Hokkaido, Twice Return

In the seventeen years since I'd last been to Hokkaido, I've learned a lot about this nation Japan's forests.  I've grown accustomed to the monoculture of Honshu, to that of Kansai in particular.  Here the trees stand straight and lined up as if waiting for a train.   How wonderful then the natural forests of the northern island, anarchically dense and lush and filled with life. 

I co-led two tours there in June and July, falling in love with the both this density and the lack of it, in the spreading farms that recalled the equally beloved spaces of New Mexico and the American West.

So it was that just off the plane on my second visit,  I found myself cursing the residents of the small towns stretching south from Memombetsu, the hillsides above planted thick with cedar.  It was the most Japanese vision of both trips. 

I've often talked about how one can truly feel the gods in the forests and mountains of Japan.  But Hokkaido wasn't the palpable land of the kami. This was something else, something more intimidating.  Here the kami have sharper teeth. 

I revisited many of the same mountains that I'd hiked sixteen years ago.  And I further stretched my legs into some of the deeper, more remote reaches, namely into Daisetsuzan National Park, whose week-long traverse still beckons after the rains of 1997.  

On the first day, under skies bright with sun despite the falling rain, atmospheric conditions most suitable for foxen nuptuals, I watched one of these creatures appear as if on cue, as a group of tourists nearly tipped their bus over as they rushed to one side to snap photos. 

I met many more foxes, and birds, and wildflowers.  I became enamored with the red hues of Ezo pines, a love that nearly rivals that of my beloved buna. 

And on the last day, my plane traces the west coast of Honshu as it heads south, offering me an overhead view of my 1997 marathon route along the Sea of Japan, and those remote places -- Sado, Dewa Sanzan, Noto Peninsula -- that have shared their magic and joy many times since.   

The teeth of the kami can also be revealed in a welcoming smile.

On the turntable: "The Rough Guide to Boogaloo"
On the nighttable:  Donald Richie, "The Inland Sea"

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa XI (Miyako)

March 5, 2003

Ohhhh....  Horrid hangover on the champuru of beer, chardonnay, and awamori. (Even now in 2013, it still ranks as the worst I've ever had.)   The hotel owner rang me at 8:30 to come down for breakfast, but I could only muster up the strength to eat a little rice, the kiwi, and a few bites of oily fish.  But after the cold rice and that dead fish eye looking up at me, I went back upstairs and lay down for a couple more hours.

I met Anzei at 11 o'clock, and we headed out into the sticks, sugar cane fields absolutely everywhere, a few of them with terraced walls like a Japanese castle.  We wandered out to the end of the Higashihenzaki,  the China Sea to the left, Pacific to the right, both different in color.  Just offshore was a perfectly circular reef, a few jagged teeth sticking out of the water.  Porous stones dotted the brilliant green grass, soft and smooth as a putting green.  I went to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the crags below before I was driven back by the vertigo that has accompanied me since my son's death.  

A few kilometers away was Yoshino Beach, with supposedly the best snorkeling in Japan.  The reef here is shallow, close in, and the fish come up quickly.  I wanted to swim badly, but even watching the swells made me feel nauseous.  On the beach was a large rock perfectly shaped like a chair, so I sat there awhile allowing the wind and the sun (which had finally made an appearance) work on my hangover.  The sea here was glorious.

At the edge of the beach was a tarp-covered shelter built of driftwood. Oji-san had been living there for a couple of years.  Born Take-san, he was more artist than homeless,  making things from the coral, glass, and wood that the sea had given him.  He had amazing sense, able to visualize a use for the shapes that he saw in the sand. His hut was lined with these things, bordering the books and photos laying around.   A single pitch-black kettle hung over an open fire, one of his "students" boiling water by blowing through a bamboo tube.  His feet were as black as the kettle.  There were a few people living with him, including one girl from Sapporo who was staying for a few days, sitting there polishing a piece of wood in order to make a self-massager.   

As we sat on styrofoam floaters, he put the two of us to work, mixing straps of string and coral, looping one end around our big toe, left hand pulling taut, the right hand working the string around and around.  His left hand shook violently as he worked.  (Jeff later told me that he was pretty sick with Minamata disease.  The city suggested that he enter the hospital, but he felt that he could relax better out here.)  He gave me some noodles, but with my bad stomach I couldn't really manage it.  He finished them for me, not wanting to waste anything.  Looking around, that point was obvious.  Some people might see junk.  I saw a man living his bliss.

Anzei and I spent the rest of the day driving toward places but never really arriving.  The day sort of flowed by.  There were an incredible amount of roads for such a small island.  Judging by the many construction projects I saw, I think that the local government had an inflated sense of the value of this island's attractions.  Forget the tourists, let the locals live their way, and most people would come simply to appreciate this.  

As Anzei and I drove around, we talked about her life on Miyako.  She had lived in the States for five or six years, studying various kinds of dance, before coming back last fall in order to work on some choreography, and to focus on belly dancing.  She, like most I've met in the Ryukyus, was a very spiritual person.  We talked a lot on spiritual matters, but I got little insight into local beliefs.  She smiled as I clapped my hands at random utaki.  But I didn't feel the power of the gods here like I had on Okinawa.  This flat island, though incredibly beautiful with its cane fields and clean beaches, didn't offer much to me.

We drove over to Kurima Island, the third I'd been on in two days.  Anzei told me the story of a woman visited at night by a handsome man.  She put a needle in his kimono and later followed the thread to find a large snake, but she had already already impregnated by him with triplets.  Hence the three islands.  (So do the recently built bridges represent the snake?) 

We stopped off at Maebara, called the best beach in Japan, the water emerald green, the sand soft as flour.  It was the first time all day that my hangover had subsided enough for me to swim, but by then the clouds had come back over, so we merely stayed on the beach and ate ice cream.  The only person in the water was a guy with what looked like a reverse parasail.  Standing on the water with short skis, he'd be pulled along by his small, crescent-shaped parachute, rising and spinning in the air before being slapped back down on the water.  I watched a long time, trying to figure out how he was controlling the thing. 

Back in my room, I slept from four to six, then met Jeff at seven.  He had ditched work, and wore a disguise as we went to a restaurant at the center of town.  Both tired and hungover, we ate quietly.  It was the first food I'd been able to get down today.  I had tried my usual strategy of eating to get on top of the hangover, but nothing seemed appealing.  Even after eating a fair amount of really good food, I went back to my room by nine, and was in bed by ten...



March 6, 2003

...as there was a little sun, I went to the beach.  This close to the harbor, the water though clear wasn't as inviting as the other places I'd seen.  After about thirty minutes, it clouded over again, so I gave up.  

At the airport, I ate my last goya champuru for awhile.  Due to the heavy rain,  we were two hours late taking off.  When my plane arrived, people coming from Ishigaki disembarked, and I was amazed at the beauty of their faces, looking almost nothing like Japanese and more like the Islanders further to the south, but with the big eyes and hooked noses of the European, perhaps Portuguese.   We lifted off through one layer of cloud into a patch of clear air, then into more cloud.  It was like an empty sandwich.  Far below us, another plane matched out speed, cutting the tops off clouds...



On the turntable:  Sneaker Pimps, "Splinter Instrumentals"

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa X (Miyako)

March 4, 2003

I had hoped the waves would make us late, but we were awoken at 3:50a.m., twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule.  None of the disembarking passengers were young, so all the college students I'd seen would get to sleep until Ishigaki.

I walked away from the ship, following a few people into the darkness, backlit by the headlights of huge forklifts moving containers around.  It was a little like Close Encounters.   When I hit the island proper, I walked up the main street in a drizzle, thinking about where to catch some more sleep.  Somehow I found myself right next to my hotel.  There was a man in the genkan getting ready to board the ship I just left.  The door opened, and I dropped onto a sofa in the lobby...  Around six, I surprised the owner.  She kindly let me check in early, and I was able to sleep in my own room until nine.

I hopped a boat through choppy, rainy waters over to Irabu.  The fifteen minute ride was quite fun, like something in an amusement park. Until my coffee dropped into my lap.  On the far side, no one seemed to know where Senningama was, so after a free cuppa, I went back to Miyako.  Over and back within the hour.  With the lousy weather, there was nothing to do but the laundry.

I found an utaki right across from my hotel.  A temple nearby had a wonderfully technicolor garden, or at least the remains of one.  Below the adjacent shrine, a pretty girl petting a dog didn't return my greeting.  Despite my better judgment, I lunched at A&W, then strolled around, looking into shops, but nothing in Hirara interested me.  I did find an utaki, completely overgrown with busy birds.  Here, as before, was evidence of recent activity, probably a day earlier.  There were dozens more nearer the water, around graves and below the overhang of cliffs.  I followed them out of town, clapping and bowing every couple of minutes.  The last one was in a park, next to three hollowed-out, colorfully painted canoes.  A boat called Nirai Kanai was moored nearby.

I walked through the sugar cane fields past the occasional house.  An old farmer saved me from the light rain, driving me the last kilometer or so to Sunayama Beach.  On sunny days this beach would be breathtaking, but today the surf was angry, not inviting.  A cove lined up beautifully with the north point of Irabu.  A few utaki pointed out caves in the rocks and vice versa.  I wondered how pro climbers would do on these sharp, porous walls with their great overhangs above the swells.  A sign warned me of the possibility of sharks and jellyfish.  I later found out a surfer had been killed here the previous year.

I headed further on up the road and through an immense area torn up by construction.  Whatever was going up would be huge.  I passed through a small village and was picked up at its far end.  The driver was going all the way to the north end of the island.  It turned out that he knew Yuki and probably Jeff, two friends who years ago had lived in Yonago. The country got wilder heading north, mostly overgrown jungle.  We crossed a long four kilometer bridge to Ikema-jima.  Even in this cloudy weather, I could see down to the sea floor.  The darker reefs and long blue channel looked like patchwork, bordered by small farms cultivating seagrapes.  

I was let off in the middle of a village, but had no idea where I was going.  I asked a couple of people, then finally at the post office.  I wandered through the village's narrow lanes, the stormy seas banging off the reef beyond.  I walked along a sea wall, passing two old men and an inquisitive dog. The former were smacking balls back and forth across a field in a sport that looked nothing like gateball.  (Does an elderly person smile slightly when asked to join a game for the first time?  The youth of this country make fun of the game. When does it become cool?)  

As I approached Raza Cosmica, I saw a bearded guy drive out of the driveway and wave as he passed.  The house was a huge adobe structure with turrets, sitting on a hill high above the sea.  The backyard was walled in with a few chairs for lounging.  There looked to be no place to get coffee and when I asked the woman if I could have a look at the inside, she refused.  Twice today I had traveled long distances to see nothing.  I sulked back to the bus stop and climbed aboard.  

We took a roundabout route down the east coast, a few of the villages containing many old buildings.  I also didn't really mind the one story concrete boxes with verandas on top.  This has become my image of an island house.  People were finishing work in the cane fields this late in the afternoon.  Crushed and broken stalks littered the roads, and each one we passed tricked me into thinking it was a dreaded habu.  Off the coast a bit was Ogamijima, with its 20 residents.  I wanted to go, but found out that only women can enter the island's utaki.

Back in Hirara, I chilled out a bit, then met up with Jeff at 7 o'clock.  He lived in a former dive shop, very wide with two raised platforms, the one on the right contained his bed, and the other had a long wooden sofa along the perimeter, with a book shelf above.  To one side was a small alcove with CDs and a stereo, like a DJ's booth.  It all looked made from a single piece of wood.  Everywhere was decorated with batik.  I had met Jeff in Yonago about 9 years before.  His girlfriend Yuki had lived there, and Jeff would come up for frequent visits from Kobe.  I was dating an America woman who had also been living there, and after the earthquake both she and Jeff had been made refugees, so they both spent a lot of time in Yonago that winter, and the four of us hung out a fair bit.  I hadn't seen Jeff since about that time, but he welcomed me without hesitation when I'd called a week before.  

We ate at an izakaya, then as we were leaving, heard music coming from a small bar up a nearby alley. The bar was closed, but a few of Jeffs's friend were inside, rehearsing for an anti-war rally in Naha.  The singer's Dylan imitation was dead on.  We had a beer as they worked through a few tunes.   
Back at Jeff's, a few people had gathered for their weekly poker night.  I merely watched, choosing to instead play a small djembe in time to the music.  Tired after a long day, I started to make my way back to my hotel just before midnight, but was intercepted at the door by Anzei, a local girl who had the look of a hippie.  Just then her friend arrived, another hippie girl just back from Jamaica.  Thus started an adventure of being dragged around town for three blurry hours.  I do remember doing karaoke somewhere.  I also remember playing congas on stage with a local band somewhere else, as Anzei a trained dancer, spun and gyrated around the floor....


On the turntable:  Steve Reich,  "City Life"

   

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa IX

March 3, 2003

On this, my last day on Okinawa, Keiko showed up early, with Paul in tow.  We headed south in Paul's van, listening to a Ryukyu Underground CD that I had.  Keiko seemed to hate it.  She said that the vocals were merely used as instrumentation and were fragmented.  All Okinawa songs tell a story, but here it wasn't allowed to unfold.  The soul had been removed.

Our first stop was Seifa Utaki, an immense system of trails cross-crossing one another and deeper into the jungle.  The first part was drone-lined and befitting its World Heritage status, but after a large grove, the trails began to spider web outward. I felt like I was walking in the Land of the Lost.  At any moment, I expected a dinosaur to pop out.  I followed my instincts, coming to a few places I "felt," including a small grove overhung by a tree like a weeping willow.  A little beyond this, over a small ridge was an old castle.  Before it were three small altars, on each for river, woman, and fire.  A little further along was man, and further still, river again.  I took another fork and came to a tomb, a cave walled shut with large stones.  

Meeting Paul and Keiko again down below, they led me to a triangle cut through the rock.  Paul told me to pray, then look left and see what I could do. I passed through, bowing right, center, and left, looking up and across at Kudaka.  This altar was for people who couldn't make the trip, as at Nakagusuku. I think Paul's priming made me look hard, but I didn't see anything. However, my attention kept focusing upward, to the rocks and ridge above.  When I looked at Paul and Keiko, they were smiling and Paul said, "Let's go."  We made the short climb, past a habu warning sign.  On top was a small area nestled between two higher crops.  One had an altar facing Kudaka, and behind it was a small mirror to catch the sun rising over the island.  Paul felt they had once started fires from the reflection in order to cook the morning meal.  Again, his asking what I saw ensured I saw nothing.  I was thinking, rather than intuiting.  However, two stone formations on the beach far below seemed to suggest a road.  Paul said that some people saw a road go all the way out to Kudaka.  All I saw were cloud reflections moving across the water.

We drove along the coast and down to the shore at Ukinzu Hainzu, a small grove containing two springs.  Someone had cordoned off a section of stream leading from one of the springs and had planted rice.  The color and features were different than on Honshu.  Near the spring on the right were two large stones where the mythical horse god landed when he leapt from Kudaka.  Again, my attention was drawn upward.  And again Paul asked,  "Do you want to go?"  We followed the trail up, and where it forked I went left, going up to the main road.  It was my first miss of the day, but I wan't getting much of a "read" here.  We returned to the fork and went right, leading to another sealed off cave tomb.  Paul told me that he'd once seen a white horse here, and another time, Ebisu.  For him, the power was strong.  While we were talking, I noticed that what I had thought was part of a conch shell, just as there had been at the tomb in Seifa Utaki.  Looking closer, I saw the cracks and coloration of cremated bone, obviously a hip.  A rock had been removed from the wall, and looking through the opening, we saw a box richly decorated with shisa and Chinese figures.  A large pot stood broken to one side, and behind a small wall was a skull.  According to the sign, this was the grave of a warrior, no doubt the top local guy.  I suddenly went cold, terrified to be near a desecrated grave, so we fled.         

We had a quick lunch at Hanabe Chaya, a cafe set on the beach, all tables facing the sea.  At high tide, the water must come right up to the tables on the lowest deck.  Today at low tide, I walked out on the stones, finding two utaki below the cliffs.

We got doused on the drive back to Naha, watching the storm come in like a wave to break atop us.  Two bicycle riders who we passed earlier would be drenched soon.  Our last stop of the day was Okinogu, where we found dozens of kaminchu finishing their rituals for the first new lunar month.  Since they were delayed by the rain, we were able to join them.  

First, we prayed inside the shrine.  It was a long prayer, during which it felt like someone was stroking my head on the right side like a cat.  As the prayer finished, it felt like the floor bounced slightly below me.  Keiki, Paul, and I got up to give an offering.  Downstairs we prayed twice, once inside, once out.  I was scolded for having my foot on a grate, and I never learned why.  There were four nuru here, one of which was a bit gimpy and incredibly old, but moved unbelievably quickly with her cane.  The three that I'd met the other day all wished me a good trip, one of them then asked me to translate a book about this very shrine.

I said farewell to Paul, then Keiko took me to the ferry terminal, losing her way, of course.  I asked her if her father (one of the top Okinawan musicians of all time) liked Champloose's music.  She told me that he hadn't at first, but it had grown on him.  She said that musicians who start with an Okinawa background can create successful musical hybrids, but those from outside the islands, such as Ryukyu Underground, or a pair of Ainu who we'd heard on another of my CDs, sounded fake or disjunct.  Keiko had often put down Hirayasu Takashi's voice, but he really had the feel for the music, she conceded. 

We ate soba at the ferry terminal, both of us tired and not talking much.  She'd gotten a lot of sun this week, and I'd begun to notice that she'd been wearing more makeup on stage in order to hide it.  We said a quick goodbye, and off she went.

I took a shuttle about two hundred meters to the ship.  Most of the passengers were college students on spring break.  The two drunkest shared my room, naturally.  Later the snores of at least three of them made a riotous symphony.  I stood out on deck, watching Naha recede.  A plane took off directly over us.  The winds crushed me against the rail and when we cleared port, I went in.  As I wrote in my journal, an old man gave me two cans of beer then walked off without expecting any conversation in return.  Almost everyone on board was drinking, and could barely walk on the violently pitching ship.  I imagined what their stomachs were doing.  As it was, the ship had already reeked of vomit when we boarded, and one room near mine was suspiciously sealed shut.  Back in my room, a single guy watched TV with everyone else slept.  A noisy show blared six feet from my head.  Unable to sleep due to this, I lay there fuming, until a half-hour later I noticed that he'd gone to sleep without switching it off.  I decided that if the ship's rolling got so bad that I had to vomit, I knew along which trajectory it would fly.  I scolded another guy for smoking.  When I'm tired...

Not like I could sleep anyway.  Before going to bed, I went back on deck to stare into the piching darkness.  I thought I saw another plane taking off, but it was the light of another boat out on the horizon, rising high in the air, then down below the rail.   We must've looked the same to him.  Lying in my bunk was less nauseating than siting up.  But here too, all was in motion.  It it been a simple side to side, it would've been like lying in a hammock.  But we seemed to be moving in all direction, at irregular intervals.  Sometimes we'd be teetering at a precarious angle, other times we'd smack into a trough. I could hear the captain working the engines, accelerating and decelerating us through the angry water.  Twice I was slammed into the wall.  Somewhere off, I heard the sound of someone puking.  Somehow though, I found sleep.



On the turntable:  Natalie Merchant, "The House Carpenter's Daughter"


 

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa VIII

March 2, 2003

I awoke far too early, so I trod the well-worn path to Starbucks, where I talked with a heavy-set man jumpy from too much coffee.  Then I killed time at Rainbow Tree until Keiko showed up.  We headed south for the first time, through countryside that looked much like I expected, of low grassy mountains sweeping down to tropical vegetation that led to clear water.  Houses of two stories with concrete verandas.  Along the way, I was happy to spot a center dedicated to I-ching study.  

Our destination was a home in a small village below a couple of triangular peaks.  There were about a dozen people milling about, across a span of four generations.  The men and the older women had just finished the sugar cane harvest for the morning.  After lunch, they'd head back out there.  We were going out to Kudaka-jima, taking along two little girls and a young woman.  After her mother, Keiko's classmate, had killed herself, Keiko essentially adopted her.  Though they spoke Japanese, the word 'mommy' punctuated sentences occasionally.    

We made the quick crossing to Kudaka in about 30 minutes.  I stood at the rail, wind and spray splashing my face.  I watched the coral pass beneath the churning wake, before the water color darkened with depth.  We passed around a reef, then went over.  The island was rocky, the coral cliffs nearest the shore scooped out by millions of waves.  We drove up through a village of old, weather-worn homes, the wood and roof tiles bleached nearly white.  The yards themselves were lined by walls made of porous volcanic rock.  Beyond the village was a single road that led out into the jungle.  After only about five minutes, we reached Kudaka's far end.  Here the beach was rocky, waves breaking right below us.  I jumped down onto the smooth white stones, the water slightly cold, running up to my calves.  Some of the rock formations behind me were stunning, one having been hollowed out with a small window showing the blue sky above. 

 I frolicked around awhile, then we drove to the island's eastern side.  Getting out, we followed a path leading through the forest to the beach.  Here the sand was round, with a very unusual texture.  It was smoother and felt cold.  I walked along what must've once been the sides of coral reefs, but were now blackened and highlighted by the green of lichen and fern.  Back on the road, we passed a farmer in his bean fields, someone who Keiko had known. Long ago, Shokichi had spent a few years living out here, which made obvious the fact that he'd been touched by the gods. Keiko too often came out here to pray, and every New Year she'd go house to house playing sanshin.  No doubt she knew everyone.  

We walked out a jungle trail to Ishiki Beach. A small utaki was off to the right.  This island is considered Okinawa's garden of Eden, and it was here at Ishiki Beach that the gods enter.  An utaki on the beach was in line with a large flat stone midway out the reef.  Beyond that, Keiko told me, was Nirai Kanai, Okinawa's paradise, a place that people can't see, but some can feel.  I knelt on the beach in front of the utaki and did kokyu meditations for heaven, earth, and man.  When I finished, turning around, I found a small piece of coral resembling a bear claw, which I took as a connection with my meeting the Ainu bear god.  I asked Keiko if it was okay to take it from here, and she said it was if I felt it was.  To be safe, we asked the farmer again, who was one of the few male shamen.  He said that only round stones were taboo, since they were used for rituals at the main shrine in the village. 

It was to here that we returned, a place where only women are allowed to worship.  We drove around, through the incredibly narrow rock lined lanes. (I noticed that all the cars had scratches down both sides.)  Keiko pointed out Shokichi's house among the others.  After a bowl of soba that we wolfed down in three minutes, we crossed back to Okinawa.  

 I learned another valuable lesson there.  Ishiki Beach was probably the place that I had most wanted to visit, to sense its power.  However Kaberu Beach, the first place we stopped, was also sacred, yet I hadn't known. Keiko said that I behaved as if I had known.  It seemed to me that it didn't matter if someone before us had drawn inspration from a certain place.  While it was important to pay our respects, it should be or own hearts which led us, finding places with meaning to ourselves as we go along though life.  While guides were important, it was only ourselves who could walk the path.  Nonetheless, the kaminchu hadn't felt the presence of the gods for a couple of years, causing major concern about what calamities might be in store. 

We stopped again at Keiko's "daughter's" house, where one by one the men filled in, having finished the day's work.  They cleaned up and sat down with a beer.  The women cooked, the children studied and played, the old women sat and cackled.  The conversation flowed on its own, then as is common, the TV came on and guided it for us.  I had seen this scene played out dozens of times, in Kumano, Daito, Oki.  However, here it happens every Sunday, not only on holidays.  And the faces too were different, almost Native American, in this house in a sun-bleached village between the mountains and the sea.

Back on Kokusai-dori, I went to a diner whose motif was America in the 50's.  Movie posters and star's photos lined the walls, including Ernie Pyle, who had been killed on a beach so far away from here.   After a cheeseburger and a beer, I was back at Rainbow Tree, talking again to Paul and a couple of others.  They had had a rough night apparently , and were starting in again, well ahead of me.  They complained about US foreign policy, and how it could be argued that it had contributed to up to 8 million deaths during the '90's.   Other nations were lining up against us,  carrion to feed on the empire in decline.

I was late to Chakra, and for Champloose.  Shokichi was missing, so we were in for an different show altogther, with the three women members of the band on vocals, "Hana" with Keiko on the lead, and the guitarist on piano.  It just didn't have the same power, but it was nice to experience a different vibe.  SHokichi showed up later to play a stripped down set, punctuated by talks about his daytrip to Hiroshima.  Next, Keiko played drums as Takao ripped on sanshin.  Keiko claimed that he was the best sanshin player in the world, her father's candle having passed Shokichi by.  

We went upstairs once again, and I met Jeff, an Oceanographer who had been working with the Navy for over 35 years.  He made a perpetual loop around Asia , nine months a year away from his disintegrating family.  We were joined by Chika and Hiromi, the latter surprising me with her English.  After awhile I began translating for Jeff, carefully editing out his stereotyping of Asian women, and his rants against the English.  He seemed like a nice guy, but his views were long dated.  His light touching of cultures, while enviable, was never intense enough to teach him anything.  I felt like I was talking to a character in a pre-war novel.  I did learn one interesting thing from him.  Near Yonaguni there is a pyramid beneath the sea.  No one knows whether or not it is man-made, but it seems too perfect to be natural.  It is now a prime dive spot.

I talked a while with Sachiko, who up until now I'd seen as the bad sister, and who intimidated me a little. In reality, she was a little shy and not so comfortable with conversation.  And once again, Tomoko tried to get me drunk on Awamori.

Keiko and I left around 1:30, but she was intercepted by a woman who wanted to talk business.  We followed her to her shop, a new karaoke place just opened that night.  I declined food and drink and grew more and more irritable and sleepy.  The woman who I had at first taken for 30, in better light showed her age as a weathered beauty.  She was the first Okinawan I'd met who seemed fake in her politeness, and just wouldn't shut up.  I finally got home after 3:00, again kicking myself for not having gone back an hour earlier.  While I'd always loved playing and watching live music, I'd never really liked this nocturnal world and its unnaturalness, and I felt strongly that I didn't want to get used to it.



On the turntable:  Santana, "Salsa, Samba, and Santana"

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa VII

March 1, 2003

Up a little early, I wandered over to Sōgen-ji temple ruins, a single wall with three arches, the middle one leading up stone steps to a grassy knoll where the Hondo had once stood.  Now there was a magnificent tree, twisted and gnarled, a tropical manifestation of Indra's net.  I moved on toward Rainbow Tree Cafe, where I met up with a local English teacher who had been teaching here about four months, fresh off a few years on the road.  He and I shared many ideas, bouncing the conversation ball around for a couple of hours.  Keiko arrived around 2 pm.

We had a quick lunch at A&W, finding yet again that my affinity for eating greasy American fast food garbage is only in my head, as my body violently opposes every time.  Heavy heavy rain, huge drops visible in the air, rivers flowing down the windshield. 

 When we arrived at Nakagusuku, it stopped, leaving us unmolested as we walked the grounds.  It was built up on four levels, and due to its state of ruin, it was one of the more interesting castles I'd seen.  Cracks were in all the corners, with the roots of trees finding their inspiration in besiegers centuries dead.  The tops of the walls too were battered and uneven.  Below, a group of nuru prayed to a spot beyond the broken walls.  I asked Keiko to what specifically were they praying, and she said that it is the individual's particular sense that guides them to a spot where the kami dwell.  She pointed at the ruins of a hotel standing on adjacent grounds.  After raising the public ire at a Japanese company for attempting to build on this sacred land, the company went under before the hotel had even been completed.  As always, the gods get the last word. 

We wandered around awhile, stopping at a half dozen utaki along the way.  One was for Kudaka, for the people who couldn't actually make it to the island itself.  Keiko was happy to find places she'd never seen since, again seeming glad to have met me.  As we walked past the hotel, I had a revelation about Japan.  During the Meiji period, with the rise of state Shinto, the gods had fled.  Early successes against Russia and China were fueled by the remaining energy. The war years and the blind run toward materialism were acts of a godless people.  The current economic decline was proof that the gods are back, leading the wise to seek new (old) ways of living.  After eight years in Japan, it took a  trip to Okinawa to discover this.     

Next, we went to Nakamura-ke, an old house in a traditional style.  Keiko narrated things to me based on her own experience growing up in a similar (though poorer) place.  I like the idea of living on Okinawa, but walking through the house I felt sad that there weren't more like it.  Most buildings I'd seen were new, Japan having down little to preserve local tradition.  Mountains and beaches aside, I found the towns and cities to be visually unappealing.  But perhaps I've been looking with Japanese eyes.

Back in Naha, I went over to Earthnik, a shop that was part of a project focused on simple and natural living.  Over a local curry, I again chatted with a beautiful older woman.  What's was going on with me this week?

Then to Chakra yet again, sitting toward the back with family and friends.  I was sitting with two older women,who tried to get me drunk on awamori, but I resisted as much as possible.  Unlike a couple of nights before, Shokichi had once again found his mojo, and the band was grooving with a different energy, really pumping.  "Haisai" brought the Saturday night crowd to its feet, and seemed extended. The drummer in particular was on fire.  Tonight's crowd seemed different too, more tourists, plus a few business types looking uptight during Shokichi's monologues.

Keiko played a solo set next, and the two old women and I got up to dance.  One of them, a dance teacher, taught me simple hand movements to the kacharsee.  Back at our table, we were joined by Shokichi's best friend.  He was drunk, but had some amazing English.  Being old friends, they thoroughly ribbed each other, one of the old women saying that this guy Y-san was a burden on Shokichi.  I quickly replied that being burdened was a measure of true friendship, and they all quietly agreed.  

We moved upstairs for some live jazz, a piano and bass duo were joined occasionally by a buxom singer.  I sat in one drums on one song, extremely self-conscious about where to put the fills.  Despite this, I got a solo (more like a half-solo), nodding back to the pianist when I finished. The whole thing was pretty embarassing, an amateur playing with pros in front of other pros.  

Later, Keiko taught me samba dancing on a couple of songs.  The evening came to an abrupt close when  Y-san drank too much of T-san's sake, and they got in a fight, which Keiko said happened every time.  Shokichi came out, and they went back to a private room.  Shokichi, ever the peacemaker.  It was amazing to see the subset of casualty figures that surround celebrity.

As a last stop, Keiko and I went to a small bar next door to my hotel, run by a John Lennon fan.  A Clapton DVD was on the television, so we watched, talking quietly about drugs and music, occasionally singing a handful of lyrics here and there though both of us sober.  But Keiko kept singing when 'Beautiful Tonight' came on, both us looking into one another's eyes.  It was an incredibly romantic moment, getting a personal serenade from a beautiful singer of some fame.  And I could feel myself getting drawn in, my reserve beginning to waver.  I wasn't even completely sure that Keiko was interested in me that way, but the way this entire week had been constructed felt like a kind of courtship.  I wanted to kiss her.  Everything in me wanted that.  But I couldn't bring myself to, it wasn't right.  It was only a few months before that my life had dropped out from under me.  My marriage was in free-fall.  A tryst with Keiko wasn't going to stop that.  I had to return to my wife and brace myself for the inevitable impact. 

As Clapton bowed out of his second encore, I walked alone back to my hotel.  


On the turntable:  Shirley Bassey, "Old Friends and Lovers"


     

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa VI

February 28, 2003

Moving at slow motion on 5 hours sleep.  Keiko and I headed north again, stopping first at a Mexican restaurant.  Inside, two men were playing sanshin, and Keiko joined in, picking up some samba and singing.  An impromptu session.  I eventually took out my own samba and began to play.  Later Keiko said, "On Okinawa, no time is wasted.."  I said, "No, it is passed."  (How ironic then, all the GIs stationed nearby, living by the rules of the clock.)  We went to a nearby beach to look at a peace monument.  Sitting at some tables nearby was a group of young Americans.  At first I thought that they were high school students having a lesson, until I noticed that they were soldiers.  I felt old.

Next was Futenma Gongen Shrine.  A yuta was in training out front.  Many more were sitting inside.  We were given special permission to enter the cave, usually open only to those connected with the shrine.  It sat in the back of a small grove, with soft rounded dragon's teeth hanging from the roof, some dripping with water.  A couple of tunnels led off in either direction.  It felt peaceful here.  Strangely, as I walked, my feet felt incredibly heavy, as if rooted to the earth.  

We next went to a small shrine dedicated to Okinawan music.  Well off the tourist route, it was little more than a small platform on the hillside, but it was here that the sound of a culture was born.  On the way up, sounds from the nearby city sounded like music to me.  I'd come looking for two paths -- music and spirit -- and found that they were one.  
After picking up Eddie, Keiko's son, we went to Chichibu cave, site of many wartime killings. It too is set in a beautiful little grove fronted by a small stream, but within the grove was not the usual pleasant cool but real cold.  The air smelled and tasted stale.  There was an altar built next to the entrance, containing a few skulls, and apparently there are still a number of bones inside the cave.  I stepped inside to pray to a small Jizo, then quickly fled.          

Much more relaxing was Zakimi castle, sitting atop a hill which overlooked pine trees and groves of sugar cane.  It was much more contained than Nikijin, and the small, rounded courtyards were reminiscent of Olympic rings.  Inside was all blue above and green below, flanked by a grey perimeter.  A wonderful place to camp.

Keiko and Eddie bickered most of the way back to Naha, he being a typical 13 year old.  Yet it's obvious that he had a good head and a kind heart.  Back in town, I went to Grand Canyon steakhouse, where the guys (the women seemed to only serve the soup and salad) cook teppanyaki style at your table, doing dramatic and artistic moves.  Later, I found a hippie bar for a Chai and some conversation.  The bar was built with a multi-level loft and filled with cool art, heady books, and good music. 


On the turntable:  Keiko Matsui, "Under Northern Lights"

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa V

February 27, 2003

Yet again, another morning at Starbucks.  The guy from Aomori dropped in on his way to surf up north.  We chatted away the morning, amped up on coffee.  Keiko showed up and we headed north ourselves, out onto Motobu peninsula.  We took a bridge over to a small island, finding a clean quiet beach on its west side.  Porous rocks with caves long weathered pointed out to Iojima, whose strangely shaped mountain was somewhat reminiscent of Picacho Peak in Arizona.  A cave led far back, offering a comfortable shelter if the weather turned rough.  A guy slept on the beach, a green parka zipped up over his face.   Further along was a young woman whose body shape led us to believe that she was not real.  Suddenly she got up and walked over to the sleeping guy, who didn't respond.  No doubt a lover's spat.  Keiko moved along, collecting cool seashells and skimming rocks.  This island had been dated to the same age as Everest, making it one of the oldest places on Earth.

Back on the main island, an utaki was hidden behind a small marble shrine high above.  On the walk up, we noticed a tree had fallen against another, the "V" of the branches fitting naturally into the latter's trunk.

We moved around the peninsula and up into the hills to Natural Cafe Haru, which sat amidst a beautifully sculpted garden and run by an old guy looking like an Amami Hemingway.  We chatted a long while with him, me being drawn to a small straw hut laid out in the corner of the garden, giving off a significantly powerful vibe.  We moved indoors for a rib curry, sitting at the counter overlooking the hills and the sea below.

Next up was Nikijin castle ruins, whose paths ran between long stone walls up to a plateau ringed by stones and containing tall trees, sakura, and an utaki.  The views of the sea were spiritual material in themselves. There was a definite Celtic feel to this fortification, no doubt quite imposing in its day.  Keiko bemoaned the fact that the government had cut dozens of tress, in the misguided attempt to spruce up the place, befitting its world heritage designation.  Despite this, nearly every utaki had a nuru in prayer.  

We wound back around the peninsula, losing our way a couple of times, then hit the beachfront road heading north.  Eventually, we arrived at Kunigami, a small village of old traditionally-built homes, with a couple of workshops nestled beneath the high hills.  One of them was a pottery workshop, with frightening leprechauns sitting atop the kiln and in the rafters above.  These creatures were said to actually exist, lurking up in the forest, waiting to jump out at passersby, terrifying them their long claws, fierce faces, and huge balls.   I asked the woman working there if she'd ever seen one, but she told me that friends had, a few feeling them responsible for kanashiburi.   Keiko said that they have the same creatures down south, but there they bring good luck.  

Next door was a group of weavers/dyers making fabric from banana trees.  Downstairs was a museum, upstairs the workshop, smelling mysteriously like the scent of Asia.

We contineud further north to pick up a nuru from Kudaka,  then wound up into the hills to a besso built into the hillside.  The air was much cooler up here, the trees branchless until their upper reaches, leaning into each other like a net holding up an invisible weight.  We sat on the deck above, drinking coffee and looking out at the sea.  On the drive out, passing the corral, two horses raced each other along a rail, back and forth, back and forth, exchanging victory kisses at either end.  

Dinner in Naha at Helios, then onward to Chakra.  I was greeting by smiles now familiar.  The band was on fire, but Shokichi wasn't, facing some serious trouble with his voice. He didn't talk as much as on Sunday, and the set was much shorter, yet somehow he did dig deep and belt out the words to "Hana."  I stayed for the next set, played by Shoei.  It was interesting to see everyone "at work" after having spent some time with them.

After the show, I had a beer with Keiko's parents, then went upstairs.  A new guy was behind the bar.  He'd spent a couple of years traveling and working in the US and UK, then came to Okinawa on holiday just a few days before me.  He and Shokichi had hit it off, and was already working behind the bar.  Connections work fast here.  Keiko wanted to leave, but a drunk was causing everyone trouble.  He had a thing for her, so mistrusted me, calling me a liar when I told him that I was already married.  I left first, so Keiko could sneak out later.  As I sat out front reading a book, he came out, telling me how dangerous it was to sit here and to go home.  When his attention was drawn by someone else, I tried to sneak back inside, just as Keiko was coming down.  We quickly hopped in a passing taxi.

We went next to a bar whose live act was karate and music.  They'd finished for the night, but after talking to the master awhile, he decided to give me a show, showing me the difference between Shorin, Goju, and Uechi styles of karate through a demonstration of their kata.  He did some solo stuff with kama, and fought his wife with bo and tonfa.  The highlight was a lion dance.  It lasted less than fifteen minutes, but the energy that it created reverberated for hours more.

Last, we wound up at a small jazz club.  The music here too was finished, but we talked for a couple of hours. It was here that I was introduced to the dangers of Awamori.  By the time we left at 3:30, I could barely walk straight.


On the turntable:  The Be Good Tanyas, "Blue Horse"

      

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa IV

February 26, 2003

Started the morning once again at Starbucks, filling in blank journal pages and waiting for Keiko.  We met up at 1 pm,  and she took me onto one of the US military bases.  We signed in and then went to an area that looked like the foodcourt at the mall:  Taco Bell, Burger King, Pizza Hut.  All in US prices and sizes.  This experience felt the opposite of my usual life in rural Japan, avoiding the American eyes looking at my hair, my earring, my clothes.  I felt conspicuous, but not uncomfortable.  In the Px I looked at books, vitamins, food, all of it cheap.  Keiko had kept her Px card from when her ex-husband had been stationed here, and she shopped here often to save money.  

Considering her and the band's political stance, she told me that she felt a sense of guilt about her slight appreciation for the bases on Okinawa, since they helped preserve the natural environment, albeit in a bizarre, backward way.  In the past, when a base was decommisioned, the usual Japanese companies would move in and put up all the usual shit that clutters the mainland:  Pachinko, chain shops, fast food.  The bases are wide expanses of green grass and forest, a reminder of how the island used to look.  But she doesn't condone what the bases stand for, and worries about the chemicals buried beneath. 

She motioned to the dozens of troops doing maneuvers here and there, saying that the base is usually quiet, and this recently activity was leading to all sorts of rumors.  It was strange the familiarity, comfort, and nostalgia I felt, yet it was hard to ignore the macho posturing of the GIs, and the propaganda posters.  On the main road facing the front gate was a poster "reminding" us of the Ten Commandments.

We had picked up pizza and beer for Keiko's ex-husband, and headed to his house.  He was bare-chested on the lawn when we arrived, beer in hand.  My first impression admittedly wasn't great, but literally minutes into our conversation, we connected quite easily.  As expected, his first question was, "Why did you come to Okinawa?"

We sat and talked for a couple of hours, drinking beer and eating the pizza.  He'd been in Okinawa for 18 years, and had been captured by the spirits and subsequently found it impossible to leave.  We went through the usual list of power spots, by now coming familiar.  He told me of his many experiences and dreams, which even now he's beginning to figure out.  He'd followed the urge to climb a hill and found a tomb that even the nuru (shamaness)  didn't know about.  He'd seen a white horse in a vision, a symbol common to the Celts, his own people. Stranger still was a vision had with open eyes, of Stonehenge with Chinese zodiac animals dancing in the air and Shokichi playing in the middle.  Shokichi has a saying that when Heaven and Earth meet, there will be a great festival.  Paul figures that if he were to stand in the middle of Stonehenge, a portal would open to some place he'd want to go.  

Though English by birth, he was former US military (hence Keiko's base connections), and had strong opinions on Iraq.  Ten years ago he'd predicted that we would be there again today.  He had done a lot of research on Ur, the birthplace of Abraham, the father of religions. The split of Abraham's sons had formed the Christian and Muslim worlds.  Paul felt that this war could be a chance to reunite them.  When this began, the face of the true devil would appear, starting a chain of events that would not be about politics or oil.  It seemed to be the will of Heaven...


On the turntable:  The Greyboy Allstars, "Live"
On the nighttable:  Norman Sherry, "The Life of Graham Greene, Vol. 3"

Nippon Extremities: Okinawa III

February 25, 2003

I wiled away my morning at Starbucks, reading and writing along to Sinatra's croon.  I was picked up at 11:00 for a whirlwind day.  We first headed out to an utaki on the outskirts of Naha.   We were the first to arrive, so we cleaned it a little before the others arrived.   The area below us was fed by a stream, and there a homeless guy was washing his clothes.  This place was dedicated to the male gods. 

When the others arrived, including all the members of Champloose, we knelt or sat behind the old shamaness, who prayed awhile.  Suddenly one of them began to sing, the phrasing familiar to me from Okinawan music, but the words were a direst message to Shokichi about how next to proceed on his path to peace.  (Apparently this event today was related to his safe return from Iraq.)  As the message went on, many people were crying, including the main shamaness, who shook violently.

A similar scene was repeated at the next utaki, for the gods of women and the earth.  Here, they said prayers for my son, Ken.  As this went on, I sat with eyes closed, yet even without realizing that I was crying, tears poured out.  Whatever was going on moved me, significantly, even if I didn't speak the language.  Later, the shamanes said something about Georgia, which Shokichi related to Martin Luther King, Jr.  I am still unsure about the connection with Ken.

Next was an utaki at the base of a large volcanic rock standing beside a Shinto shrine.  Below us ran a system of caves.  Shells and bits of coral were spread amongst the gravel.   Here, at a place for the god of the world (society?) the message from the gods was again about peace.  When we finished, we all ate cup raman with waribashi, while sitting in the Buddha's area.  (I'll keep my cynical comments to myself.)  Shokichi asked me a few questions about Ken's death.  Earlier, when he first saw me, he looked suspicious.  I suppose that all famous people are leery of strangers and their needs, and here I was intruding on something very personal.  He wanted to know why I had come to Okinawa, and I said something about wanting to find a bit of Okinawa's heart.  Though completely casual and unthreatening, it felt like a mild challenge, and no doubt all anthropologists are challenged when encountering a people and their rituals. At this particular moment,  I definitely felt out of place.   

Everyone left, but Keiko, Hiromi, and I carried on with the shamanesses.  First, to a small grove between apartment buildings, the roots of the trees smashing through concrete, and their branches sheltering cats.  Next, to a small room in a small house in the city's former red light district, which contained three altars, three cats, and three very skittish dogs.  In both places,  the gods remained silent.

Last, we did three "services" back at Chakra.  The first was surprisingly at a small shrine in the parking lot.   Next up was in the band's offices, kneeling on a small, raised tatami platform placed between a small garden filled with birds, and a huge book collection composed primarily of spiritual works.  These time, we seemed mainly to be chanting sutras.  Last up was in the bar itself.  Here the god's message was for me, but before I knew that fact, I had felt a major power surge in my chest.  The words, "New Jersey" came out,  a place unknown to the shamaness, but the place where I'd grown up.  She said that my being here today had a serious significance. She also told me a little about Ken's death.  Christianity today is concerned mostly with heaven, and Ken (middle name, Gaia) falling from above was a way of reconnecting with Earth.  She told me that his zodiac sign of Tiger represented water, yet she didn't know the details of how he died.  All of this is really strange and mysterious and wonderful, and I really wish that I could figure it all out.

After a quick meal of yakisoba, Keiko and I headed up to Okinawa City to see some live music.  There were a lot of military bases up that way, and I spotted a number of GI's.  The roads up here were wide and lined with foreign shops, Indian tailors, US fast food.  Keiko told me that twenty years ago this area had been hopping, but had since lost its spark, a fact apparent by the quiet streets at 10 pm.  We went to Nantahama, a livehouse featuring Yohen Aiko.  We were the only customers, so rather than play, she chatted with us for awhile, mainly about the slow death of Okinawan music, the few young hopefuls, and how media support and coverage is weak.  We also discussed the Okinawans underlying fear of terrorism against all these military bases they 'hosted,' once the Iraq war inevitably began.  

Next, we were able to catch the end of a set by Ganeko Yoriko over at her club, Hime.  Afterward she came to greet us, asking Keiko, "Is this your son?  Boyfriend?"  Keiko by now had a set intro, saying that I was American but had been living in Yonago for eight years.  A quick disclaimer.  Yoriko was incredibly friendly and funny, years of performing had made her movements flamboyant and graceful, the perfect image of a geisha.  We talked about the relationships between men and women and how Okinawan women generally take good care of their husbands,  Both she and Keiko desparately wanted boyfirends, and I was fascinated to listen to two famous women talk about mundane things such as men, looks, and illnesses. The woman behind the bar was having a conversation with a couple of customers about her being used to Americans and not being afraid.  When I chimed in, she was surprised that I could speak Japanese.  It is funny that I've heard America and its politics mentioned more in three days in Okinawa than I'd heard it in eight years in mainland Japan...


On the turntable:  Muddy Waters, "Floyd's Guitar Blues"