Knowing Tranquility: Interludes

When the Shinanami Kaidō was built, you'd have assumed that it would have spelled the end of the ferry service connecting the islands that the bridges now reach.  But a few services do remain, including one that hops along the more remote ports of the cluster of islands now collectively known as the Ochi District.  These nine islands are surprisingly part of Shikoku, despite being much closer to Honshu.  After a bit of research I'd found that two ferries can carry me back from Imabari and over to Mihara, making a dozen or so stops along the way. 

The wind has come out of nowhere and it is surprisingly cold.  I had been worried that the wind might cause the boats to be cancelled, but they went ahead according to schedule.  I'll bet that for these seasoned pilots, it would take more than this mini-gale to stop their crossing. 

But I very nearly stop my own.  I was carrying a second bag with me today, something I wasn't used to.  I set it down near the entrance to a bakery when I bought bread, and sure enough I left it behind.  I remember at the moment I am about to buy my ferry ticket, and what follows is a sprint to the taxi queue.  I have literally 13 minutes to get to the station and back.  Luckily my driver is young and willing to race up the back streets and away from the traffic signals.  I am happy with his youth, as most drivers these days are of post-retirement age, a reflection of the current state of the economic times. And they prefer to potter along. (I've noticed that there is a discrepancy in fares between Kyoto Station and my house, and the cautious-natured older drivers usually cost me an additional two or three hundred yen.)  But this guy is keen, and though we both assume that I'll never make it back on time, somehow I do with a single minute to spare, as I race along the quay yelling at the men on the docks to hold the boat.

The other passengers are far saner than me, sitting out of the wind inside.  But I always want to be beside the water, so I take a seat in the sun out on deck.  The speed and forward motion somehow negates the force of the gale somehow, but as we slow upon approach to a harbor, the wind washes over me.  

Near the port of Iwagi a large helicopter lowers a winch in order to hoist construction equipment that is to be carried over to Akahonejima adjacent. It hovers awhile over our boat, and I worry that a sudden gust of wind will tilt it toward the water.  But it hangs steady, and when the winch is attached to the top of a small digger, it takes flight, the digger spinning beneath it like the world's most exciting carnival ride.    



This first ferry makes its final stop in the town of Habu (whose kanji pronunciation is not what I would have expected, causing me a little difficulty earlier when I was buying tickets.)  I have an hour to kill, and the town is completely devoid of charm so I take a hint from the fact that I am now in Hiroshima Prefecture and go in search of fried oysters and a beer.  I find a small shop and it is good to get out of the wind awhile.  

I am the only passenger on the next boat when it pulls out.  I wonder at how this line can make money and how long it will exist.  But at our final stop, a dozen people board, including a priest who braves the cold to have a chat  He is an interesting man, but he has chosen the wrong time to distract me, since this final leg is the one that most intrigues me, taking me close to the abandoned island of Sukenejima, where Shindō  Kaneto shot "Naked Island." I interrupt the priest to point this out, and he tells me that his senior priest actually appeared in the film.  But that man is long gone, as is the background scenery, and instead we approach the chugging factories that have since formed the character of the unattractive coast of the Sanyō Region.   


On the turntable:  Eddy Grant, "Killer on the Rampage"

Imbibing Bibliophile #49

Tree of Smoke, by Denis Johnson
Red Horse Beer, San Miguel Brewery 

On the turntable:  Gomez, "In our Gun"

Imbibing Bibliophile #48

Canada, by Richard Ford
Beer #1 Wheat, Boondocks Brewing Co.

On the turntable:  Foreigner, "Double Vision"

Imbibing Bibliophile #47

Malaysian Stories, by W. Somerset Maugham 
Tasting Set, Brewerkz Beer

On the turntable:  Garbage, "Garbage"

Imbibing Bibliophile #46

White Rajah, by Nigel Barker

2001 Chardonnay, Louis Latour Vineyards

On the turntable: Green on Red, "Gas Food Lodging" 

Imbibing Bibliophile #45

Tanamera, by Noel Barber

Tasting Set, Sansaro Beer

On the turntable:  Gene Loves Jezebel, "Discover"

Imbibing Bibliophile #44

San'ya Blues, by Edward Fowler

Matsumoto Traditional Bitter, Matsumoto Brewery

 

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, " Fillmore West 06/07/70"

Imbibing Bibliophile #43

Tales of the South Pacific, James A. Michener

Sassy Red Amber Ale, by Mac's New Zealand Brewing

On the turntable:  George Winston, "Linus and Lucy"

Imbibing Bibliophile #42

    

                      Rain, by W. Somerset Maugham

         Vailima Special Export Lager, Samoa Breweries Ltd

On the turntable:  Guru, "Jazzmatazz Vol. II"

Happy New Year!

A year in reads: 2017

 

On the turntable:  The Beatles, "Live at the Hollywood Bowl"

Imbibing Bibliophile #41

Home from Sea, by Robert Louis Stevenson

         Vailima Pure, Samoa Breweries Ltd

On the turntable:  Jerry reed, "Red Hot Picker"

Imbibing Bibliophile #40

Oomingmak by Peter Matthiessen

Mango Wheat, Blue Moon Brewing Company

On the turntable:  The Germs, "MIA"
 
 

Imbibing Bibliophile #39

One Life at a Time Please by Edward Abbey

Cappuccino,  The French Pastry Shop and Crêperie

On the turntable:  Green Day, "Insomniac"

Sunday Papers: Paul Theroux

"Travel, which is nearly always seen as an attempt to escape from the ego, is in my opinion the opposite.  Nothing induces concentration or inspires memory like an alien landscape or a foreign culture. It is simply not possible (as romantics think) to lose yourself in an exotic place. Much more likely is an experience of intense nostalgia, a harking back to an earlier stage in your life, or seeing clearly a serious mistake."






On the turntable: Esperanza Spalding, "Radio Music Society"
On the nighttable:  Paul Theroux, "The Happy Isles of Oceania"

Sunday Papers: Kenneth Rexroth

"Experience has very few pointers and those point around in circles. Experience is its own content."


On the turntable:  Enya, "The Celts"

On the Great Eastern Road III

A pair of Russians were poking around in an old house.  I saw them enter through the front door, which they left open, revealing a couple of tatami laying on their sides, and old stove.  They dwarfed the old Japanese man with them, who was presumingly showing them the property.  What I found most curious was what Russians might be doing out here.  We'd see the occasional Russian sailor up in Yonago (accompanied by urban myths about stolen cars and bicycles stolen being sold over in Russia), but that was a port town on shared waters. But this was landlocked and somewhat remote part of Mie.  Brazilians I could understand, a presence hinted at by the trilingual signs warning them, and me, that a 3.2 meter tsunami could reach here to dampen my shoes.

I'd see no more foreigners that day.  The locals of Yokkaichi though were out and getting on with their respective days, and those that I passed at this early hour actually gave me a greeting.  I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised since strangers (foreigners included) have been walking this Tokaidō for many centuries.  A nice change I suppose from what had been expected of their ancestors:  on their knees, faces in the dirt, and god forbid any incidental eye-contact was made with a feudal lord  passing by in their fanciful processions.  

A steady stream of traffic sped past me on its way back to town.  I sometimes hate walking these roads at this time of the morning.  It was particularly bad today, as in most countries this narrow road would be for single lane traffic only.  But here it was for two, and the unpleasant trend lately is that people's preferences are leaning toward bigger cars.  When walking on heavily trafficked roads, I tend to stay on the right, against the flow so that I can at least see the cars before they hit me.  But the Japanese are taught the annoying habit to pull over to the extreme far left when stopped or when in a queue, leaving me very little room between their wing-mirrors and the frontage of houses.  It was unpleasant going, but as usual I could escape into my music, listening to a rotation of Elvis Costello and Ewen MacColl, as they told me all that was wrong in Britain in the late 20th Century.  I continue to move against this flow like a steam train, little puffs of white emerging from my mouth every few steps.  

The clock must have hit nine, for suddenly the rush of cars was no more.  I can begin to take better note of what's around me.  Stepping into the oasis of a shrine,  the sound of birdsong tricked me into thinking I was listening to the sound of a cicada.   I laughed at the sight of a woman who had put on a heavy parka to take out her rubbish, a journey of perhaps five meters from her front door.   

I knew that was climbing because the tsunami warning signs were increasing their increments.  The road dipped again briefly into Ishiyakushi-cho, where I ate lunch hastily on some crates stacked behind a supermarket.  Naturally there was a pleasant little park with benches about a 100 meters further on.  It marked the end of a poetry walk of sorts, as each of the houses in this little town had poems by Sasaki Nobutsuna hanging in front.  The house of this great tanka poet still stands, though most of his real work was done in Tokyo, where he founded Japan's first poetry monthly, and was later the first recipient of Japan's Order of Culture.     

The next suburb had postings of another sort.  Photos of the faces of construction workers hung near their building site, probably to ease the minds of nervous suburbanites, living in a nation growing more and more afraid of the outside world.  Though what really has changed since the days when Sasaki's poem, “The Song of the Conquest of China,” rallied the boys 80 years ago?

Kameyama welled up next, the first glimpse of real charm all day.  The initial shopping arcade not so much so, with its shuttered shops eliciting the usual question of whether they simply had the day off, or was the town slowly dying.  An abrupt left turn led me downhill through an older part of town, which still bore a number of houses from the feudal period.  One of these had a sign proudly announcing the work of the Tokaidō Preservation Project.  I fought off an urge to call this group and ask where they were getting their funding and whether it they really felt it was worth it, as the machinami vibe was long gone.  Aside from a few nice buildings, the rest were completely prefab, and looked as if they'd been built during the previous decade.  A mobile phone attennae towered above it all.  And the directional signs for the Tokaidō itself were the worst in the prefecture.  Game over, man.  

But bizarrely enough, this was the nicest stretch of all, pressing toward Seki on a quiet riverbank.  I'd wanted to explore the town, as it is the best preserved on the entire Tokaidō.  But I needed to get back to Kyoto to pick my daughter up from school.  I'll be sure to return early next time.  As it was, the ride home was complicated, at the typhoons of last September had knocked out the rail line, and the substitute buses were about as consistent as the efforts at preservation in Kamiyama.  I made a pathetic attempt at hitching, but only a taxi could get me to the next train station on time for the once hourly service.  So a day that had started with traffic moving too quickly culminated in a further rush of tires, the meter frustratingly following suit.


On the turntable:  Ella Fitzgerald,  "The Complete Ella Fitzgerald Songbooks"
On the nighttable:  Tony Horwitz, "Blue Latitudes"

  

      

Tokai Shizen Hoedown: Chubu V

The Tokai Shizen Hōdō, while technically a single course, is in fact accentuated by a number of looping branches that diverge from the main trunk.  Unfortunately somebody thought it would be a clever idea to put all of these trail intersections in places that were far from any public transport, namely on the peaks of mountains.  What this meant was a fair amount of backtracking at either end of these intersections, not to mention expensive taxi rides.  

In this particular case the cab took me out a long narrow valley that culminated in an underused golf course, and a sad little zoo.  And on a morning as cold as this one, I didn't see anyone on the links, nor any sign of animals but for the frantic barking of caged dogs.  At the place where the road ended it splintered out into a number of smaller lanes, and it took a fair bit of guesswork to figure out which one.  Before long, I was able to come across a trail marker for the TSH, and following that path uphill for about ten minutes, I was able to come to the junction that I'd been looking for.  Then I turned around and went back.          

This was the first, yet for me the final, portion of the Ena Route of the TSH.  I'd walked about half of it repeatedly over the years, while leading tours along the Nakasendo,  and from there I walked south to rejoin the main eastbound path again.  After I finished my intended stretch today, I planned to return to the end of the Kansai section, and pick it up from there. 

But this section seemed almost as if it were trying to make me forego the whole thing altogether.  There are few things as uninspiring as 28km over tarmac, through bland suburb broken by tinny monuments to small industry.  Not to mention the stench coming from the paper factory coming from over the rise in Kani, which filled my nostrils every few steps. 

But I plodded on, down busy roads, beneath highway flyovers, concrete ever underfoot.  Over the course of the day, my perspective would shift to reveal the peaks of Mounts Ontake, and Hakusan and Ena, each snow covered and looming far out in the distance.  A man joined me for a short stretch, falling into step along the way to his car parked nearby.  He offered me an apple, which could have been the apple of knowledge, though I'm not sure.  We chatted awhile, and once again I was amazed that people in the countryside rarely acknowledge the fact that I'm not Japanese, and talk to me like a normal human being. 

The apple proved to be my only food for awhile, as the store I'd planned to hit up for lunch had closed years ago.   Others lay just off my route, but it would be awhile before I'd pass one closer in.  On the way there would be two hills, a narrow, sakura-lined concrete river, and a small tunnel like that from the dead platoon scene in Kurosawa's Dreams.  

I lingered over that eventual lunch, resting a pair of aching feet. My iPod is a godsend on days like this, but the battery conked out not long afterward. And my mood soured from there on, fixated upon whoever had created this route.  They had a lot to answer for, calling the section a "nature trail."

Finally, under a massive tree tied to some legend from the Heian Period,  a quaint town of Kukuri rose up on both sides to meet me.  The concrete remained, but the scenery at least was a little better, above a long, sinuous reservoir that was pretty in its own way.  The trail took an abrupt turn here, as if it too wanted to venture into the surrounding hills.  And finally, my feet found something softer beneath them.  

My mood was lifted to such an extent that I had no fear when I got to the bear.  I never saw it, but I heard its threatening huff, then the sound of its bulk crashing down the hillside.  I barely broke stride, but grew less pleased with the trail when it dropped me in the very direction that the bear had run.  Wild boar had been active here as well, the trail shredded by their foraging snouts.  

So it was with no little irony that I was happy to come to road once again.  My guidebook showed that a path would before long divert me to the right and through forest again, but the ample signage through here kept me on the fire road as it weaved down toward the valley floor.  The route must have been changed at some point.  

This was verified by a man I met along the way.  He told me that he walked this road often, and wasn't too happy when I mentioned the bear.  The stick he carried was for such possibilities, as unlikely as they were, and the way he wielded it gave me the impression that he was a martial artist.  He showed me some of the side routes that he sometimes took, telling me that they would lead me to the train station faster. But I was determined to stay with the TSH.  So we continued on, chatting as we did, though there was some sort of disjunct in the conversation, and I assumed that he spent a lot of time alone.  

When we hit the valley floor, I left him behind, and moved quickly along a small stretch of river toward Mitake station.  I knew this town well from my Nakasendo walks, had many times enjoyed its quiet temple and free museum,  and the tasty okonomiyaki at the shop run by the Korean lady who I learned had recently passed away.  No matter today, for I simply wanted to get off my sore feet, and was lucky to find a seat amongst the high school kids who knew nothing of bears, or old roads, kids who like me simply wanted to move past unpleasantness and get on to the next thing.  


On the turntable:  Eric Clapton, "Stages"

Imbibing Bibliophile #38

The Happy Isles of Oceania, by Paul Theroux

Devil Craft Tokyo Brewery,  Escape Pina Colada 

On the turntable:  Elvis Costello, "Brutal Youth"

Imbibing Bibliophile #37

The Scarlet Gang of the Asakusa, by Kawabata Yasunari

Asahi Breweries, Craftsmanship Weizen

On the turntable:  Ewan MacColl, "Scottish Drinking and Pipe Songs"

(untitled)

Seeking greater heights,
As the twilight brings
A lingering chill.

On the turntable:   Elliot Smith, "XO"

Sunday Papers: E.M. Forster

"Buddhism has died out in India, in accordance with its own law."


On the turntable:  Paul McCartney And Elvis Costello,  "The McCartney/MacManus Collaboration"
 

(untitled)

Under autumn skies,
Feet and spirit swell;
28km over hard road.

On the turntable:   Elvis Costello, "Spike"

Sunday Papers: Micheál O'Luain

"In its relationship with China, Japan was sometimes described as a “younger brother”, or as the reflective moon to China’s sun. At other times it was seen as a rival. But “China” for Japan was in reality just a construct of otherness against which, in its selective adaptation of Chinese cultural elements, Japan could measure its sense of own national identity."
  

On the turntable:  Enigma, "MCMXC a.D."

(untitled)

Circling around,
Spiraling in.
Microcosms.

On the turntable:  Fairport Convention, "Unhalfbricking"
 

Imbibing Bibliophile #36

Captain John Smith, by Charles Dudley Warner

Baird Brewery, The Craic Original Special Ale 

On the turntable:  Eels, "Beautiful Freak"

Imbibing Bibliophile #35

Botchan by Natsume Soseki

Dogo Beer, Botchan Kölsch

On the turntable:  Walter "Furry" Lewis, "Presenting the Country Blues"

(untitled)

Against the deep purple
Of crépuscule skies,
Maples, adorned.

On the turntable:  Elvis Costello, "Momofuku"

Imbibing Bibliophile #34

Wabi Sabi: For Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren

Wabi Sabi: Further Thoughts by Leonard Koren

In Praise of Shadows by Tanizaki Junichiro

Kamikatz Rise & Win Brewing Company, Pale Ale

On the turntable:  Elvis Costello, The Delivery Man"

Sunday Papers: Colette

"The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time."

On the turntable:  David Tanenbaum, "Acoustic Counterpoint" 

(untitled)

Water seeks it own level,
As the spirit seeks levels
All its own.

  

On the turntable:  Elysian Fields, "Dreams that Breathe your Name"
 

Nakasendo Waypoints #103

All that ripens
Must eventually fall.
Deepening autumn.

On the turntable:  Elvis Presley, "The King of Rock 'n' Roll"
On the nighttable:  Mike Marquesee, "Chimes of Freedom: The Politics of Bob Dylan's Art"

On the Great Eastern Road II

I stand with my back to the water.  The river is wide, and a long narrow island lies just off shore, covered with those bristly susuki reeds that symbolize autumn.  Boats used to ferry people and livestock across, but the service ended in the late 50s, after the typhoon.  The only movement out here is an elderly dog walker, who had earlier pointed me to this place.  

As I had already begun walking the Tōkaidō last spring, I decided to walk a few stretches closer to home.  Traditionally, the road had stopped across the Ibi river at Miya, and those ferried across would pick it up again here at Shichiri-no-watashi.  It seemed a good place to start the Kansai section.  

The 'shichi-ri' in the name would refer to the seven ri that it would have taken to walk, one ri being the old Chinese measure of distance, equal to how far a man could walk in an hour while carrying a full load on his back.  Ri markers still line the old roads in Japan, having been used as waypoints of sorts.  Roughly equal to 3.75 kilometers, the walker will indeed find himself passing one about once an hour.  

The morning is early.  I need to be up in Nagoya by mid-afternoon, so left before daybreak.  I look around through the sharp light of dawn, hoping to find something that tells me whether or not the old boat across still exists, even once a year on a festival day or something. Seeing nothing, I begin to move up the road, led forward by shadows.     

Kuwana is a pleasant little town, if lined by modern homes.  It makes sense, as this area got the full force of the Ise-wan Typhoon, which killed over 5000 people and flooded 80% of the town.  The typhoon is still considered the worst storm ever to strike Japan. Having lost most of their history in a single day it is little wonder that Kuwana takes such pride in what remains.  Signage is ample, as are explanatory signs along the way.  It is easy to trust in the path, and leave the eye free to take in what it bisects.  

I follow the canal system lined with power boats and crossed by small bridges.  There is a small park that has been down up as the Tōkaidō in miniature, including a mini Mount Fuji.  I am fed past multiple temples and shrines, and  even the most mundane suburban street have something to hold interest.  An old-timey toy shop has paper adverts for treasures of a pre-digital age.  

The road climbs up to an embankment and abuts the Inabe river.  An old inn still operates here, its frontage a small park.   But the boat service here too is long gone, so I cross on a wide bridge nearby.  I see an old man taking photos, surely another walker.  I'd met two others earlier on, so surely this is a popular section. Or perhaps the fine autumn weather is too perfect to loll about indoors.  

Squashed animals are becoming a theme.  I've seen a frog, a surprisingly late season centipede, and even a small turtle, which may have tried an escape from the small garden in front of a restaurant nearby.  Corpses of another sort hang in the window of an old butcher shop.  Birds above are quite active, especially along the waterways.  There are crows and cranes and egrets.  An old man in hipboots stumbles along one stream net in hand, apparently after the same lunch. 

On a poster I see the face of that Benin guy from Koko ga Hen da yo Nihonjin, a popular show from about 20 years ago.  I'm not a TV watcher, but I enjoyed that one, though I didn't trust that the editing revealed the whole truth, and was cut in a way to emphasis conflict and misunderstanding. (And over the years I've become friends with a number of Tokyo foreigners who were regulars.)  I imagine viewers went away from it with their stereotypes about foreigners even more firmly entrenched.  The Beninese was particularly volatile, yet bizarrely enough went on to become Ambassador to Japan.     Spying his face got me thinking about the nature of foreign "talent" in Japan, and how I've been seeing the same handful of faces for over twenty years, perpetual one-hit wonders who linger about as if they are playing the county fair circuit.  I remember an old interview with Dave Spector from back in the 80s, him saying that he'd do anything for fame.  and would even play a panda if asked.  Perfectly apt for a black and white worldview.  

I notice that there are another of historical signs for the ruins of temples,in a far greater percentage as you would normally see.  I imagine that these must have been victims of the suppression of Buddhism at the end of the feudal era, and were particularly acute here due to the proximity to Ise Grand Shrine, the most important symbol of Japanese mythmaking.  Much like that shrine is reconstructed every 20 years, Japan too completely recreated itself culturally, and much of what we (and the Japanese themselves) think of as being ancient traditions were actually adopted at that time.  The temples, and the foreign religion of Buddhism, no longer had a place.

I cross the last of my rivers, of which there were many.  The Tōkaidō may have been Japan's principle old feudal road, but it with all the river crossings it would have been unreliable, especially during rainy seasons or typhoons.  My own progress has been much quicker, although impeded by gusty breezes that have built over the last hour.  I decide to shorten my walk by a few kilometers.  The last stretch takes me through an old shopping arcade, whose mascot seems to be some strange monk with an elongated neck.  (I find out later that this is Onyudo, a malevolent spirit know across Japan, though here in Yokkaichi he brings good luck in business and as such is celebrated by a festival.)   As I leave this renowned shape-shifter behind, I make my way toward the train station, to undertake my own metamorphasis into tour leader, for a group awaits me at Nagoya station.  This morning walk had served me well, a modest 18 kilo stroll to get the legs back in action after two months kicked up in leisure.    
      
On the turntable:  Elton John, "Friends (sdtk)"
 

Imbibing Bibliophile #33

Gaijin by James Clavell

Matsumoto Brewery, Castle Stout

On the turntable:  Elton John, "Honky Chateau"

Sunday Papers: John Blofeld

"I [believe] that the power which certain places have of evoking a mood of intense spirituality stems chiefly from the atmosphere created by the pious thoughts, high aspirations and ardent prayers of generations of pilgrims who have come to those places century after century with deep faith in their hearts."  


On the turntable:  John Mayall's Bluebreakers, "Bluesbreaking"

(untitled)

Searching for another way,

As autumn settles in.

East Trunk Road.

On the turntable:  Elliot Smith, "From a Basement on the Hill"

Sunday Papers: Sandy Boucher

"An epic novel lies unwritten in the Benares train station."

On the turntable:  Eric Clapton, "Crossroads"