marked the occasion this year by buzzing a pair of fighter jets through Japanese air space off the north west coast of Hokkaido. This prompted the scrambling of a pair of top-guns from Misawa airbase in the midst of a howling blizzard, God love them, to chase those uncouth, sovereignty insulting airborne sons of Putin away.
Back in the day when yes, I was the man, I lived for three years in a small fishing village called Shibetsu, which is famous for (a) its salmon museum; (b) a stretch of purposely designed road that uses car tires to play a melody (you can see a video here); and (c) being the closet town to inhabited Russia. At night, having remixed the road music, I would stand on the harbour front looking across the 25 miles of intervening sea at the bobbling car headlights along the coastal road of Kunashiri. I always found it a tad disconcerting that out there in the far, far East, Japan's closest international neighbours bore a marked resemblance to me (right down to the same bloodshot eyes and hacking smokers cough. That was the JET Programme for you back then).
Anyway, every year on February 7th those of us on JET in that part of Hokkaido would be dispatched to an international symposium in Nemuro where we would hash out the intricate, real-politick machinations needed to stop Japan and Russia going to war. Or at least stop their crab fishermen from doing so.
Our 'hashing' would usually continue long into the dark, bitterly cold night; somewhere around the second bottle of shochu Nicholas would come up with a bit of diplomatic brilliance to set this part of the world to rights, but by the fourth bottle it would have been forgotten amidst the karaoke splendour. The following morning we would be awoken by Hayley's rabid parrot pecking us, and spend another day wrestling with this intractable problem, before being bussed out to Cape Nosappu to peer through the blinding snow at  Habomai Rock and the poor Russian bastards who have to man the light house there.
Then I would return to Shibetsu and wonder (a) how the hell did I ever end up the good f*** here; and (b) if I cracked some holes in the melody road, could I get a 7/8 beat thing going on.