Kumano Kōdō XV: Ōhechi

09/15/09

...we awoke in time to watch the sunrise from our tent. I took a short stroll toward the water and discovered a large pool filled with a half-dozen enormous sea turtles swimming about, their noses breaking the surface of the water in a great gasp of air.

After meditation and yoga, we broke down the tent, which in the full light of morning we discovered lay beneath an array of posters revealing the poisonous creatures that live in these waters. The only purpose of these posters that I could see was giving people the opportunity to develop about twenty new fears. We'd chosen a good spot, beneath the shelter of an awning, and atop that soft spongy material they make all-weather running tracks out of these days.

Last night, we'd taken care to find shelter in case of rain, which had seemed likely with the clouds rolling in with the setting of the sun. Ironically, it began to precipitate just as we left 'camp.' Dive shops were just beginning to open, and during the next 30 minutes, we passed perhaps a half-dozen, each containing a gaggle of stream-lined females in wet-suits, clustered around their male boss. We had a long breakfast in a town unremarkable but for its ugliness, in front of yet another small store with a quirky proprietress. Across the street, a group of elementary kids were practicing for their sports day. As they numbered fewer than 20, I wondered about how long their school would stay open.

Ten minutes further down the road, the rain grew heavier, so out came the rain gear. As I huddled in a doorway going through my contortions, I caught the unmistakable whiff of ganja from the other side of the door. We pushed out into the rain, beginning a long wet slog along the busy Rte 42. Not the best of days.

There were highlights. The sound of rain in a drain pipe sounded like shimedaiko. A pair of gardens were piled up with what looked like porous volcanic rock, but prodded with a shoe, proved to be as soft as sponges. The Hershey Kiss-shaped hills surrounding Koza. A group of seabirds stood on a sand spit, their wings spread is if to dry them. Kites and crows battled for choice sentinel spots on the lights over Koza's main bridge. The town's narrow lanes were lined with old homes, including a three-story beauty of faded gray wood. In this weather, it all looked like a town in the American Pacific Northwest or, if you'll stretch along with me, something from Melville's imagination. It was easy to be captivated by this town's charm. It was the first time on this entire walk that Miki actually seemed happy, singing along to the rhythm of her steps.

We made a brief rest stop at the tiny Hime Station, and found that someone had forgotten their wallet. As we inquired at a nearby shop, a woman popped in, and recognized the wallet's owner by his driver's license photo, saying that he was in town on business, and would find him to return it. Incredible, these small town networks.

We had a nice, one-hour diversion walking along a beach with more of those dried volcanic rocks. A few times, I came across the carcass of a lobster, its tastier bits eaten away. At one point, I set down my pack in order to jump around and peer into some tide pools. One of these was littered with the bodies of dead crabs, poisoned by the water feeding it extending directly toward the chimney of a 'recycle center' up in the hills above. There was also a great deal of Korean garbage here...oh sorry, wrong side of the archipelago.

In the next town, we navigated the maze of streets toward the station in order to get a short reprieve from the rain. A few minutes after plonking ourselves down on the narrow wooden bench, a man hobbled in on a cane, his feet and one hand heavily bandaged. Speaking seemed to take a great deal of effort, and at first I thought that he'd had a stroke. After a few minutes of hearing his story, we found that he'd been a pro racing driver who'd had one horrific crash. I asked him when, but he merely grimaced, which I took to mean that the crash had taken away some of his memory as well. We sat listening to his tale, his hands unconsciously arcing in the air as if turning a steering wheel.

We moved off Rte 42 for the first time in hours. A row of doghouses were lined up before a hill face, the residents alert and noisy. Up river, two ducks peacefully floated by, then quickly turned and flew off in the opposite direction, spooked by something we hadn't seen. We found a new trail running parallel to the busy Rte 42, but rejoined it inevitably later. Making our slow way uphill, we were passed by a bicyclist, its rider close to 90. He eventually got off to push his machine and we in turn passed him, but I applaud his efforts. We three made for a strange sight for passing drivers, the way we trudged in line up that hill. One of these passing vehicles was an earthquake simulation truck.

Atop the hill we entered NachiKatsuura-cho and immediately, the trails signs resumed. (Kushimoto had been pathetic, lacking even a single one. To compound things, the Kushimoto sections were the only places where I saw trash spilling down hillsides.) Just over this border, we found the trail we'd been looking for, at whose entrance a handful of ants were tucking into a dead centipede. We'd expected a 10 minute hike, but it stretched out to 40, along a trail well marked but overgrown. At one point, I grabbed a ground-whacking stick to scare off any vipers resting in the tall grass below those bamboo groves that these snakes find so heavenly.

Dropping into Uragami, we chatted awhile with two farmers, who laughingly tried to hoist my pack. They were the first friendly people we'd seen in days. (Kushimoto folk tend to answer direct greetings with a curt bob of the head. I encountered this so often that I'm beginning to doubt that the residents have tongues.) In fact, everyone was so friendly that we were well set up for the night, with bread purchased from a smiley shopkeeper, and the exuberant inn owner who made us dinner despite our late arrival. All was welcome, this day being our longest yet, a 10 hour tramp through a steady rain. It was punctuated by train stations that we'd visited without actually boarding any trains. We'd returned a wallet, met a race driver, and prior to turning in, realized that we'd left our maps in the station just up the road. We lay in our futons, figuring that they'd still be there come morning, as the rain started up once again outside...


On the turntable: Al Green, "Greatest Hits"
On the nighttable: Michael Chabon, "The Yiddish Policeman's Union"
On the reel table: The Human Condition" (Kobayashi, 1959)

Kumano Kōdō XIV: Ōhechi

09/14/09

...the seaside breeze kept the mozzies away, and the ants scampered off after the lights went out. I didn't sleep well but I slept enough, and around six I once again perched myself on my high concrete wall to meditate. Out to sea, a fisherman was similarly seated on a tall tower of stone, and I still can't figure out how he got there. The first train rolled in at 6:22, and rolled out again with a few high school students aboard. When the platform was clear, I went up there to do some yoga. We were again walking by seven.

We hadn't eaten anything substantial in 24 hours, so the going was slow. A few women were watering their flowers, a few were sitting in the doorway reading the newspaper, all of them enjoying the quiet of a day barely begun. A hour into our own day, we passed beneath a cafe sitting on a bluff high above the sea, with a look like a southern plantation. Just down the hill was a village store. The proprietress was a joyless woman who'd stocked her shop with second rate foodstuffs, overshadowed by a unproportionally large amount of foreign kitsch, including a photo of one of the employees standing with Beckham. We grabbed a few items in order to scrape up a meal that had a passing resemblance to breakfast. Then we walked into morning.

The route took on a predictable pattern, weaving on and off Rte 42, and onto the smaller roads paralleling it, which would drop up down into fishing villages, or lead into the farm settlements of the hills. Once an hour or so, we'd follow an narrow trail up and over a pass, then back to asphalt after a nice 10 minute diversion. There were also quite a few coves, and in arriving at these, we'd sit awhile, staring out at the waves. From the main Rte 42, it was easy to see portions of the real Kōdō, hidden in the overgrowth of forest. I wondered if they'd eventually be restored and made part of the mapped system. Moreover, how did they decide on the places they HAD marked, especially those running behind homes or across a beach made of overlapping slabs of porous volcanic stone. During one of our rests, a man came over and pointed at our guide book, telling us that he was one of its authors. In the fog of thirst and fatigue, we forgot to ask these very questions. He did give us the typical advice given to nearly every hiker in Japan: Take care about the wasps and the vipers.

We had a nice long rest on a narrow stretch of beach, laying in the sand and watching a large black butterfly flit above the waves, which eventually swamped it. Just when I gave it up as a goner, it righted itself and flew off. After lunch, we sat against a palm tree, watching the boats come in. It was a very tropical scene, with the butterflies and the flowers, the stone walls and the tile roofs. The mild climate seemed to draw a fair share of tourists. One bait shop was piping out Japanese classical music. Across the roof of an inn, sheets and futons had been strewn like the aftermath of a pillow fight gone wrong. Yet the consistent tsunami warning signs gave a hint to the heavier side of life down here.

During the afternoon, the theme turned to "The Battle with the Spiders." This is the season when their webs are everywhere, and after breaking through dozens with the prow of my face, I'd had enough. It was impossible to simultaneously look down at my footing and up at their yellow and black bodies stretched across the trail at (my) eye level. So at those sections where we entered mountains, I'd grab a stick, swinging and twirling it blindly before me like Zatoichi. And like him, I'd usually take out about 30 baddies before shuffling off down the road.

As evening approached, we passed through a long tunnel, scaring off a bat hanging from the ceiling. On the outskirts of Kushimoto, we found a wide expanse of lawn beside an aquarium. The restaurant had already closed, so we hastily bought some oily smoked fish and lukewarm beer to eat beside the seawall, yet another in a series of bad meals. Once all the employees headed off into the night, we took a shower from the hose hanging out back, chilling in the wind coming up as the sun went down...


On the turntable: Belly, "Star"
On the nighttable: Stanley Crawford, "A Garlic Testament"

Kumano Kōdō XIII: Ōhechi

09/13/09

...it was the first time in 5 days that we wore our packs. The rain of yesterday had stopped, though the train that we boarded at eight was speckled with drops. At Hiki, where we'd stopped a couple days back, we found that there would be no buses for three hours, despite what I'd been told. Across the street, the lone taxi in town was parked in a garage, its driver no doubt sleeping in on this Sunday morning. We tried to thumb it, but nobody seemed to be going our way.

A woman who owned the only shop in town noticed our plight and offered us a lift. She'd lived in this village all her life, and when much younger, had decided that the local people needed a place to shop. These days, hardly anyone came. Those who walked the Kōdō did so as day trips now. During our brief 10 minute ride, she stopped for a 5 minute chat with a friend riding a bike between rice fields. I truly love the unhurried pace of the countryside.

She let us out where the road stopped. The trail was narrow and overgrown, looking more like jungle as it hugged the hillside 20 feet above the Hikigawa. When it dropped again, we walked to the water's edge, into its clean smoothness. People used to cross here by walking across planks lain over boats tied end to end. Today a single boat was moored on the opposite bank, rides available to those who telephoned the owner.

The water looked inviting, but it was early and I didn't yet feel like a swim. A half-hour later I'd change my tune, after a quick calf-burning ascent to the pass. We rested awhile, then dropped down an incredibly steep pitch, my pack shoving me forward all the way down. Along here was a Fudo statue of such age that no one could remember when he'd arrived. Further down was an unusual shrine dedicated to the god of the Earth. Although there was a stone base, nothing was placed upon it, signifying that the object of worship was everything beyond: the trees, the rocks, the hills. I went down to the stream below to wet my head as the heat was coming up. Ayu swam freely by, seemingly untroubled by the fishermen who'd driven from as far as Osaka and Kyoto in the hopes of catching them.

We walked down this stream as it traced the long valley filled with shorn rice fields and the odd farm. There were more plum groves out here, and barrels tied to trunks of maples in order to collect the sap. Just after the noon chimes, we turned left at the town candy shop and arrived at Susami station. The lone employee sat in his office in a wife-beater shirt, brushing his teeth at his desk. Despite even this, it was a pretty weird place, one half converted into a museum dedicated to squid. There were dozens of photos on the walls, and as much kitschy squid crap as you could fill your car with. A large tank nearby didn't actually hold any squid, but there was a lobster, and two small sharks, and a particularly toothy eel whose mouth was perpetually open as if in disbelief that it was even in here.

We wandered up to the main highway and grabbed some pretty pathetic lunch fixins, made better by being eaten on a lovely stretch of sandy beach. We followed this with ice cream, eaten back at the station while looking at the wanted posters. Those pictured had all been on the lam for over 10 years, and the artist's rendering of what they might look like today were quite bad. This country produces some of the best graphic artists in the world, but these pictures here on display looked like those old "Draw Like This and Win!" ads in the back of the comic books of my youth.

We moved out of town, up a pass whose name translated to something like, "Pass That Even Horses Can't Cross." It was steep and crumbly and overgrown, in a day of steep and crumbly and overgrown trails. At the top was an open space with a single tall Kannon statue staring out to sea. We sat wearily on a bench beside her, sharing with her the view. Moving across this open plateau was like crossing the desert and my eyes automatically made the transition from looking for skinny vipers to looking for their fatter, rodent-fed, rattle-toting cousins. Just as I was thinking this odd, I nearly jumped at the sight of a snakeskin, moving with the wind.

We followed a road deep into the next valley. Midway up was the ruins of an elementary school, now used by the locals to store tractors and wooden planks. I walked across an athletic field now overgrown to a plaque that told me that this school had stood on this site from 1893 to 1973. Even the youngest of its final group of students are older than me. The remaining kids of this village must love the dolphin-shaped house nearby, cozy-looking and well lit. The trail took us off the road along a narrow grassy trail that ran up above the village houses and along the edge of the forest. Many of these people owned 3 or 4 dogs, each of them quite vocal.

We arrived at a large but empty shrine where we'd considered spending the night. It had water and toilets and shelter from the rain, should any fall. But it was still only 3 pm; we could easily get over the next pass by dark. This, the final big climb of the Kōdō, was lower than the previous two (388m), but the climb was short and steep. At the top, the trail was a squared off path that crumbled away on both sides. The twisted and gnarled maze of roots along the trail's length betrayed earth packed down by a millenium of passing pilgrim feet.

The final steep descent dropped us amidst a few houses and a small train platform, Mirozu. We collapsed onto a bench and quickly downed a cold drink vended from a machine. I looked at the top of my pack, turned nearly white from cobwebs. I must've busted through dozens during the day, the spiders harder at work than even the Japanese Construction Ministry.

The train platform was small and remote, a mere concrete shell with two long benches running the length of both sides. These benches looked wide enough for sleeping. The problem was that we had nearly no food. After a quick shower from the hose out back, I tucked into my dinner of slim jims and chocolate cupcake, washed down with the remains of the tea in the thermos. The misspelled English on the "Waitng Room" sign made me crave Vietnamese spring rolls. Later we went across the highway to lean against the guard rail, the sun setting into a Pacific ocean expanding and splashing onto the base of this concrete berm 30 feet below.

Back at our station lodgings, we read and wrote while waiting for the final train. There was one every ninety minutes or so, with no one disembarking anyway. But we'd wait until the final 10:22 train, before rolling out our sleeping bags and rolls and hoping that the mozzies would give some respite...


On the turntable: Tabla Beat Science, "Tala Matrix"

Kumano Kōdō XII: Ōhechi

09/12/09

We slept in, until the humidity began to pat us on the cheek. The rain was making promises, it was ringing from its mobile, but it just hadn't shown up yet. Later, when we a little more roused, Miyuki, the owner of Buddha Guest House, asked if we wanted to pass the morning at a cafe she liked. We quickly agreed. Ikora Chaya Cafe was a large open garden-like space filled with books and magazines on amazing topics. I grabbed a stack and sat out on the patio above a stream moving about as slowly as the day. One magazine was filled with pictures of Kumano, causing me to badly regret my decision to leave Japan. I fantasized about moving down here, spending my days doing research on the shrines and the mountains, my nights in conversation with the quirky people down here. (I was falling more in love with Tanabe everyday. But I recognized it as Yonago nostalgia, pure and simple.) One such quirky character was Tanaka-san, called A-chan while behind the bar. His taste in books and music was incredible. He had Miyuki take us up to his home, a Therouvian bachelor pad. It was a small building up amidst the plum groves. One room was empty but for a lone bed. Another room, very dark, had two chairs, two towering speakers, and stacks of LPs climbing the walls. I'd seen music rooms like this in ads, but never in anyone's home. (I pictured Peter Murphy asking for the usual.) Upstairs was a loft, with a couple old organs and baskets full of guitars. Throughout the house were unbelievable antiques, plus books on fantastic subjects. In my greatest loner moments, this is the house of my dreams.

Back at the cafe, A-chan and I chatted awhile, until I took one of the shakuhachi off the wall and began to blow. A-chan joined in on fue, our notes harmonizing much like our conversation had, and like the way he blends the spiritual richness around him with his simple but rich lifestyle.

Around noon, we returned to the Guest House. I took an hour-long stroll around town in search of a decent meal. I finally settled on the jazz cafe across the street, but found only frustration when my cheese dog turned out to be nothing more than some cheese melted on a bun. Foiled yet again by the misuse of English! I nearly cried, having eaten little more than bread for about a week. But I found solace in gyoza, fried rice, and a large cold beer in a ramen shop a mere block away.

I passed the afternoon in books or slumber. After dark, Miki and I braved the rain to have dinner at Gorilla cafe, the pizza and pasta quashing my week-long pizza craving. An early night's sleep capped things off perfectly.

This day off had come at a perfect time. The previous day had been a long frustrating one. I was the most tired I'd been in the nine days since we'd set out, and the concrete landscape had gotten so bleak that we decided to cut out the final 6 day Ise-ji section off our trip entirely. We hope to get there eventually, but for now, we'd had enough of rural blight. Shingu was now our goal.

The following day we were mentally recharged. Physically, we would be able to lug our heavy bags over the high passes without much grief. And Miki's ever-growing list of body complaints seemed to have come to an end.


On the turntable: Guitar Wolf, "Missile Me"

Kumano Kōdō XI: Ōhechi

09/11/09

As I dragged the razor across my face, I had little idea that it would be a day of close shaves.

We faced a big climb at the end of the day, so decided to leave our bags at Buddha Guest House and take the train back later. We passes a monotonous morning walking out of town, following the busy Route 42 between massive box stores dwarfed by even more massive parking lots. Occasionally we were rewarded by being led down quieter roads parallel to the highway, or into farmland. One house bore a mark with the kanji for water, indicating that this had once been the old water company for this village. A watermark of a different type was cut into a stone slab, showing the reaches of a post-quake tsunami that had devastated this town in 1946. And the devastation continues. We'd missed some famous statues on a hillside, due to the recently built mega-stores and their maze of access roads. This area no longer resembled our maps. Despite using a new guide book to the Kōdō that proved to be generally clear and accurate, it still got us lost a few times. Our confusion, the concrete, and the uninspired landscape didn't do much for our spirits. The usual sacrifice of the old and traditional for the new and fleeting was beginning to wear us down, initiating a conversation that would play out in eventual changes in our approach to this walk.

After a long shopping stop at A-coop, we moved along a large river. Hills rose above it to the east, their porous, tree covered walls camouflaging statues of Kannon and The Great Sun Buddha. We'd seen very few symbols of the spiritual character of the pilgrimage during the Kiiji portions. This Ōhechi section was proving to be much richer.

Zig-zagging along a wide farm road, I stepped right over a foot-long viper that was sunning itself in the road. While in the mountains, I normal keep a wary eye out, but here I'd missed one in plain sight. I had a similar close escape in the next town when a large blob of birdshit landed just to my left.

Beyond the bigger towns, the Kōdō was well marked and well-mapped. It led us past a series of Jizo shrines, (and a house that had its own telescope) to a large temple where we had lunch. The sign out front stated that it had been left desolate until 1774, but here in 2009 it still had a forlorn look. A group of diggers were hard at work beside the main hall, and it was hard to tell if they were building or excavating.

The trail led toward Tondazaka, worn deep below the forest floor. A few minutes along, we heard some angry growling and snorting from just above us on a shelf of forest floor, but we never actually saw the boar that had made it. We eventually calmed enough to enjoy the trail, which started out as a steep climb crowded with ferns, before widening and leveling out as it hugged the ridge. It was a lovely hike with a few ruined tea houses along the way, as well as plenty of good views of mountain and sea. Beyond the pass, we had a steep drop down a fire road dotted with jizo, then a gentle walk along a river that cut across the valley floor. As usual, these level reaches always feel extremely long, and once we hit pavement again, it was near dark.

We hitched a lift from an Osaka couple who had had a decent day fishing for Ayu. From their truck, I watched a deer walking daintily in the river's shallows. The couple dropped us off at the station, where I began to talk to a bus driver about how to return to the trailhead the next day. During this conversation, the Osaka couple surprised me in pulling up again, handing me my camera through the open window of their truck, then quickly driving off. Another near miss.

The train was filled with a bizarre group of heavily made up girls doing their best 'Droog" imitation. In Tanabe, we grabbed our bags and ate our bento at the beach. We'd hoped to camp in the park, but an event of some kind had drawn around 150 high schoolers to the same area. I didn't feel secure here, and after an especially long day, wanted a good night's sleep. I felt more tired than I had in the previous 9 days since we'd started. Miki and I had a huge fight, and near rare tears, she reluctantly followed me back to Buddha Guest House. But her fury turned to a hug fifteen minutes later when the skies opened. Someone had really been looking out for me today...


On the turntable: Marcus Miller, "Live and More"
On the nighttable: Andy Couturier, "A Different Kind of Luxury"

Kumano Kōdō X: Nakahechi

09/10/09

...the bus left the station at 6:30 a.m. and an hour later, let us off where we'd hitched out yesterday. One stop before, a young woman with a large camera had gotten down. Shortly after starting our own hike, we passed yet another lone woman on the trail. I'm often intrigued by these women who travel alone, as it's not done much here in Japan. I'll always remember the young woman I saw years ago at Koryū-ji, moving about with deliberate slowness as she quietly shot her photos. I was impressed to see so many women traveling alone out here in Kumano, though I wonder if they lose confidence when coming upon Ogin Jizo, dedicated to a Kyoto geisha killed by brigands. An hour after meeting the second woman, we came across another anomaly: a Frenchman sprawling across the trail, writing in his journal.

It was a delight to get on the trail early, to move across a forest floor dappled with light. We followed a stream for much of the morning, crossing bridges covered with moss. A long climb brought us to Mikoshi Pass and its rest hut. Along the way, we saw a deer at Yukawa, grazing lazily up the slope above the shrine, obviously unafraid of humans.

By late morning we arrived at Funatama, and its long boat with a figure of Jizo carved into the prow. Signs warned us off camping here, as it is apparently overrun with vipers. (While wondering if this were a ploy, I was simultaneously bitten by seventeen of the loathsome creatures and expired on the spot. Much better now.) Since dropping down this side of the pass, Mie welcomed us with a variety of signs commanding us to refrain from this or that. Far from the welcome feeling of yesterday.

We climbed up to Hosshin. Our passage through the gate a symbolic step into deeper realms of the spirit. We lunched here, smiling as the Frenchman passed by, in conversation with the woman walker we'd seen, neither no longer solo.

The next descent was through a series of villages and galleries selling veggies and wood carvings. One stretch of homes had wooden dummies lining the route, as if the locals were watching the tourists file past on parade. The tourists were indeed out in great numbers, as they'd take the bus up to Hosshin and follow the gentle slope for an hour and a half down to Hongu. The final reaches were almost anti-climactic, moving through a series of square, squat suburban homes out of the Ike years. Yet the actual arrival at Hongu changed that. Clapping my hands before the shrine, I felt happy, at peace. After years of trying to get to the Nakahechi, my feet had finally led me along this inner, mountainous passage of the Kōdō, the missing link of my now complete traverse between Kyoto and Shingu.

Kumano Hongu was quiet, having changed little since my 2005 visit, the same long steps, the same squat buildings rising from the gravel. One addition was the small stand selling kitschy character trinkets, including items of the JFA who'd adopted Kumano's three-legged crow as mascot. (For the next three days, any time I'd see a crow, my eyes would automatically check for that third leg.)

As on my last visit here, I sat near the base of the steps, eating ice cream and people watching. Both of my previous visits here had been during Golden Week, and today, the place was reasonably quiet. I smiled at my good luck with timing as three buses suddenly puled up to disgorge a large group of women, the older ones wearing sensible shoes, the younger looking like foals on those steps in their heels.

Out front on the new access road, we tried to hitch back to Tanabe, but without luck. I mimicked the facial expressions of the drivers as they passed, pretending not to notice us. On the bus later, I stretched out my tired feet along the back seat and read for the entire two hours back to town. There were a few other hikers on board, looking weary but rewarded. A group of school kids had gotten on at one point, peeling off into little groups as we edged toward town...


On the turntable: "The Rough Guide to Cuban Son"
On the nighttable: Aurobindo, "More Lights on Yoga"

Kumano Kōdō IX:Nakahechi

09/09/09

We crossed the Tonda River, marking the barrier of the Land of the Dead. And the monocultural sugi forest through which we climbed was devoid of any life; no birdsong, no scampering insects.

We'd gotten a late start. On the bus along the way, my eyes had traced the route I'd walked back in '03, a year after my son had died. (Prior to setting out that year, my son's mother was certain that I would find happiness in dying out there, amongst the mysterious peaks of Omine. I'm sure she'd been right.) I remembered crossing that high suspension bridge, and the almost magical wave of sorrow that had overtaken me at Fudaiji Temple. Where last time I'd been turned back by lack of food, today Miki and I fared better. After buying big onigiri from a very genki couple near the trail head, we passed through a narrow opening in the rock representing the Womb. Officially within the mandala now, we moved up and up.

This trail was harder than I'd thought, sure to turn off a large number of tourists. I wondered if anyone has died up here, after the publicity explosion in the wake of the UNESCO status, expecting an easy day out and getting caught unprepared. There are certainly sections that would terrify anyone, the trail clinging to forested walls dropping off sheerly into cedars.

We came to Takahara Kumano Jinja, surrounded by ancient and immense kusanoki trees. One had three trunks rising out of an an enormous trunk base. Nearby was a small village, the first of many we'd come to here on the Nakahechi. (Had I pushed on six years ago, I wouldn't have been more than two hours away from food, despite what I'd heard from locals.) Each of the homes had a spectacular view of the mountains rising across the valley, the autumn sky above striated with cloud. I find myself strongly drawn to the peaks of this region, and all the lore that they contain.

At a rest stop here, an unfriendly group of middle-aged hikers was just finishing lunch, some of their women reapplying fresh make-up. We hurried to get out in front of them, climbing from the village, past a small A-framed structure rotting slowly into forest. On the ridge above was the lovely Koban Jizo, marking the place where a holy man had fallen. Above him was a spacious clearing where we stopped for lunch, near an impressively green toilet with recycled water. Leaving this ridge, we found a man dozing on the trail, and on two occasions ran into a single woman hiker.

We dropped fast then, to meet the highway and a small rest area. A guide told us that the hiking group we'd seen earlier had taken an overnight ferry from Kyushu, would hike half the trail, then return by another night boat this evening. Express-lane pilgrimage.

Climbing up again, we startled a large viper with bright yellow head. He was pointed toward Gyuba Ōji, an impressive stone figure standing in perpetuity amidst a grove of tall cypress. On the same mound were diminutive figures of En no Gyoja, Jizo, and Fudo. This was like a personal Buddhist greatest hits package, my three faves pow-wowing together. There was an unmistakable feeling of peace here, and the idea of having to leave was an agony. After a long while, we finally got the feet in motion again.

The trail dropped into Chikatsuyu village, laid out across a wide valley. I slightly bemoaned the fact that we weren't planning to stay out here, to stroll her narrow lanes after dark and swim in her rivers. A foreign woman drove past, her car bearing those familiar beginner's stickers. This mere glance was all I needed to guess her story. She'd be the only foreign face in town, a recent arrival judging by the sticker. She'd go into Tanabe to party with the other JETs. I've seen her story played out dozens of times, in the lives of friends back in the 'Nog, most long departed. And it made me instantaneously miss the community I'd had back there, and made me face up to the fact that, in a matter of weeks, I too would be gone.

We moved up again, along a road that hung high above the valley. I was well into the rhythm of the hike now, loving the scenery, the remote feel. Tsugizakura completed this sense of wonder, its stone steps rising between trunks centuries old. One elder was hollowed out with enough space to shelter a VW, and may have been standing here when the very first Kumano pilgrim strolled by over a millennium ago. Close by was a beautiful example of the classic Japanese farmhouse, hanging onto the face of the hill. I longed to pass a quiet night here. A bit further on, another farmhouse clung similarly to the slope, its roof long given away to the effects of gravity. My eyes strayed to a handful of graves on the hill behind, and I felt pity for those ancestors who, now that their homestead had been abandoned, will also fade into the forest and out of living memory.

We reached Kobiro Ōji, and then the main road. Clouds were starting to come over the ridge in strange formations, as if heralding the coming of autumn. We had a bizarre moment where our out-stretched thumbs simultaneously pulled over two cars. We jumped into the closest, squeezing in with three young women. The driver commented on the clouds, saying that this kind usually precede earthquakes. And we drove further west, toward a sky a color more like New Mexico than anything I'd ever seen here...


On the turntable: Eric Clapton and Duane Allman, "Studio Jams"

Kumano Kōdō VIII: Kii-ji

09/08/09

We're back where we'd started the morning before. Well before the sun rose, I was awakened by the sounds of trucks loading up nearby. It took some time to give myself to sleep again, sleep that was plagued by dreams about tribes of monkeys coming down the hill to rifle through our bags. In reality, their calls turned out to be those of birds. At six, I was awakened by a completely different voice, that of a woman reciting a story, up on the grassy level above us. It took me a few minutes to confirm that it was indeed English that I was hearing, delivered in a strange and artificial radio announcer intonation. I went up the hill to find a middle-aged woman facing the rising sun and reciting her thing. What made her even more bizarre was the fact that she was standing rigidly still, holding her handbag stiffly at one side. She also had the biggest bust I've ever seen on a Japanese woman.

We hurried to catch our eight a.m. train, riding it with a group of students to the place where we'd finished the previous day's trudge. This day wasn't much better, moving up and around the concrete laden hills between plum orchards. The highlight of the morning was when the trail dropped into what was more jungle than forest, before opening onto the beach. The sand made for tough going, forcing us to take a long rest at a shrine shaded by palm trees. From here, we moved through tall grass up to a low pass, before dropping again to the 'Plum Center.' Once inside, we ignored the exhibits, staying busy by dodging a busload of Hong Kong tourists and raiding the free samples.

The road from here was more drudgery, along a single frontage road that alternated between trees and concreted hillsides. There wasn't a single trace of beauty here. After a monotonous hour of this, we had lunch at a shrine, the two of us weary and bickering. Just beyond the curiously named "Cow's Nose Shrine," we once again met Rte 42, its heavy traffic propelling us into town. We passed the birthplace of the founder of aikido, Morihei Ueshiba. It was a vacant lot, just as it had been six years before. (On that earlier visit in 2003, I'd trained a couple of nights with the Tanabe dojo, and had intended to walk the Kōdō for a week over to Shingu, in order to train with Hikitsuchi Shihan, 10th degree black belt. I'd been hoping to write an article, "In the footsteps of O-Sensei," but running out of food on the second day had put the kibosh on that. Hikitsuchi died a short time afterward.) The Kōdō split soon after, but we continued along what had become the Ō-heji, to the Buddha Guest House, our home for the next three nights. It was a lovely spot, run by a friendly young couple. The house was literally filled with incredible Buddhist art from all over Asia, the remnants of the stock of their previous shop. It was all still for sale, at very decent prices.

After dropping our bags and sorting out our upcoming route at the tourist info office, we split up, Miki to buy a few things, and me down to the sea for a swim. The water was perfect, absolutely refreshing after six hard hot days on foot. I lounged awhile on the beach near the Ueshiba statue, then went back into town for an iced coffee. I enjoyed strolling around Tanabe, this being my third visit. I find more to like each time.

I showered a rested awhile in front of the Guest House, satisfied that we'd agreed to a half day off. Then it was beer and dinner, toasting the completion of the Kii-ji portion of the Kōdō...


On the turntable: Sebadoh, "III"
On the nighttable: Pyle/Fass, "Lost Over Laos"

Kumano Kōdō VII: Kii-ji

09/07/09 (cont.)

...Shiori stayed on the train from which Miki and I disembarked. An unseasoned walker, she'd proven to be a good sport, in the footsteps of our folly as we did our longest day yet, 30 km in the what felt like the worst heat. (She told us later that she'd been footsore for the next 5 days.) We too were slightly battered, and therefore happy to be heading toward the sento, recommended by nearly every Gobō local whom we told about our walk. As I was stripping off my clothes, a worker at the sento walked up and told me that I couldn't enter with my tattoo. I very softly and politely told him that I'd had a long hot day, and wondered if I could enter the tubs for only 10 minutes. To my surprise, he reluctantly agreed, but moments later I noticed his form hovering over me, following from the washing area over to one of the tubs. As his attention was drawn away from me for a moment, I tried to lose him by heading to the outdoor baths. But a minute later, he was there again. I again told him I just wanted a few minutes, but he simply stayed lurking over me. This was no way to relax, so I glared at him and muttering "asshole" in English as I moved toward the dressing room again. While changing, a manager then came in and began to apologize. I stayed polite, saying I would respect the rules though I didn't feel that they still applied. Tattoos in my country don't have the same cultural stigma as here, and besides, don't many young Japanese people also wear them? He explained his position, and I again said I understood. While I'd had a tiring sweaty walk, and was sleeping in a tent, I'd go quietly. Provided he refund me the 1000 yen I'd paid. Here he said he couldn't do that. I explained that I'd been in this situation a couple times before, and had been graciously refunded my money both times, even after spending a significant amount of time in the water. He again held firm. I shifted then, my voice beginning to rise in frustration. (The irony was that in those other times I'd been booted from an onsen, I'd had an equally tough and tiring day.) I told him that the purpose of my walking the Kōdō was to write the first book in English about it (which at that point I was still considering), and that, considering his point of view, there was no way in which I could recommend this place. His face changed dramatically then, and I don't believe that I seen such a blatantly public facial expression in all my years here. (I could go into a rant about his young age, and the changing cultural mores, blah blah blah.) That expression betrayed his discomfort, (and the fact that he wasn't the top dog here, but was in the unfortunate position of being in charge at this moment, poor guy) yet he still refused. And my voice still rose in anger, and while I never lost my temper, it was temporarily misplaced. The manager's discomfort increased, as other bathers began to listen in on our exchange. And my final trump was that not only would I not recommend this place, I would defame it in print, thereby damaging a business at the crucial age of less than a year old.

So off I went, to cool down with a beer as I waited for Miki to finish her bath. I hid myself in a far corner of the dining area, but the manager still was able to find me to apologize, and stealthily return my money under the table. I too apologized, saying that I'm not a bad person, or an angry person, but that my weariness and disappointment had taken me over. But I felt like I was saying it to myself, as if in justification. Did I win? Nope. While I never yelled or exploded, I still publicly displayed behavior that I despise and avoid at all times here, that of the violently angry gaijin barbarian, prey to his own emotions. I had bullied a poor young guy in order to maintain my principles, as if they are higher than his. I still believe in those principles, that the situation holds more precedence than any inflexible rule. But I've been in Japan long enough to know that this isn't how order is maintained here, and that rules are necessary since, you know, 'you gotta have wa.' As a guest in someone's home, I'd never rearrange the furniture if I thought that the recliner looked better under the window. Better to sit on those feelings, and refuse a return invite, should it ever come again. Despite my shame and regret about this incident, I will never go to a so-called 'Super-sento' again, not because of this encounter, but because I find them the strip mall equivalent of bathing. Gimme a crusty old neighborhood sento anyday...

On the turntable: Jane's Addiction, "Strays"

Kumano Kōdō VI: Kii-ji

09/07/09

We rose at six-thirty, the heat at eight. We climbed up the hill to the shrine above our 'camp' in order to meditate and do some yoga. (We had intended to do this every morning, and little did we know that this would be one of only three days that we actually followed through.) Over breakfast we watched the village below us awaken.

We dropped our bags at Gobō Station, as Miki's friend Shiori go off a train just pulling in. With the addition of our guest walker, we'd decided to go light and train it back in order to enjoy the local super-sento and another night at our private and peaceful hilltop campsite.

This was the beginnings of what became yet another long trudge of a day. The heat continued to increase, but the scenery didn't, offering more of the same view of small factories and bland shops lining the prefectural highway. The river that we followed out of town lay in its concrete bed, the hills that made up the southern border of town sprouted with prefab homes. Not far from here is a place called Amerika-mura, a place that I visited about 14 years ago. At that time, I was struck by how well they'd done the California beach town look. Little did I know that this was the tipping point for much of the architecture that has come since. Having seen a lot more of Japan by now, I think they ought to change the town's name, as it no longer lives up to its original distinction. Like the Osaka neighborhood with which its shares the moniker, these interpretations of elements of American culture and design have themselves become, without any sense of irony, something distinctly 21st Century Japanese.

Cresting a small pass, we finally came to the sea. After four days of smelling her perfumes and receiving flirtatious winks from atop the higher passes, we were finally at her side. How better to celebrate than with lunch, in the shade of a temple just below a hiking trail marked with 88 stone Jizo, a forethought on a Shikoku walk still to come. The water before me looked inviting, but for the massive power plant less than a km away. A fisherman assured me the water was fine, and with his three eyes, he was certain to spot any bad stuff.

We followed the sea through a series of small villages. Where'd I'd been expecting lovely scenes of a fishing culture, I found instead more light industry. The villagers themselves were out of sight, but the cats were active. Crabs crawled about in the sewers, their claws out in that international symbol for massage. We stopped for a cold drink in a shop run by a guy who thought that Miki and Shiori were foreigners, and more bizarrely, spoke Japanese only to me.

We next entered Inmi, who at this point in the narrative, holds the lead for the worst trail markers yet. As in none. There were a couple of markers for Ōji, simply for the benefit of the car pilgrims who'd bring in more money. We left this stingy town by climbing a high pass up to Naha Ōji, a shrine which bore a legend about foot relief for walkers. From here it was a long descent through plum groves and rice fields bordered with curtains of drying rice. This was the only green spot in a long day spent on concrete. (Looking back, I think that this was perhaps my least favorite day on the entire Kōdō.) With so little scenery to entertain us, Miki and Shiori fell back on their friendship. Many times in this blog I've mentioned that I hate to talk about things other than what we were encountering immediately before us. I'm generally not interested in being anywhere but here. So while the two of them were engaged in conversations spanning great distances in time and place, I chose to stay a few meters ahead, with my own company. Here and there I would be drawn into conversation, and it was during one of these times that we unknowingly passed an Ōji. It was the only one on the Kōdō to which we didn't offer a prayer.

We finished at Iwashio Station, beside a small oceanside shrine that would have been perfect for camping. With small regret, I boarded the train back to our bags at Gobō. Little did I know that my day wasn't finished...


On the turntable: "Blind Melon"
On the nighttable: Michael Herr, "Dispatches"

Kumano Kōdō V: Kii-ji

09/06/09

...today was like yesterday, a day spent getting somewhere, rather than being somewhere. We had full packs again, Miki's new and riding well on her shoulders. Our comfort was important, as we needed to cross a 400 meter pass, supposedly the most difficult on the Kōdō. We didn't talk much for the first hour, except to curse Yuasa for having the most useless trail markers so far. Through the town center, there had been plenty of markers, but once away from businesses and shops, they disappeared. I'm beginning to see a certain pattern at work here. Signs erected by the municipalities are usually found in areas where money is likely to flow. Signs deeper in the hills or in the countryside are put up by citizen's preservation groups. The latter have eveb rebuilt some Ōji, which mark the length of the Kōdō itself.

We had met a fellow walker in front of the train station. He'd attempted and failed this same stretch a week ago, and had set out yet again from his home four hours away in Hyogo. We'd had a much shorter journey, having finally checked out of our Wakayama hotel base camp. Being Sunday, everyone at breakfast had dressed casually for a change.

We walked along a river with our new companion, hopping on and off Rte 42, which would be shadowing us all the way to Ise. No one spoke much, as if thinking about the mountain looming ahead of us. The guy from Hyogo stopped at an Ōji to eat lunch, but Miki and I continued on, stopping a short time later, right where the true climb began. As we set off again, a loud bang sounded just above us, its echo roaring down the valley below. A hunt had shot over our heads. We yelled that we were coming through, then passed beyond a gate written with the triple threat warning about boars and bees and vipers. (Oh my!)

There were quite a few dead snakes on the road, plus a couple of lizards, prompting me to dub it the 'Reptile Trail of Tears.' Lots of cold blooded bodies with the life gone out. Miki and I have a different approach to steep trails: she slow and steady as a turtle; me powering up to a long rest at the top. This road was covered by the debris of frequent slides, so much so that it was easy to forget you were walking a sealed road. Near the top, I scared something away, something that crashed largely and noisily through the tress. Probably a deer, as this was Shishigase Pass. There was a clearing where inns had once stood, and when Miki eventually arrived, we had a nice long lunch. The trail down was quite steep, over cobblestones that mark older sections of the Kōdō. The descent brought new trouble for Miki in the form of an open sore on her lower back, where the lumbar support pads of her new pack made contact. She'd be slow and quiet the rest of the day.

It was incredibly hot. We passed through more orchards, then entered a long valley which we'd walk throughout the afternoon. The trail was mainly on a wide, mercifully untrafficked road, though it would often lead us down small lanes between houses. In front of one house, a man was stringing together lengths of beautiful black bamboo, unfazed be the dozens of bees swarming at his house's opposite end. Once in a while there'd be a farmer harvesting his rice with a tractor, but much of this area's harvest looked to have already been completed, the fields dry and stubbly. Up north, they hadn't yet begun. Due to the heat, we stopped quite a few times, once in front of an old wooden post office whose vending machine dispensed disappointingly warm drinks. Another time, we simply plopped down in the middle of the road in the shade of tall trees. As a couple of kids played in front of their house, we quietly took water from a hose at the side. Later, while leaning against a tall wall, enjoying the shade, a farm woman came up to chat. The further down the valley we went, the further forward in time we traveled, until we finally hit a train line and some vending machines. We sat nursing our drinks beside an old shrine with earthen walls, which seemed to protest the tick of the clock.

I don't remember many details of the day due to fatigue and heat. There was a gateball court and a large fishing hole. A narrow path led through a dense dark bamboo grove to a small Ōji sitting with dignity in the silence. An ancient woman leaned against a wall where we'd left our packs, matching our weary smiles.

At five, we finally reached the park where we'd camp. It was on a hillside, out of sight of the road and houses below. I love Japan for these places, with toilets and tables and shaded patches of grass. We dropped our stuff and walked ten minutes over to Dōjōji Temple. The origination of the Anju story (later made into a famous Nō play), it was well visited, and had the obligatory row of shops and restaurants, most now closed. One place was still open, the owner happy to share tales of local history. I was thrilled with my beer and curry, despite the latter consisting of a mere three potatoes and a forlorn piece of beef. (My beer glass had a picture of a samurai supping lustily on a high class woman's nipple. I raised an eyebrow and gave Miki a particular look, but she pretended not to notice, head pointed down toward her domburi. Sigh...)

We paid a quick visit to the temple itself, the rice plants below taking on a gorgeous gold in the setting sun. On the grounds were a mixture of old and new structures, including a massive gate leading through the Edo-period white walls to the house of the main priest.

Near dark now, we set up camp back on our own hill, the row of windmills flickering on the adjacent range we'd climbed hours earlier, as if beckoning the late summer moon to rise red and full...


On the turntable: Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "Where'd you Go?"
On the nighttable: Jiryu Mark Rutchsman-Byler, "Two Shores of Zen"

Kumano Kōdō IV: Kii-ji

09/05/09

We picked up the Kōdō again in Kainan. Here it was a small trail through the hills, shaded with bamboo and lined with stone Jizo statues of extreme age. Each had different features. This enchanted path led us to the temple I'd visited toward the end of yesterday. Nearby, a modest home stood surrounded by a large overgrown garden. This is the origin of the Suzuki family, and at 403,506 members, is the most common name in Japan. Just beyond was Fujishiro Shrine, hung with a humorous banner written with, "Welcome Suzuki-san!" Nearby, a Kuzunoki tree rose to the heavens, each of its three interwoven trunks nearly the size of a van. Behind the shrine was a full-sized wooden horse, and beside it was a small hall that lit up on approach, revealing the impressive line-up of Buddhas within. One of these was the only physical representation of the Kannon deity that is specific to the Kōdō.

We moved into forest here, the distances marked off in chō rather than in meters. The view was of nothing but the factory below. I marveled that the citizens of Kainan had allowed such a immense structure to be plonked down on the outskirts of town, effectively cutting them off from the sea that gave the town its name. The hill rose and took us away. Midway up was a flat indented stone like a calligraphy inkwell. The legend that accompanied it goes back to the 7th Century. Atop the pass was a simple temple of dull wood, set against the brilliant blue sky. We had lunch here, followed later by a dessert of mikan plucked from trees passed on the descent. This completely made our day, eating fresh fruit as we walked along, tainted slightly by the sight of white chemical residue dried to their thick skins. This valley into which we were now dropping was surrounded by a Tuscan landscape of dry hills bearing colorful orchards. It was hot going, the sun straight above and offering nearly no shade. Midway across the valley, we found what is touted as the first mikan tree in all of Japan, ancestor to all that wonderful sweet fruit to come since.

We faced a long ascent up concrete poured along the steep pitch. Shacks marked the orchards through which we climbed, with winch cables criss-crossing the sky above, forming the expressways that the fruit commuted along on their way to the cities. Near the crest of this high steep mountain, we found a group of very old men singing karaoke in a tiny kōminkan. They graciously gave us water, but warned us that the taste might be off, as they'd earlier sprayed for termites. With the heat, thirst beat prudence. Further up still, large turbines were lined across the top of the ridge, whoop-whooping the air as they churned.

Down the other side now, then immediately faced our second 400 meter climb of the day, into a forest landscape offering plentiful shade. We plucked a kiwi from one tree, but it was too sour to eat. The following descent was of the knee-killing variety all too common in this country, as if trails of this type were designed deliberately by orthopedic surgeons. On the floor of the next valley, we stopped for drinks at a local grocery store, directly across from a group of kids unsuccessfully fishing in a grubby canal.

We made it across the valley quickly, over the Arida River and up into the next group of orchards. This was a lower hill than the last two, and a long gentle descent brought us finally to the town of Yuasa, whose main street had a look centuries old. We passed through a cloud of incense as we made our way to the station, ending a six hour perpendicular crossing of some of the hardest passes on the Kōdō, passes which seem to be competing for the most fatalities...


On the turntable: Soup Dragons, "Lovegod"
On the nighttable: William Warren, "Jim Thompson, The Unsolved Mystery"

Kumano Kōdō III: Kii-ji

09/04/09

We used Wakayama as base camp for a few days. The Kōdō bisected a series of train lines within short reach of the city, and it made good sense to commute out and walk light. The bath and bed in our hotel room weren't very big, but breakfast and the internet were free. Before setting out each morning, I'd potter down to the lobby in my hotel slippers, the kind that mental patients wear.

We took the train to Hoshiya, where we'd left off. The water in the rice paddies was alive with small snails and tiny fish, a unique and special biosystem. A temple near here looked somewhat Okinawan, all tiled roofs and palm trees. After a fire here, the temple's statue of Kannon had been moved to a new location nearby. Soon afterward, horses in the region began to die suddenly, unexpectedly, until the statue was returned to the rebuilt temple.

Today's scenery was much like yesterday's -- of villages and rice fields and the canals that bisected them with so much rushing water. Many homes were surrounded by stone shale walls, architectural testament to a tropical clime. Along the way, we passed a house of impressive size, which had once been the family estate of the local tax collector. Climbing Yada pass, we found a small cave cut into the hillside, it's own shale walls sheltering a statue of En-no-Gyoja. Over this pass, we soon came to another. Further down, a wasp was backing across the path, dragging the carcass of a spider three times its size. At the bottom of the hill were a cluster of homes, standing amidst grave stones of incredible age, hinting at how long people have inhabited this valley. The trees that shaded them also offered mikan nearly ripe, a nice thirst-quenching treat.

Beyond a street with some very old posters, we stopped for lunch on the broken stone steps of a nearby temple, beneath a beautifully aged gate. A few bites in, we noticed that we were sitting amidst a nest of caterpillars, each the size of my thumb. It took some time to brush them from our bags and clothes.

It was a hot day, the trail mostly unshaded as it passed between houses old and new. We found some respite beside a large Jizo and had some tea. Close by was Spider Lake, whose grubby water was simultaneously disgusting and inviting. The turtles seemed to have found peace with this, their forms breaking the surface again and again. One mother was teaching one of her babies to swim. She'd twist and arc her body in order to push it under the surface. When it attempted to climb upon her shell, she'd dive deeply, surfacing nearby a minute later. The baby would immediately sense where she was, and swim at great speed to her, and the whole process would begin again.

Toward the end of the day, we came to a large temple complex atop a flight of steep stone stairs. The main hall was flanked by hundreds of stone Jizo statues. Inside were dozens of paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. I wandered further up the hill in order to see the sea, but was frustrated by the large Sumitomo factory that rose up at the water's edge. Walking down now, past a few smaller buildings well on their way to ruin.

The final stretch to the station was along a street lined with old houses, each bearing a red plate written with "K.K." A loudspeaker came on to tell us that the local schoolkids were on their way home, and that we should all cooperate in keeping them safe. Japan these days has a hyper-inflated sense of danger. Just yesterday, those 8-years olds we'd met had shown us their cellphones, to be used in the event of a predatory attack. How depressing that children are being taught to be afraid of a big bad hostile world. Childhood ends early here. (I'm tempted to say that perhaps it never ends at all, based on much of the immature behavior I see around me.)

Again in Wakayama, we walked 20 unhappy minutes on aching feet to get Miki's bag situation sorted out. Then, a long expensive bus ride back to city center, followed by a lousy meal in a local eatery, with annoying radio BGM that consisted of nearly 30 minutes of voices nearly shrieking in incredibly high registers. "AHHH SOOO DESU KAAAAA?!!!!!" I de-clenched my teeth at one point to hear an announcement about an upcoming 6-hour Kumano Kōdō walk, limited to 200 people. God help me...


On the turntable: "Beat the Retreat: Songs of Richard Thompson"

Kumano Kōdō II: Kii-ji

09/03/09

It made for an awkward start, rushing to finish with the house, then dashing to make the train. We handed our keys back to the landlady at five past 10, boarded the train 20 frenzied minutes later. Once aboard, I couldn't believe that we'd made it. A few days ago, even a day ago, I wouldn't have been able to imagine it, what with all that had needed to be done. And after awhile this feeling was replaced by fatigue, by weariness. Sleep pushed in from the corners, but I pushed back. Just not nearly hard enough. We sat on the platform at Tennoji, nearly missing our train resting further down the track, which we had hardly acknowledged until its lights came on like the opening of eyes. A conductor on the adjacent platform had looked over at us, but hadn't been able to extend the courtesy of mentioning that the train we were waiting for was just...over...there. After all that would have meant doing his job.

We detrained at Yamanakadani, fiddled with our packs a bit, then set up the road. We'd finished here on a cold snowy January day, me with aching achilles. Today I felt good despite the recent sleeplessness and stress, despite the greater weight on my back. On recent walks my right hip had complained, but today it felt solid. More surprisingly, my usually griping knee had little to say.

Miki, on the other hand... She began to have trouble within the first half hour. The pack she'd chosen -- the one borrowed from me -- wasn't sitting right. The way in which it peeled back off her shoulders was hurting her back; the way it rode her shoulders dug into some pressure points there. We stopped quite a few times to adjust things in order to ease her pain. This worked for awhile, but ultimately she'd have trouble again. I tried to feel compassion, but there was an element of schadenfreude at work here. During the stress of the move, we'd bickered a lot, me growing weary of her comments and her opinions. She'd really pushed her 'go light' philosophy on me, attempting to make me give up most of my possessions. Yet this current situation was proof that throughout the process, her mind had been so focused on this that she had neglected to properly prepare for the walk. This entire first day was now punctuated by her regrets and complaints. Not that there was much to distract her. The road was a busy one, made noisy by being wedged in between a train line and a highway. This continued for nearly two hours. Conversation was difficult, though Miki had little to say, hunched forward over, eyes on the ground.

Osaka is separated by Wakayama by a narrow stream, the site of the final battle of feudal Japan. Further on, a construction crew was widening the road, on a steep and quick curve. A questionable need. A few days before, the LDP, who supplies the barrels into which such pork is usually tossed, had been defeated most viciously at the polls. Their construction friendly ways may be on the way out. As I passed an army of construction flagmen of advanced age staring off into space, I began to hum, "Your Time is Gonna Come." In this too, I am witness to yet end of another phase of Japanese history. Descending the hill, I thought about how different the DJP victory -- admittedly historic -- had been compared to Obama's win last fall. Here I felt no jubilation, no sense of future promise. All seemed business as usual on the streets of Japan. I fear history will prove me right.

As the road descended, I immediately recognized the vast valley of the Kii-no-Kawa, whose path I had partially followed in the spring. We entered a village at the valley's edge, houses spaced by rice fields, their stalks heavy and bending toward the dry cracked earth which had spawned them. We stopped on the side of the road, to have snacks and tea, to the amusement of the occasional farmer bicycling by. Across the fields was a large temple, where Ono no Komachi had died 1100 years before while on her own Kumano pilgrimage.

Further into the village, a trio of schoolgirls looked shocked at the sight of me. We were a little uncertain about the road that we wanted, and after asking the girls, I overheard one of them ask her friend, "Was he Japanese?' Miki and I moved down the road to their elementary school and borrowed some shade out front for a rest. Turned out the girls had been tailing us, and the bravest one walked up to ask if I were Japanese. We talked with them for a while, let them try to pick up our packs. Miki learned a new Japanese word from them, a term basically meaning "stranger danger," which saddened us that they'd need to know this. This sadness quickly turned to surprise at finding that they'd never heard of Kyoto.

We moved on, through a sea of rice fields straight out of 'Lily Chou Chou.' I liked the way the trail zigzagged from village to village. A beautiful shrine made of earth and stone sat in a small clearing. As we rested nearby, a man came out to offer us watermelon. The locals knew exactly what we were up to, encouraging us with smiles and greetings. It gave us a feeling that we were doing something important.

As the day went on, Miki was having a harder and harder time. Not wanting to add to her trouble, I ignored my usual curiosities -- that beautiful old house with a tea room built over the canal; a shrine with an intriguing tree-lined drive. We finally came to the long bridge across the River Kii. Crossing took about 15 minutes, with multiple rest stops. When we got to the station on the far side, I didn't see any relief on Miki's face, which was by now a mask of suffering.

We'd decided earlier to go into Wakayama city to get her a new pack. Just off the train, we were chatted up by some friendly Mormons, but they didn't know any hotels. Miki wandered off in search of a tourist information stand. I spotted a pony-tailed taxi driver, who I was sure would know a cheap place to sleep. We checked in, then walked over to WaraWara which promised 'new' izakaya fare, like mochi tacos and tofu lasagna. Plus the all important over-sized beers. I slept very well...


On the turntable: Ken Nordine, "Colors"
On the nighttable: Brett Dakin, "Another Quiet American"

The Way of the Mountain

I'm reading 'The Fruitful Darkness," by Joan Halifax and in its pages, I come across this:

"Viewing a mountain from a distance or walking around its body, we can see its shape, know its profile, survey its surrounds. The closer you come to the mountain, the more it disappears. The mountain begins to lose its shape as you near it. Its body begins to spread out over the landscape, losing itself to itself. On climbing the mountain, the mountain continues to vanish. It vanishes in the detail in each step. Its crown is buried in space. Its body is buried in the breath."

I'm immediately taken back to Fuji-san. I walked to her foot though a forest fog, past rotting shrines traditionally only seen by male suitors. I climbed her flank of constantly shifting shale. But I never saw her.

I spent a night in her embrace, breathed in her scent of chemical toilet sanitizers mingling with burning plastic. I stood on her shoulder, arms raised to honor the rising sun. But I never saw her.

Trains and buses took me past her. But she wasn't there. My plane flew over her head. But she wasn't there.

On a clear sunny winter day, she finally showed herself to me. And she's ever within.


On the turntable: Eric Clapton, "Rush"
On the nighttable: Francois Bizot, "The Gate"

Sunday Papers: Mikey Lambe

"I like you. You're stupid like me."

--at the end of a long night of beer and ukelele music


On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Bootleg Series 1-3"

Dueling Bentos

It's spring, and the blogs are multiplying 'round here like rabbits. (Even Miki's in on the act.) Cue the string music, Dueling Bentos has arrived. It will chronicle life in what's dubbed the 'City Different.' Things Japanese, or with a heavier Asian flavour, will continue to be served up here, hopefully twice a week or so. There will also be the occasional double post, where my two world collide in what I'm calling Culturophenia, being neither here nor there, but in some state of mind between.

So join me there, continue to join me here, but please join me. If you've followed me this far, then let's meet where paths diverge at May 1st...

On the turntable: The Latin Jazz Quintet, "Latin Soul"

On the Turntable

Back to sharing a living room with my LPs, I've found myself listening to a lot of vinyl again. There is nothing like the hiss as the needle finds the groove; the unselfconscious pop that irregularly marks time; the clunk of the returning tone arm amplified through the speakers. I've long forgotten how short the sides are. None of these packaged-by-the-hour tunes of compact discs. None of the 'bop 'til the batteries drop' of mp3s. Instead, every 20 minutes you have to get up, walk across the room, and flip the album over. I'm surprised at how much I've missed this manual labor.

On the turntable: "Lester Young" (Giants of Jazz series)
On the nighttable: Joan Halifax, " The Fruitful Darkness"

And Regrets? I've Had a Few...

These days, one of my favorite activities seems to cause me great pain. Every time I watch a Japanese film, I begin to badly long for Japan. No matter the film -- "Lady of Musashino," "Okuribito," or "Zen!" (exclamation point mine, due to all the drama)-- it causes me to doubt my decision to return back here. Now, I'm adult enough to realize that this is due to the fact that I have yet to establish any routine to ground me. Instead, I've passed my days in errands, tasks, and the simple act of waiting for life to begin. There is great peace for be found in meditating and gardening at Upaya, and on the yoga mat. But in 3 months, the only single fun thing I've done for myself was wandering the Tsankawi mesa. On that day, I was thrilled to be here. Most other days, I play the what if game.

Would another year in Kyoto have been so bad? Near the end, I was finally finding acceptance with the yoga world as it is marketed in Kansai. I could've gone back to simple teaching, forgoing the excess of workshops, and trying to ignore all the nonsense. I would've thrown myself more into translation. I would've spent less time in the hills and more time with friends in cafes or alone, strolling the city's narrow streets. I most definitely would've given greater priority to my training in Takeuchi and with the Omine Shugenja. These last two lost chances really sting when recalled, and serve as major sources of regret. Yet, that mantra of 'one more year, one more year' is self-perpetuating and can lead to an entrapment strongly bound by the laws of inertia.

Those who've followed me this far know of my great love for New Mexico, a love I expect will return. But for now it feels like revisiting an old flame who, though still a beauty, has lost some of her charm. And the mind naturally turns to the form of another, who, in times of better and worse, long warmed the bed.


On the turntable: '"Collector's History of Classic Jazz"
On the nighttable: W. Sometset Maugham, "The Gentleman in the Parlour"

Sunday Papers: Jiantung

"Studying the Way is like planting a tree -- if you cut it just when it branches out, it can be used for firewood; if you cut it when it's about to reach full growth, it can be used for rafters; if you cut it when it's somewhat stronger, it can be used for beams; if you cut it when it's old and huge, it can be used for pillars."


On the turntable: Bjork, "Post"