Kumano Kōdō XIX: Nisaka-tōge

   
The wind off the sea conned me into believing that I'd finally escaped the heat of summer.  But just a few minutes outside the station I was enwrapped once again by the wet blanket that is August. I'm not sure what expectations I'd had for this express train stop, but Kii-Nagashima had no coin lockers, and much more tragic, no taxis.  I was able to store my bag at a shop selling milk across the road, but that didn't solve the problem of transport. So it was, I walked briskly through town with head down, out to the main bypass in the hopes of hitching a lift.  Along the way, a crab matched my step, a little sphere of red, white claws raised at my ankles. 

I raised my own appendage at the oncoming traffic.  It was the perfect spot to catch a ride, with a large turnout behind me, and about 100 meters before a traffic signal.  Despite this, I stood watching a few dozen cars pass, the driver inevitably with a bemused smile.  I've griped about Mie before, and its lack of decent signage.  I'll extend the metaphor that a lack of signs implies a certain lack of hospitality, an unwillingness to assist those from outside the community.  Here it was playing out in people's unwillingness to assist me.  As I was beginning to wonder if the increase of foreign tourists was leading to a circle-the-wagons mentality with the locals, a white kei truck skidded to a halt in the dirt behind me.

Those who stop for hitchers tend to fall into a interesting dichotomy: either old and kind, or young and a little bit rough, having fallen through the cracks of Japan's well-oiled society.  My driver was of the latter sort, his truck reeking of cigarettes, and an open can of Chu-hi was in close reach. But even guys like this tend to be somewhat shy. I was with him for only ten minutes or so, and it took him at least half that to warm up to asking questions.  His beat-up little work truck too had a difficult time getting going, straining upward toward the pass with a high pitched complaint.  He told me that his father-in-law had helped build this road 50 years before, no doubt tough work, in an area known for its stubborn weather.   

I walked back up the way we'd come.  It was pretty easy going, the degree of the climb barely noticeable.  My legs had an easier time of it than the truck had earlier.  I finally left the main road, down a parallel path that led to an abandoned love hotel, with roman statues keeping sentry at the entrances.  The road becomes forest, and I was not long down the moss-cover path before I saw a sign pointing toward the grave of a pilgrim.  I followed a side trail toward it, coming to a rickety bridge that bounced as I crossed, allowing me to draw immediate parallels with the film Sorcerer that I'd seen a couple of nights before. (Spookily, my camera seized up and prevented me from getting a photo.) I hoped then that the grave referred to the past, and not to my own unsuspecting fate. 

The grave was a small stone many centuries old, yet its proximity to the road just above let me muse that the pilgrim could have been the victim of hit and run.  I had my own near miss back on the main path, as a long snake darted out of the way of my encroaching legs.  I didn't get a good look at it, but soon enough, mamushi warning signs greeted me at the trailhead for the pass. Similar signs are ubiquitous throughout Japan, but this one had the best likeness of the viper that I'd ever sign.  The sign was one of a literal forest of signs, close to a dozen, in a relatively minor site.  I was immediately reminded of Alex Kerr's warning about Japan's love of signs, 'helping' tourists to stay within the acceptable channels of omotenashi.  

The trail dropped, dropped, dropped immediately, which worried me as I had a pass to cross.  Eventually I began to see those mountain signs with fractions (the locals love to mark of the increments during a climb), and realized that I'd been heading down, and the pass itself had been marked with all those wonderful signs, barring one telling me that exact point, and the height for that matter.  All that remained then was this descent through the forest.  I was beginning to wish I'd brought my trekking poles, especially as I was now hiking a steep trail slick with rain.  I'd earlier seen one of those pole boxes that exist near trail heads, but this one had been empty, something I'd never seen before, a testament to the fact that most people hike it in the same direction I was, the reverse well known as being tougher.   So I went on without poles or rain gear, this being a pretty impromptu trip.  Most of my intended walks this week would be over tarmac, and my choice of shoes and gear reflected that.     

I came to a scenic overlook of the sea, all below me lit up with sun.  Not long afterward, I came to a choice of trails, one from the Meiji, the other from the older Edo.  The former took a long meandering zigzag down the mountain face, while the older road more or less led straight down.   They were hardier folks back then.  

I reached the bottom, and was immediately among rice fields.  As I was fiddling with my gear, a farmer drove past, shirtless in the heat.  Where the fields left off I found a michi-no-eki, which offered shark meat grilled on a skewer.  I took a few and sat beneath a tree at the water's edge, the scent of the muddy estuary rising up. In a few days it would disappear, beneath the surging water of the encroaching typhoon.  Earlier, an announcement came over the loudspeaker far off, warning the residents to prepare.

The road led through a small village, many of the house with anti-Abe signs in their windows. This progressive attitude couldn't save the place itself, and it felt as if one in every three had been abandoned.  One house was currently being used as a boat shed, the prows extending out from the broken glass of what had once been a living room.  There were also some strange bricked up caves in a high stone wall at the foot of the hills, and I wondered if they had been used during wartime.  

Back at the station, I had two hours until my train, so I settled in at a coffee joint that doubled as a folk house at night.  The master was a funky character, with his beard and sunglasses and hipster way of talking.  I only partially allowed myself to be drawn into conversation, preferring to escape to a quieter place with my book.  

I'd prove to be more pliable that night. I learned of an izakaya from the tourist burueau, and it proved to be a good choice, with an ample choice of sake, about which the friendly master was willing to enthusiastically explain.  Two of his classmates were there, a pair of working men in their sixties, who drew me into conversation.  As is often the case with Japanese men, one will be chatty and exuberant, the other smiley but saying little. This went on a while before I was invited for one more glass at a bar nearby.  It turned out to be a snack bar, my first visit to one in at least two decades.  The girls, the guests, and the mama-san were of course surprised at my appearance, but I was amenable and allowed myself to play pet gaijin, a role I usually hate.  Once the usual round of questions ended, the mikes came out, and I was of course expected to sing English.  And a few others followed suit, one song even sung in Tagalog.  It was a fun evening of sorts, but one I can probably go another two decades to repeat.  The pouring of alcohol was a bit too free, as were the inhibitions of the customers. (And I am never comfortable being pampered by the staff.)  Loneliness tends to hang over these kind of places, and I prefer to spend my loneliness alone.  


On the turntable:  Bob Marley, "The Birth of a Legend"