Imbibing Bibliophile #32

Sri Aurobindo; A Legend, by Madhumita Dutta

Bira 91 Brewery, Blonde

On the turntable:  Elbow, "Leaders of the Free World"

Sunday Papers: Andrew Schelling

"From the start, Buddhism showed a sharp impatience for stay-at-home habits."


On the turntable:  Iodine Eyes,  "Idee Du Nord"

Imbibing Bibliophile #31

Assessing the damage after a visit to the College Street bookstalls, Calcutta.

On the turntable:  Ernest Tubbs,  "Retrospective, Vol. 1"

Imbibing Bibliophile #30

Along the Ganges by Ilija Trojanow

Masala Chai

On the turntable, "Eels, "Beautiful Freak"

The Biblioing Imbibophobe

On the turntable: Ernest Ranglin, "Gotcha!"

(untitled)

All that remains of once great tribes:
Paw prints in the dust,
Monkeys in the stones.

On the turntable:  Furry Lewis, "Back on My Feet Again, "

 

Imbibing Bibliophile #29

Plain Tales from the Raj, Charles Allen

Indian Chai

On the turntable:Erroll Garner, "Body and Soul "
 

Sunday Papers: Marcus Aurelius

"Loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature's delight." 

On the turntable:  The Blues Project, "Live at Town Hall "

October 14 Elegy

(untitled)

Ribbon roads
And pungent pine,
At the collision of continents.

On the turntable:  Ernest Ranglin, "Gotcha!"

(untitled)

In the higher reaches,
Some jewels of the Raj
Still maintain their sheen.

On the turntable: Red Foley And Ernest Tubb, "Red And Ernie"
 

Knowing Tranquility XIX (Okunoshima)

If I were allowed to make lists a la Sei Shonagon, I'd add to the one titled "Moving Things," the white of the egret wrapped in a green rice paddy.  The rice harvest is just beginning, the fishermen moving into the fields, riding up and back the rows on their tractors.  One completed, they'll trun once more to the sea, to their oysters and sea bream.  Then they'll turn indoors, to wait out winter.  

I find a massive queue for my boat out to Okunoshima.  I've heard about how popular the place has become, especially with the foreigners.  There are are few ahead of me, taking up space with their huge backpacks.  Luckily the boat the big car ferry, with plenty of room for all.  The shipping company too is maximizing the tourist boom, and as the island wells up, it is announced that we are about to arrive on Rabbit Island.    

They must be conditioned to the sound of the engines, and even before we dock, a couple of dozen rabbits appear from the bushes.  As I walk across the grass in the direction of the visitor center, they seem to be everywhere, around the benches, tucked around and beneath the wooden walkways that line the shore.  The ferry passengers are all hard at work in feeding them, with carrots and bags of feed that was sold at the ferry terminal and at the local convenience store.  The former has a good system where you return the empty plastic bags for postcards when you return to the port.  

The island has no homes, the only inhabitants being the transient workers who come from the mainland to work the visitor center, the gas museum, or the Kyukamura Resort here.  The former is surprising in size and content, with dispalys of the wildlife and even a passage that allows you see what is happening underground.  I pay a visit to the museum, which doesn't hold my interest for very long.  The gas works themselves are on the north end of the island, merely a shell now.  It was secretly developed in the 1920s to develop mustard gas, converted from an old fishery.  Employees and the few residents of the island were never told what was manufactured here, and little surprise that many of them fell ill from exposure.  The US Occupation forces were co-conspirators in this, destroying records and covering up evidence after the war.  And the usual Japanese aversion to its wartime history can be inferred by one of the English explanations that say no one is sure how many people were affected during the war.  In fact we do know: 80,000 victims during the 2000 times the gas was used.  

Most people assume that the island's famous rabbits are descendants of animals tested in the factories.  The Americans euthanized those after the war.  The current colony originated with eight animals brought here by school children in 1971, and has since exploded into over a thousand.  The tourism of course justifies this as a boon rather than as a problem , though one sign made me chuckle as it asks visitors to refrain from releasing their own pet rabbits.  (Though nowhere did it say that you can't take a few home.)

The largest number of animals, and people, is on the broad lawns of the Kyukamura Resort. Aside from a few towering palms, there is little shade, and as I walk along the hot and sunny west shore the only rabbits I see are resting in shallow pits they've dig in the shade.  The path itself gets far more shade as it wraps around the north end of the island. There are a number of old gun barracks here, some as old as the China War of 1895.  Later during the Korean War, the US stored weapons in the ruins.  For me this was the best part of the walk, ducking in and out of the ruins, before facing the main attraction: the massive gas works, towering sulkily amongst the vegetation, gutted completely with only light filling its broken windows.  

Much later, I read an article about the rabbits on the Modern Farmer website that states that the ecosystem here is completely unsustainable, as the rabbit are fed a great deal on sunny days like the one I had, but then get nothing when the rains keep the visitors away.  This imbalance, the lack of actual edible vegetation on the island due to overpopulation, has shortened their life span to two years. 

And so it was that their source of sustenance boarded the ship back across the water.  Along the way I thought I was being witty in thinking of this land of bunnies as Easter Island.  Yet as that island's residents too had deforested and overpopulated themselves into extinction, it no longer seems so amusing.  


On the turntable:  The Church, "Of Skins and Heart"          

Knowing Tranquility XVIII (Onomichi)

My daughter, a true Cancerian, isn't yet finished with the water.  She wants to skim more stones. We see huge jellyfish floating in the tide line, and lucky for me they left me alone the evening before.  Then it is time for our boat.  We ride the five minutes back to town on the 2010 reconstruction of the Irohamaru, whose spiky black form looks a bit intimidating.  It would have been a fearful sight to watch it appear from a bank of fog.  

Our next boat is sleek and modern, but we have time for a quick coffee at a little shop near the Joyato.  The smell of f afresh roast is strong, and once again I am glad that the Japanese are such world-class hobbists, that they work so hard to get things right.  The ponytailed owner seems at peace with himself, and I think of so many like him that I have met over the years. It is easy to follow your dreams in the countryside, where prices are cheap and the locals are usually looking for an interesting distraction. The decor of this ramshackle old house has a number of CD's for sale, the bands probably having played here before.  So reminiscent of my life before Kyoto.  I feel so at home in these little rural environments.

A direct boat between Tomo no Ura and Onomichi seems such so obvious, but they only run it on weekend in the summer.  After nearly boarding the wrong boat to god knows where, we jet away from the port.  As looked at from the water, the town shows its most delightful face, held steadfast by the famous stone lantern.  For a moment or two we too are part of "Japan's best scenery," before we too drift off on the tide.    

Tides are little important at this speed, but time appears frozen, as it often does while on the water.  Temples hang from cliff faces. Men fish from small craft, watching the flow of thought as they await the next strike.  A large bridge arcs beautifully across the straight.  A seaplane--a new service as of a few months before--unleashes a wall of spray then is aloft.  Pulling close to the massive prop and
keel of a new frieghter being constructed here, but already registered to Panama.  (I had found this strange at first, that an unlikely number of ships carried that registry, or for that of Monrovia.  An obvious tax dodge.) 

As the boat drops us near U2, we step in for lunch.  This hotel is perhaps the trendiest in Japan at the moment.  Ostensibly built for the use of bicycles prior to their crossing the Shimanami Kaido, the modern, cutting edge rooms are attracting all sorts, in order to enjoy the unique fusion of trad Japanese and the latest amenities.  We grab a few interesting things for tomorrow's breakfast then sit for lunch in a hip cafe that screams ultra cool minimalism.  Behind us is a funky gallery and a bicycle shop, filling this huge open warehouse with hip. 

Our own digs for the night are up in the hills above, though also affiliated with U2.  On the way to their offices to pick up the keys, we stop in the Onomichi film museum, commemorating the fact that this atmospheric town has been the local to over 40 films, the best known being Boy, Naked Island, and of course, Tokyo Story.   This is one of my favorite museums in Japan, filled with stills and posters from some of the Japanese film industry's greatest works.  I am obsessed in particular with Showa period film, in particular the 25 years after the war (From 1970, the works of even the greatest directors begin to look a little too much like TV.), and it is like revisiting old favorite.  But perhaps the highlight is the old 1960s cinema they have erected in the back room, projectors whirring away.

Our accommodation is an old kura storehouse that has been gutted and rebuilt in a similar way to U2 itself, blending Japanese aesthetic with an almost Scando-minimalism.   There is a sunken wooden living room where a hori-kotatsu had once been, the only furniture are a mass of throw pillows.  The hinoki tub overlooks a vast garden, above which is an old Taisho era house that must offer amazing views of the straits below.  The bedroom is as plush as any luxury hotel, though framed in dark wood and shoji.  A dream.

We don't linger long as we are already well into the afternoon.  We spend it wandering the alleys and passageway along the hill.  I have already traced the route connecting the temple on two prior visits, so feel no real need to see anything.  We meander the cat alley, then ride the ropeway to the park above Senkō-ji. There are many people enjoying the warm sunny day, but it appears that the Asian tourist groups have yet to discover the town.  Here, and at Tomo no Ura the day before, reminds me of what travel used to feel like it Japan, three generations of dreamy but nervous young couples, the quiet, well-dressed, and somewhat jaded middle-aged, and the bus groups of old-timers.  

We descend down the Path of Literature, stopping to try to read the large stones imprinted with quotes of famous poets and writers.  My daughter ducks and hops the large stones the define the trail.  After a spin around the old Buddhas of Senkō-ji, I climb the chains to the Ishizuchi shrine atop some towering boulders.  The view from this point is the best in town.

At sunset we descend to town to haunt the old shopping arcade in search of dinner.  Little is open on the three-day weekend, causing me to wonder yet again whether small business owners are truly serious about making any money.  We continue to walk, and it is full dark by the time we reach the Takemuraya Inn, where Ozu filmed a number of scenes for Tokyo Story.  (If it weren't for U2 I'd probably stay here.)  In front of nearby Sumiyoshi Shrine is the tall and familiar lantern that served as a pillow shot for the film. Beyond it, the night is still and quiet.  And despite the main takeway line from Ozu's classic, life, and this moment in it, isn't a disappointment at all.     



On the turntable:  The Band, "The Last Waltz"
On the night table:   Ajahn Sucitto. "Great Patient One"

Imbibing Bibliophile #28

A Blue Hand by Deborah Baker

Shangri-la Highland Craft Brewery, Super Nova

On the turntable: The Eagles, "Hotel California"

Knowing Tranquility XVII (Tomo no Ura, Sensuijima)

Kasaoka smells like cow dung, but luckily I am not there long. The train pulls me southwest toward Tomo no Ura, long a favorite destination of mine.  I first need to change transport in Fukuyama, and since I've never really explored the city, I decide to stretch my legs.  

The Hiroshima prefectural is a very short walk away, within the grounds of the former castle.  The displays of everyday life in the Inland Sea prove interesting, particularly the ones dealing with trade with mainland Asia. Conspicuously absent are displays on the piracy that formed an alternative economy for most of Japan's history (and which ultimately brought it the civilizing influences of Buddhism and writing).   I eye the toys from the 1930s, and wonder what happened to the boys they belonged to. 

What ultimately brought me here is a mock-up of the old town of Kusado Sengen, a Kamakura era commercial port that was forgotten for centuries. It was rediscovered in 1931 during attempts to re-route the Ashida River, yet aside from the collection of some artifacts, it was allowed to return to the sandbank under which it had long slept.  True excavation took place three decades later, before ultimately the town was reclaimed once again by the waters.  The model town built within the museum was quite delightful, giving one the sense of a simple, yet flourishing life the residents once had. I stroll around, ducking into a few of the huts and pondering how well preserved the artifacts are, after all those years beneath the sand and silt.    

A taxi takes me out to the site itself, but there is nothing at all to see but for some boys playing baseball on a reclaimed stretch of river.  Fom the perspective of the bridge you'd never imagine that there was an entire town beneath.  I find my bus stop around the corner, and follow those same waters south to their source in Tomo-no-ura.

There I find LYL and my daughter waiting for me.  The latter is a big fan of Ponyo, set here in this small fishing village.  Director Miyazaki Hayao spent two months in an old inn on a hill at the water's edge, sketching and getting the town's basic vibe.  The inn itself made it into the film, in the form of the main character's house.  But sightseeing can wait, for it is lunchtime.  We walk along the concrete wall above the water, atop which people fish, despite the signs forbidding it.  In the center of the port we find a small cafe that does nice chicken burgers and curry.   A projector is screening Ponyo on a bare white wall, and my daughter settles onto a sofa to watch.  The cafe has been converted from an old kura storehouse,  and many old artifacts are decoratively strewn about.  The owner has a good feel for the modern as well, as the cafe also serves craft beer and provides hookahs for those who like their tobacco flavored.  

With a six-year old, it is a day not meant for moving fast, but that suits us.  We stop again just across the water, to sit for coffee and a shaved ice at outdoor tables.  It is a perfect day for sitting out, early autumn in the air.  I watch the world go by awhile before going in to pay.  The proprietor is a funky bohemian type, and the interior of his shop reflects the wonderful chaos of an engaged mind. As I admire the sketches of the famous writers who had spent time in town since the days of the ancient Manyoshu. I look away from the wall to notice a character sitting further back of the shop.  he too had an artistic look to him, tempered by hints of what must have been a tough life.  I say hello, and he asks me if I can read what I'd been looking at.  When I affirm that I can, he begins to tell me a bit about himself, how he had studied German literature while young, and had a great affinity for Europe and its ideas.  This is the type of conversation I love to have, and could happily spend an hour or more with him.  But I have people with me and need to move on.  As it is, over a few minutes the conversation lurches from Hesse to the Meiji period to the Chinese Zodiac.            

We too lurched away, but only to the Irohamaru museum next door, beckoned in by the life sized photo of Sakamoto Ryoma within the door.  Beyond was a scale model of the remains of his ship, which went down beneath him in 1867.   Divers hover on wires examining the wreck.  Artifacts pulled from the waters decorate the walls, while upstairs is a replica of the room where Ryoma had hidden from the authorities after the sinking.  The actual house where he did so lies across town, and we pass it and many other houses from the period weaving the narrow lanes, stopping occasion to taste a bit of dried squid, or some of the town's famous life-enhancing alcohol made of 16 herbs.

We climb to the old castle ruins which now house the folklore museum, quite appropriate for a town that has so many fine festivals.  But the town's real treasure stands on the adjacent hilltop.  A Korean envoy had called the view the best in japan, and while that is obvious hyperbole, he's not too far off.  This port was a well known stop off for diplomatic missions to the continent, known as a safe harbor to wait out storms.  Little wonder so many renowned figures spent some time here, moving at a pace slightly slower than out own.

As the light begins to go out of the sky, we cross the waters to Sensuijima, where we'll stay the night.  This island has a special place for me as I stayed out here for a couple of days,  moving little except for wandering the trails above the waters, including the one that took me up and over the peak. Today I stay closer to the water itself, wading out a ways before returning to skim stones with my daughter.  Above the forest behind us, dozens of kites and crows swirl and dive as they do battle.   

Others take to the beach after dinner, in search of florescent kelp that are famous this season.  I am not too interested as I have my own wonderful memories of swimming amidst them up in the Sea of Japan, and taking part in a group event of 70 people will not top those. 



The cry of an heron wakes me at dawn.  The three of us have the beach front walk to ourselves early the next morning, and we head into the rising sun.  The trail leads us pass some curiously colored stones. and LYL tries to guess the mineral content behind each hue. My daughter is taken with the crabs spooked by our passing shadows, which flit into the nearest tide pools.  As for, as ever, it is the views from above, of the sea and its many islands, life on each starting the day anew.

On the turntable:  The Chieftains, "The Very best of The Chieftains"