The Dojo Trinity

The general sense of apathy which fills me every time I take a holiday and face the prospect of returning to the Dojo; the fact that I'm not actually being taught anything, and even if I was, that the language barrier means that I'm not necessarily aware of it; combined with the fact that I'm treated like a retarded 8 year old just because I speak like one, all means that, 6 months in, my progress in judo has not been quite as rapid as hoped. Instead my general sense of bitterness at the prospect of returning to England, where everyone I trained with before coming to Syria will probably be 5th Dan Black belts by now, has been well and truly cemented.

But as I sat, last night, trying to listen to one of the coach's monologues, I realised that I hadn't actually said anything about the coach, or the people that filled his shoes after his recent injury-related absence, and so my mind drifted as I set about planing what I would say.

1. "Ya Ustaaz"

This is the man who I have thus far referred to as the coach, a rather portly gentleman, with a generous third dimension protruding from his midsection, probably in his 40s, with dark skin (for a Syrian) with a crew cut and a carefully trimmed, slightly greying beard.

Although he has been absent ever since I came back from my Christmas holiday (thanks to a back-related weight-lifting accident), this is the man who introduced me to the world of Syrian judo and made my acceptance into the club so quick and relatively painless (emotionally speaking , that is. I can assure you, the initiation fights - after a 4 month summer holiday - were anything but painless).

As much respect I have for him, however, he's actually - how do I put this delicately - rubbish.

Especially when teaching a retarded 8 year-old.

His natural disposition to soliloquise can only really be compared to that of Hamlet, with large portions of the sometimes 3 hour sessions being swallowed whole by his epic lectures, which have often made me seriously consider the merits of 'being' over 'not being'.

When he does go off on his tangent, I'm particularly aware of how little use his spiel actually is. Although his arabic is perhaps the hardest of the 'Dojo Trinity' to understand, what I do get is still of little or no benefit at all. He spends most of his time pondering out-loud the philosophies of judo, with the name Jigori Kano, the Japanese founder of Judo, popping up nearly as frequently as the abstract phrases "funn al-judo" (the art of Judo) and 'quwa' (power).

When he does decide that a demonstration is in order he tends to favour the 'show-them-everything-you-know-about-x-group-of-moves-in-30-seconds' school of teaching, leaving me completely stunned, having dropped the ball of Japanese and Arabic words thrown at me whilst trying to concentrate on the rapid succession of movements, the flashes of white as judo-gis fly though the air, accompanied by loud bangs, as his victim hits the floor again and again.

2. "Ya Cap-i-tan"

This man appeared out of nowhere at the end of last term and has been largely in charge of lessons during Ya Ustaaz's absence. In much the same way as the coach, I have no idea about his real name, but have adopted the title which people call him when they greet him or want to catch his attention: "Ya Cap-i-tan".

Although perhaps lacking the gravitas and experience of Ya Ustaaz, being a 5th year Engineering student at Damascus University, he more than makes up for it by being a good bloke and quite a decent teacher. For the last two months (about half of which I've missed for traveling), the long speeches; the monotonous routine of killer 1h30 warm up followed by single fight, watched by the entire group; and the ridiculous demonstrations; have all been on standby, replaced by a more concise warm up followed by a mix of ground work and standing with the occasional bit of coaching as he walks around the dojo - a lot better than the complete absence of variation or coaching of the former regime.

But that ended last night with the return of Ya Ustaaz to active duty. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

3. Untitled

The third member of the trinity did not come pre-packaged with a title as the other two did, and so I'm still weighing up the possibilities:

Grim Reaper

Last term, when Ya Ustaaz took a week off to take care of his ill sister and before Ya Cap-i-tan took up his place as prince regent of the club, I remember waiting in the dark outside the dojo gates when a figure swathed in black glided along the deserted street. As he descended upon us, a chill ran down my spine that I can only assume was a premonition of death.

Now, I'm sure that there are a series of logical explanations for all of the above. One, it was mid December, with a freezing wind, so it's not surprising I was cold. Two, he was wearing a dark tracksuit and a beanie: a shape concealing outfit which obviously looked black at 7pm given that there's no street lighting. Three, he was riding a bike.

Since that moment, I've not been able to escape this association with the grim reaper, despite the fact that he bares absolutely no physical resemblance to said reaper, being of healthy build and in his mid 20s, yet every time he enters the Dojo I can't help but feel suffocated under the shroud of terror which cloaks him even when he has changed into his gi, casting everyone in its frightful shadow.

General Pain

The first session with this stranger turned out to be very bit as bad as the atmosphere of dread had led me to anticipate.

We all knew Ya Ustaaz was away, so we just continued as we had done in every prior session, to conduct a mildly taxing and excessively long warm up. Twenty minutes later our new instructor took to the mat and ordered us to start from the beginning. But to do it harder. And
longer.

What followed I can only describe as the most grueling work out I have ever experienced, accompanied by shouts, not of encouragement, but threats of what would happen if you looked like you were easing up. More than one person ended up having to leave the dojo because the injuries inflicted upon them prevented them from continuing, the youngest of whom was about 10, holding his wrist as he ran off the mat, his head low to hide the shame and the tears.

For two hours we were drilled by 'the General', in true despotic fashion, until we could move no more and the physical abuse finally subsided. In this instance being an obvious foreigner was perhaps, for the fist time, a positive attribute as I was never dealt the hefty blows faced by the others, only the fear that I might do any minute...

Even after Ya Cap-i-tan had assumed command, 'General Pain' continued to patrol the perimeter, executing corporal punishment where needed.

So perhaps I'll amalgamate the two and call him:

General Grim, the scythe-wielding megalomanic.

Or just 'G.G.' for short.