Then Ondo. Hot today. Richie wandered an old machine gun bunker, reading the graffiti left behind. There are many such bunkers guarding the well-protected channel into Kure, and I couldn't even imagine finding the one he'd visited. This too would have to remain one of his mysteries. What is more interesting is the backstory: How did he find out about it? What was he doing out there? It didn't seem the type of place he would gravitate to, simply to look at some names scratched on the wall.
The bridge between Ondo and the island of Kurahashi is an engineering marvel, and when the flowers adjacent are in bloom, the road can be backed up for miles. The bridge needed to be in order to let the big Naval boats through, but there wasn't enough space to ramp the traffic up to the desired height. Instead, they built spirals on either end, which resembles film reels that spool the celluloid loftily across the waters. Legend has it that the Heian period warrior Kiyomori had also built a bridge here, over a single night in order to woo a local beauty. But I doubt his bridge was nearly as impressive.
The bus route ends at Katsurahama, so I of course leave it. This beach, another of Japan's best, has many famous allusions to the Manyoshu poetry collection, namely a diplomatic envoy that sailed from here to Korea in 736. There is a scale-built model of their ship in a small museum nearby, and I stroll her decks, marvelling at how unpleasant the small cabins would have been, more confining even than my bus. The Manyoshu also celebrated the 500 pine trees here and rightly so. They line a pleasant stretch of beach, pointing their tops at the rocky cliffs above, whose quarries provided the stone work for the current Diet building in Tokyo. A small industry has been built around the beach, and though I forego a trip to the hot springs, I do pop in briefly to a small museum, which has little of interest but for a few chalk like mammoth bones.
What does eventually grab my attention is the Cafe Slow. The beach bar and the Reggae music first grabbed me, but it the promise of a cold beer on a hot day that tightens the grip. I could easily spend the rest of the day here, between dips in the sea. But I have a lot more ground to cover. I had intended to hitch the next section, but compromise on a taxi, as that will allow me more time to follow the example built into the cafe's name.
My next destination is a detour of sorts. These entries are meant to focus on history, of Richie, and of those he followed, but ultimately my own personal history becomes entangled in it all. I have arrived at a village on Nomijima, and am standing in front of the house where my ex-wife grew up. As we share a young daughter, this is also part of her own history, the place where her people came from. I was able to find the house easily, as it stands across a small lane from a modest Pure Land temple with strangely, a papier-mache elephant on its veranda. No one currently lives at the old house, though it remains in good condition, and someone could easily move in tomorrow. Around back is a series of graves, the oldest being for a child who died back in the late Edo period. A number of names follow, the most recent being my former father-in-law, dead just less than a year. I call my ex and chat a while, feeling a little strange that I've seen her father's grave even before she has. After hanging up, I pay respects to a man I barely knew, then move on.
My ex was wondering if I'd be able to hitch out of here (my only choice really), if the locals she knew as a child will stop for a strange foreigner wandering around. I catch a ride surprisingly quickly, though it hardly counts I guess since he is from Chiba prefecture, on business for a few days but idly driving around. I suppose that if you are an office worker these sales positions are the best deal as they allow you time to do exactly that. I have met many over the years while hitching, each of us playing out our cultural interpretations of On the Road.
As my next boat pulls away, I see what I mistake for pandas but realize are mompe-clad women on the shore. They may be affiliated with the oyster industry, massive here on Etajima, the farms filling every bay, and paralleling the shorelines of many islands. Men tread cautiously across the wooden frames that suspend the still living oysters in bags below the water's surface. In a month or so, these same oysters will begin to appear on table across the country.
The islands around here are busy on this work day. Those of Hiroshima Prefecture are a lot more built up than the islands of Okayama. I reflect on Naomi Klein's concept of Shock Doctrine, and wonder if the citizens traumatized by their unique and horrific form of wartime suffering were easily manipulated into accepting massive amounts of industry that flowed in after the war in order to rebuild. Now sadly, the environment itself looks traumatized.
A bit of nature therapy feels a bit right after the blight of industry. The island of Ninoshima carries the nickname of Aki-no-Kofuji,, and the conical shape resembles exactly, Japan's highest and most recognizable peak. And what are islands anyway but partially submerged mountains? From the ship the climb promises to be steep and tough, a mere 278 meters, but hard fought. The trail is clear and easy to follow but quite spider laden as is expected in late summer, so I carry a stick before me like a katana and bash my way through. The final section leaves the forest finally to become exposed earth, eroded away in some places. I rest awhile, enjoying the rare view of Hiroshima city, looking up her delta flood plain. Twin-peaked Miyajima is to the west, the oyster beds at her feet aglow in the setting sun.
I am finding it difficult to leave the view, the surface of the sea dotted with islands in every direction. I am coming to the end of the journey, but feel I could do this indefinitely. Follow the sea out to Kyushu, then island hop to Korea and traverse her craggy south. Momentum morphs into velocity, and I'm on my feet again. My hike was meant to take one hour, but I did it just over half that time. I'd alloted two hours on the island, but should be able to make the previous boat. I fly down, slowed only by the odd spider webs I'd missed coming up, not taking into account that I'd be taller coming down. Midway down, I pass a groupof college students who would camp at the summit. I envy them the sunrise they'll get before powering on.
I have a few spare minutes to circle the town, one barely hanging on. Then I am aboard and stand on deck to dry out, on my way to Hiroshima. My feet barely have time to register that shore before they carry me onto a high speed ferry bound for Matsuyama on Shikoku far beyond. The boat act as a Shinkansen, carrying commuters in both directions. Sans ties and in shirtsleeves, in this the final month of cool biz wear, beer cans in one hand acting to counter weights to briefcases in the other. We take in more in Kure, then whiz past factories shooting flames many stories into the air, like the Olympic torch from hell.
The sun is setting now out my carefully chosen starboard side window. It is one of those glorious light shows that attract even the most jaded commuter, and phone cameras begin to click noisily in the circular window frames. It has been a very long day for me. I'll lose the light soon, but when it returns anew, it will reveal the journey to come.
On the turntable: The Clash, "London Calling"
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