The Sweet Potato Man

There are a lot of things in Japan I don’t understand immediately, because they are incredibly old traditions practiced with a modern technological twist. For instance, the lack of central heating means many people warm their homes with fires or kerosene heaters. My friend Meegan and I often joke that we live in paper houses. Well, a long time ago, people did live in paper houses, and that meant major fire hazards in the winter when everybody was trying to stay warm. In the tightly-packed villages it was easy for many homes to be destroyed by one family’s poorly-maintained heating. So, every night a town crier would walk through the village streets reminding everyone to put out their fires before going to bed. Today, from about 8pm onward, a little truck meanders through the streets sounding a tinny, high-pitched bell, reminding people to turn off kerosene heaters before hitting the futon.

One little truck, however, winds through the streets in all seasons. The size of a small garbage truck, with large strips of firewood and a mysterious brown box in the bed, this old, dirtied, little truck is driven by the sweet potato man. The sweet potato man is much younger than you’d expect, and instead of pushing a cart through town and yelling, he plays a recording from the loudspeaker on top of his vehicle. “Oishii! O imo, oishii yo!” which translates roughly as “Soooo good! Sweet potatoes, delicious sweet potatoes!” Then he sings other Japanese phrases which I imagine to be, “Come get your sweet potatoes! You know you want one! They’re soooo good!”

I imagine a lot of people could be annoyed by the sweet potato man, but I was quite charmed by him on my first day in Fuji. I thought the advertising was romantic, like the ice cream truck or the milk bottle deliveries I was born too late to experience. The sweet potato man always makes me smile, because he reminds me of some idyllic time in America when neighborhoods were safe and you could buy treats with only a few coins. I’m a fan of sweet potatoes and always wanted to try one, but with the echoing loudspeaker I could never tell exactly where the truck was, or when it could come by my driveway.

Today was a different story. My arms were loaded with grocery bags after work. I was tired and the peach sky was cold. But I smiled because I heard the potato man. Then, I realized he was coming up my street! He was right in front of me! I saw a little girl walk to the end of her driveway, and as the truck pulled over I stopped to watch. I felt like a tourist for the first time in Japan – my presence was turning a mundane occurrence into a spectacle. But I made no attempts to hide my blatant mental note-taking. It felt good to watch for once, instead of always being the subject of observation.

The little girl, who was about 5 years old, was one of the most beautiful little girls I’ve ever seen. Her dark hair was in Heidi plaits on either side of her head, and her almond-shaped eyes were as huge as an anime characters’. I was obviously making her self-conscious, and as she awkwardly pushed wisps of hair out of her eyes, she threw sideways glances at me during her dialogue with the sweet potato man.

The sweet potato man was thin, somewhere in his 30s, with a kind and sun-worn face. He was extremely gentle with the little girl, which made me think he had children around her age. Dutifully, as if by routine, she asked for 3 potatoes, and he nodded like he already knew how many to give her. The man went to the side of his truck, pulled on some gloves, and opened a rusted, heat-blackened, brown metal box. It was basically a portable oven, and the smoky aroma that escaped when he lifted the hatch was like potion. It took me a split-second to decide I wanted one, too. The smell was warm and sweet and spicy, very three-dimensional even though I was a good 10 feet away. The man dropped 3 long, purplish potatoes into a plain paper bag, carefully accepted change from the little girl, and showed her where to hold the bag since the potatoes were still hot. She smiled at him shyly, then turned and ran towards her apartment, obviously glad to escape my stare.

The potato man looked at me for the first time then, with my purse and coat and grocery bags, and I saw the strain flash off his face, replaced by something else when he decided I was “safe.” Perhaps I was not as much of an outsider as he thought. I lived in this neighborhood.

“I’ve heard you almost every day for the past 6 months,” I wanted to tell him. But instead, I said only, “How much for one, please?”

My potato plopped into the bag and he carefully folded the top as if it were expensive packaging. “It’s still hot, so please be careful.”

“Yes,” I said, and we smiled. My miniscule but sufficient Japanese skills were an obvious relief to him.

It was only 5 o’clock but I ate the potato immediately. The flesh inside wasn’t orange, but instead a dirty-banana-yellow, and it was so delicious there was no need to add anything. It’s amazing that something can simply be yanked from the dirt, heated for a while, and come out tasting so sweet and tangy and spicy and satisfying. I had a glass of red wine but not too much else for dinner.

I hear the sweet potato man all the time, but now I know what all the fuss is about.