It was a wonderfully beautiful sight, and yet sad, perhaps, from the very excess of its beauty. The arising sun; the setting sun! There we have the symbol and the type of humanity, and all things with which humanity has to do. The symbol and the type, yes, and the earthly beginning, and the end also. And on that morning this came home to me with a peculiar force. The sun that rose to-day for us had set last night for eighteen of our fellow-voyagers!—had set everlastingly for eighteen whom we knew!
The dhow had gone down with them, they were tossing about among the rocks and seaweed, so much human drift on the great ocean of Death! And we four were saved. But one day a sunrise will come when we shall be among those who are lost, and then others will watch those glorious rays, and grow sad in the midst of beauty, and dream of Death in the full glow of arising Life!
For this is the lot of man.
H.R. Haggard, “She: A History of Adventure”
The past few days were fun, scary, impulsive, expected, unique, exciting, frightening, lonely, comforting, angering, frustrating, and above all, memorable.
I wrote down everything I did, as usual. After I finished, I discovered Word hadn’t saved any of it, nor an autosaved backup. So it took me a few days to recall everything.
Table of Contents
1 April 2023
- Ride from accommodation to Oboke station, 8:55-9:25 Oboke station to Kazurabashi bus
- Kazurabashi (vine bridge) and Biwa waterfall (~20m)
- 10:35-10:50 Kazurabashi visitor centre to Hotel Iya Onsen bus
- Iya Onsen (2h)
- Ride from Hotel Iya Onsen to Kazurabashi visitor centre
- Late lunch: soba-gome zosui @ visitor centre
- Early dinner: grilled amago fish and kake-soba at the same random restaurant
- Settling into campsite (2h)
Yesterday, after checking in, the owner said she would drop me off at Oboke station at 8:30. I slept less than I would’ve liked to, after that exhausting day in Shimanami Kaido.
At the station, the owner asked a local about the bus schedule to Nishi-Iya – the popular, western section of the valley, and my destination for today. Unsurprisingly, he said the bus was infrequent, and that it would be best to board the one departing in twenty minutes.
I’d intended to wait at the station for the tourist information centre to open at 9:00, but took his advice. There were plenty of pamphlets and maps inside the tiny station, detailed enough for me to rely on until the next centre.
So I hurried to store my luggage in a coin locker for the next three days – not enough coins, ran to the only grocery store to buy a snack for some change – the machine didn’t accept 500-yen coins, only 100 – ran to the grocery store again for another snack and change – stored my luggage, and managed to catch the bus.
ぎりぎりね。
The bus was tiny, yet full of Japanese tourists. A narrow, winding, cliff-side, one-lane road, high above the valley: we were entering an isolated location. I wouldn’t have dared drive here, but in the passenger seat, I was having a blast.
Everyone got off at the Kazurabashi stop for the vine bridge – the valley’s most famous attraction. Google had told me to stay on the bus until its last stop, which I wanted to visit first, but the driver said the bus didn’t go there.
The internet had been misleading me in Japan time after time.
Thus, I got off as well, and visited the bridge along with everyone.
Kazurabashi
One of the things that made Iya Valley unique, apart from its remote and “hidden” location, was its vine bridges. There were originally thirteen of them, suspended over Iya River. Kazurabashi had been designated an “important tangible folk cultural property of Japan”, made of actinidia auguta gathered in the winter mountain.
In a little over a month and a half, I’d met many locals who had expressed interest in hearing about my trip. When I’d mentioned my intention of visiting Iya Valley, they’d all blinked at me in bewilderment. No one, absolutely no one, had understood what 祖谷渓 (“Iya Valley”) meant.
“かずら橋,” I would then say (“vine bridge”). Around a third of those locals had responded with startled recognition. They’d never been there, but told me it sounded dangerous.
The rest had continued to gawk at me in confusion.
I’d gathered this valley was indeed as hidden as pamphlets and travel sites had claimed. And looked forward more and more to my visit here.
So how had those bridges come to be? The stories were mythical and many. One told of a fallen clan who had taken refuge in this region, and erected such easily-cut bridges in case of an enemy attack. According to another, Kobo Daishi himself had built them, to improve the local transportation.
Kazurabashi was one of the three rarest bridges in Japan. At 2 metres wide and 45 metres long, it hung 14 metres above the stream. Old trees anchored at its two ends supported the weight of the suspension, while steel cables, concealed so well that I learned of their existence after reading a sign, provided extra security.
I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but definitely not such a rocking experience. Quite literally. The bridge shook and swayed as the visitors and I grappled the handles for dear life and treaded step by step.
It struck me just how sturdy yet fragile vines could be. The bridge carried the weight of all its crossers. At the same time, it threatened to chuck us all down.
I looked down at the stream running below me. It was both exciting and unnerving: one wrong step, and my foot could be dangling down between the slats. People were exclaiming various sounds as they went along, expressing both shock and thrill. A child was crying hysterically. I grew a bit scared, and burst out laughing.
I understood the challenge in living here in the olden days.
Every three years, when vines stopped absorbing water in late fall, the municipality would pick them up and transport them down the mountain on trucks. The old vines were then replaced by the new ones, to ensure the bridge never collapsed.
I trusted the methodical way in which Japan performed maintenance for safety measures, and never really feared for my life.
Right next to the bridge, a small yet powerful waterfall was crashing at full speed. The sound of splashing was so hypnotising, that I could listen to it all day.
A small restaurant stood in front of the waterfall. It was 10:00, still too early to eat anything than a grilled stick.
Deko Mawashi was a local specialty: three hefy ingredients skewered together, slathered with miso, and slow roasted around a fire. A locally grown, dense potato; a cube of Iya Tofu, probably the densest (and thus tastiest) tofu in Japan, which had traditionally been carried like a brick using a thin strand of rope; and konnyaku, or yam cake. I nicknamed it “the world’s chewiest root vegetable”, for it reminded me of a mix between a potato and mochi. (I didn’t like it.)
Still hungry, I began walking down the road toward Kazurabashi campsite, where I wished to spend the night. This was the reason I’d intended on doing the vine bridge last – to continue from there to the former. But the western part of the valley was so small, that the order didn’t matter.
The road to the campsite was too long and steep for my liking, so I called them instead. They said I could come today and also rent a tent.
Excited by the prospect of camping for the first time since childhood, I went in the opposite direction to the Kazurabashi visitor centre. The restaurant hadn’t opened yet, so I asked the corner information centre about a bus to my next destination, an onsen in a hotel. For sure there would be food there, howbeit expensive.
“The bus departs three times a day right outside this building,” the only staff member said. “The first one is in ten minutes.”
Iya Onsen
I boarded it and made it to Iya Onsen, a hotel on top of the mountain with a magnificent view of the valley. The narrow, winding, one-lane road up there was even more dangerous than the one this morning, but the driver was used to it. The return bus would be in three hours.
A couple of minutes’ walk from the hotel, a boy was peeing down into the valley.
Okay, it sounded bad, but this was actually a sculpture called the Peeing Boy. Very famous and amusing – as well as confusing. Why had someone erected such a sculpture at this spot?
Perhaps the correct question was, “Why not?”
On the way to the sculpture, I met a Japanese girl who had also come to the valley on a solo visit, and rode the same bus. She was a university student from Kyushu. We chuckled at the sculpture and chatted while marveling the valley. Then we entered the hotel.
I was about to pay for the extremely expensive day visitor ticket, when I realised she’d already paid for the both of us. We’d just met five minutes ago, and yet she refused reimbursement.
Since the onsen was being cleaned between 10:00-11:30, we passed the time in the lobby. I was disappointed to see that the restaurant hadn’t opened, and mentioned my lack of breakfast. She took out from her bag a yuzu soft drink (“Woah,” I said, “I’ve never tasted yuzu”) and a bag of crackers and gave them to me. I insisted on giving her the two chocolate snacks I’d bought at the Oboke grocery store this morning, yet she refused once more.
I didn’t know if there was a more polite person out there than the average Japanese.
At 11:31, we parted ways and entered the sex-segregated onsens.
First, the indoor bath, where I was alone. The view of the valley reminded me of Tokachidake Onsen, which was also high in the mountains. The fact that the bath doubled as an infinity pool reminded me of the rooftop onsen in Lake Akan. It was so spectacular, that I snuck my phone in and took some… artistic photos.
Then I took the cable car to the open-air bath. It was situated down by the river flowing in the valley. Since there was no staff or other passengers, I was instructed how to operate it myself. This made the whole experience even more special: an onsen that required some effort. Like taking three trains/buses over eight or nine hours to reach the highest onsen in Hokkaido. (Except the cable car took five minutes.)
Finally, a rotenburo. The last one was in Hakone, on March 5th; the last one with a view was in Fuji Five Lakes, on March 1st.
The sun was shining directly above today’s bath. I was alone at first, and took up a lot of room by leaning on my hands and letting my stretched body sunbathe from the neck down. After a while, my arms got tired, and I reclined my head against the stone wall. I covered the exposed side of my face with my neon green quick-dry towel, closed my eyes, and listened to water splash into the bath and down the river.
I almost fell asleep like this. A full hour went by, peaceful and relaxing. I took great pleasure in finally having another unique rotenburo experience, particularly because it was a spur-of-the-moment decision from this morning. Before coming on this trip, I hadn’t planned to visit so many onsens.
At 13:30, I got out of the bath. The bus was due in 13:55. Yet the tediously slow cable car returned me to the bus station at 13:56.
I missed the bus.
I texted the Japanese student. She said the bus had departed at 13:54. The next (and final) one was scheduled to depart at 16:37.
And to think I’d wanted to stop by the hotel’s shop to find a thank-you present for her…
As the hotel staff offered to call me a taxi, as I noticed the guy who had soaked and rode the cable-car next to me wasn’t as nervous. I gathered he had rented a car, and asked him in a manner Japanese people would consider too direct if I could tag along on his way down. He was going to the Kazurabashi visitor centre, where I wanted to return.
Unlike the bus driver, this guy had come from the Yamaguchi prefecture. He sat at the end of his seat, driving slowly and anxiously. I would’ve done the same thing.
But we made it down in one piece, and I gave him the first edible souvenir I could find in my bag – the crackers from the student. I felt bad for forwarding a present, but I didn’t want to keep him up as I searched for an alternative inside my bag.
At the visitor centre, the restaurant had opened, so I had soba-gome zosui, a local specialty: whole-wheat buckwheat grain and vegetable soup (finally, something whole-wheat!); and a locally grown blue cheese cracker for dessert. It was good, but under no accounts a full meal.
Problems Arise in Iya Valley
I returned to the information corner to ask the same lady how to get to the eastern and much less accessible (and thus touristy) section of the valley.
“I want to go to Oku-Iya,” I said, “but I don’t have a car.”
Horror. On her face; not mine. This was supposed to be the first weekend since winter when the buses to Oku-Iya would start running. The recent road collapse had ensured they wouldn’t.
She balked at my insistence on visiting Oku-Iya. No one went there alone without a car. She wasn’t too eager to find a way for me to do so. It struck her as a bad idea.
Still, I was determined to venture into the most remote area in Japan. Nishi-Iya was quite too touristy for my liking: the vine bridge was asway with visitors throughout the day. I hoped Oku-Iya would be different.
I asked her for the number of a cab. She warned me it would be expensive.
“Are there any shops in this area?” I finished by asking, since I needed to stock up on food.
“No,” she said, “only two small restaurants that close at 17:00.”
So no dinner for me – at best, a late lunch. (Nor breakfast, since the campsite wouldn’t have any food, either.)
I left the visitor centre deep in thought, trying to plan my meals and transportation. Then I heard two middle-aged tourists converse in Hebrew.
Flabbergasted.
Here, of all places? I had to stop them for a word. They were a couple who had rented a car and started off by road-tripping through Kyushu. Spent most of their holiday in remote, un-touristy locations, like I had. Today, they would be staying at an inn within a walking distance from the campground. And tomorrow, they would be driving to Oku-Iya.
I couldn’t believe it. What a coincidence. They had zero knowledge in Japanese, nor any intel on the recent road collapse. I filled them in, and they offered to give me a ride.
Elated, we exchanged numbers, and I continued down the road to the restaurant from this morning, for my last meal of today: a salted fish grilled on a stick, plus kake-soba, in which the noodles were thicker than usual. Iya Valley had one of the best sobas in Japan.
A Terrifying Night of Camping
At 16:15, I called the camp owner per his request, to let him know I’d be there soon. He arrived by car at the same time as me.
He was a thirtysomething local who lived a ten-minute drive away in the valley. His camp was right on Iya River, in the easternmost point of the western Valley. No one was there but us.
“Are there any other guests coming tonight?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Today is the first day this camp has opened since winter. There will be a few tomorrow.”
Shock. This time on my face. I was sure young tourists on a budget would flock here.
“Have you ever pitched a tent?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. “This will be my first time.”
“Me too.”
I couldn’t believe it. A campsite owner with zero experience in tents?
We headed outside with the gear. I picked a spot under a cherry tree. He gave me a blanket and a tent, and drove away.
I was left alone.
Great. This was the complete opposite of what I’d expected.
I read the instructions in Japanese (no English translation). They weren’t too difficult to understand. It was their execution that broke my spirit.
For a gruelling hour and a half, I attached poles to fabric, fastened hooks, and hammered pegs to the ground. It took a lot of trial and error, since the instructions were not very detailed.
Streaming water, tweeting birds, and pesky flies were keeping me company. The sun was fast approaching the mountains.
Eventually, I came close to raising the tent – yet it refused to stand upright. Something kept going wrong, something I was missing. I needed an extra pair of hands.
I tried not to lose my composure; it wouldn’t have improved the situation. My hands did not shake, nor did panic twist my face. It was half an hour before sunset.
At 18:00, I called the owner. He said he would drive back.
I sat down on the steps in front of the river and waited for help. I was all alone in the world, I realised, not just in this moment and place, but overall as well.
This morning, when I’d made the call, I’d assumed I would meet some guests here. I’d pictured us chatting, pitching tents, sharing snacks, gazing at the stars. I’d had a similar image for every place I’d reached in Japan. The vast majority of the time, it hadn’t come into fruition.
That was the thing about my life. Thing always went wrong. When I looked at the big picture, nothing went according to plan.
I could manage on my own just fine: travel the world, reach remote places, cook for myself, clean, entertain myself with writing and all sorts of hobbies. Once something depended on another person – publishing a book, getting a scholarship, maintaining friendships, finding intimacy – it always went wrong.
The life I’d been leading inside my head couldn’t have been more different than the one I’d been living outside. Now that I thought about it, “Not What I Had in Mind” might be the perfect way to sum up my existence in six words.
I felt like a complete failure. I was 28, unemployed, with no prospects whatsoever. I looked like a sleep-deprived vampire with acne and scars. The only vocation that brought me joy – storytelling – had yielded me nothing. No money, nor readers.
I couldn’t even pitch a tent.
All things go, I thought. Friendship, intimacy, affection; youth and looks. Money, it went by so quickly, if you wanted to live. At this rate, I’d be broke.
The campsite owner parked his car. We tried to assemble the tent together for half an hour. Almost succeeded. Yet something continued to go wrong.
“I think the bungalow might be better,” I said, against my will. It was beginning to grow dark, and I needed the reassurance of a safe haven for the night.
“But… it’s expensive,” he said.
To hell with it. I paid him and packed the tent. He gave me a tiny discount; might’ve also felt bad about the whole situation.
It was still more expensive than most of the places I’d stayed in.
But there was light inside. And a socket, to charge my phone. A tap and a sink. A blanket-less kotatsu. He vacuumed the interior (it hadn’t been used since fall) and brought a key and a futon.
“Are there any animals here at night?” I asked.
“You might see a monkey,” he said. “But they’re not dangerous. Iya Onsen has a lot more.”
I locked the door. The view of the darkening river from the window freaked me out. I drew the curtains, to not attract animals with my light. A lizard fell out from between the fabric. It was still alive.
“Are small, black lizards venomous?” I Googled. Then I decided that I didn’t want to know.
I checked my Mondrian food bag. Inside were two soft drinks, one sour orange, and a chocolate snack. Better to leave those for breakfast, despite my increasing hunger.
Water was streaming more loudly than ever. Birds were screeching. Those sounds had never disturbed me before. Something reminiscent of feet kept touching the roof.
Maybe I wasn’t alone in the world, after all. Plenty of animals were right outside.
As for humans…
I’d been meeting so many people on this trip. We’d had a lot of fun. But then it was over. Even though we could stay in touch, or find another opportunity to meet up in Japan. Nearly all of them had moved on.
I wasn’t sure I had as well.
I thought about all the friendship breakups I’d been through. It always happened, in the end. The same cycle, over and over again. People got tired of me eventually. At some point, they grew apart, until I heard from them no more.
It was rare for me to find people I vibed with, could be myself around. But I still hadn’t found someone who saw the world the way I had. A fact I both reveled in and despised.
I wondered if anyone out there would ever understand me. Unreserved, total support of everything I believed in and stood for: someone who would genuinely have my back.
Maybe my values differed too much from the norm for that.
So why was I writing this blog? Why was I exposing so much of myself? For some relentless porn bots? If I’d known this would be the outcome, I’d have thought twice. Why was I uploading pictures to social media? Why was I sharing my coming out story by posting my childhood diaries in such a raw and nearly unfiltered way?
I knew I sounded like a broken record. Worse, like a baby. But what did it matter, when no one was hearing it anyway?
All things go wrong, I thought, until they just go.
I laid down my futon and improvised a pillow out of my red hoodie. My blanket was flimsy, and the exposed kotatsu was too weak to heat up the room. It only emitted a strong orange light.
Then I wrote all this in my futon (the thinnest and hardest one on Earth.) That helped. Writing, even if in vain – even if read by no one but myself – made me feel less scared.
For this reason, and this reason only, I decided to continue posting on this blog.
I took some melatonin, put on an eye mask and earplugs, and forced myself to forget about my current location, followed by everything in the world.
Today’s highlights: the precipitous roads of Iya Valley; the vine bridge; Biwa waterfall; and Iya Onsen.
2 April 2023
- Ride from Kazurabashi to Oku-iya (~40m drive through detour)
- Ochiai village (20m)
- Niju-kazurabashi (double vine bridges) (20m)
- 11:25-11:35 Niju-kazurabashi to Nagoro bus
- Nagoro (1.5h)
- Lunch: soba with fish, Iya-tofu, rice, and soba dango for dessert @ Soba Dojo
- Second lunch at the couples’
- My first goemonburo
- Early dinner at the couples’
This morning, I woke up at 7:18, before my alarm. The futon was so thin, and lacked multiple layers, that I felt like I’d been sleeping on the tatami floor. My body was stiff and hurt.
I drank the little liquids I had left and ate the chocolate snack. This only made me hungrier. Then I stepped outside. It was cold and quiet.
“This place is not so bad after all,” I thought. Nor did it bother me that I was alone.
Again that rural cycle: content during daylight, terror at night.
The water was too freezing to be touched. I walked on the rocks until I stood in the middle of the river. The increasingly loud stream played a tune to the song I’d begun singing.
I checked out at 8:00 and walked ten minutes to the Israeli couple’s hotel. At 8:30, they picked me up.
Ochiai Village
The drive to Oku-Iya took around forty minutes, including the detour. The road was just as the website had described.
Our first stop was Ochiai village. A “Nationally Important Preservation District”, it was a historic Japanese hamlet stretching nearly 400 meters up a mountain. The spaced-out houses had private farm plots and vegetables gardens.
Nagaoka-ke Historic House stood in the centre – a thatched-roofed, traditional farmhouse that had been restored and converted into a museum. It featured two hearth rooms (one for the residents, another for guests) and an underground potato storage cellar (not unlike the ones where Jews hid in the holocaust).
There wasn’t much else to do in this village – we were the only visitors – so the three of us returned to the car. An old woman greeted us.
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“I do,” she said.
I asked if she knew about accommodations for tonight. I’d intended to stay in this village. There were eight thatched-roofed farmhouses like the Nagaoka one (reminiscent of the one I stayed in Ainokura on February 25th), which would obviously be expensive.
“You can stay at my place,” the woman said.
No way. An invitation to a local person’s house? In such a historically important and remote village?
I immediately exchanged numbers with her and said I’d call her upon my return. For now, the Israeli couple and I continued to the double vine bridges.
On the way, we passed Nagoro (more on it later). I was mulling over my plans for tonight. There was a hiking trail to Mt. Miune, where an abandoned hut stood on the summit. The pictures online looked amazing. Enticing and unforgettable. But the trail was long, ill-marked, and through a forest, where I was sure wild animals roamed. Not very tempting to do so alone.
Another alternative was to stay in a bus just like the Magic Bus from Alaska, where Alexander Supertramp from Into the Wild took refuge in (and died). I was shocked to discover this valley had a bus like this: old, rusty, graffitied, with a broken door and windows, deep into nature.
Coincidence?
It was very tempting, but again, a bit intimidating to hike to it by myself. I would probably get lost. After yesterday’s camping mishap, I’d promised myself to find a more civilised place for tonight.
Niju Kazurabashi
We arrived at the double vine bridges, named so because there were two, one large (considered “male”) and another short (considered “female”). There were almost no people around. Compared to the popular, single vine bridge, this was a great photo op.
There was also no place to buy food. The map had mentioned a restaurant; the lady at the ticket counter said the only shop or restaurant were far from here, near Ochiai.
I was famished by this point. My last proper meal was eighteen hours ago.
The rope cart was broken, as well as the famous monorail. I followed the Israeli couple down to a small waterfall. The woman did yoga poses on a boulder by the river.
They wanted to hike up Mt. Tsurugi (the valley’s easternmost point), while I sought to return west to Nagoro. So this was farewell.
The ticket counter lady told me there would be a bus in forty minutes. I waited, hungry and thirsty. This area was so remote, that encountering other tourists warranted a hello and some small talk: an atmosphere I relished, because it allowed me to easily initiate conversations with anyone I wanted, and thus potentially find a ride and some company.
I was the only one who had ventured into Oku-Iya by myself without a car.
I passed the time chatting to three German tourists around my age. But all the (few) tourists who had stopped at the vine bridges were headed east.
So I rode the bus minivan alone and got off at Nagoro, AKA Scarecrow Village. The next bus would be in four hours. Plenty of time to explore.
Nagoro Scarecrow Village
Nagoro was known for being the tiniest of villages, with more scarecrows than residents (300 to 27, as of January 2020). This was a project begun by local Tsukimi Ayano, who had returned to her hometown in 2002 for her retirement. She’d started making scarecrows that resembled her father, to protect the fields from crows. The neighbours had formed a habit of greeting the scarecrows, and soon enough they’d taken over the entire village.
They were everywhere. Literally everywhere. I kept thinking someone was standing eerily still down the road, or lurking, or ambushing me. But no – I was the only one there.
Each scarecrow had a name (some wore a tag), sex, age, personality, and life story. They were diverse and came from every background and profession: construction workers, salarymen, farmers… they were working the fields, chopping wood, riding bikes, sitting at bus stops, fixing electrical poles, sitting by a table, writing in a notebook, even fishing by the river.
It was creepy to see them up close or from afar. Especially when looking at the windows of the abandoned elementary school, which housed hundreds of them.
I ran into a French family of tourists at the entrance. Inside, there were more puppets than empty space.
Even in broad daylight, I felt like I was visiting the set of a horror movie. Except one that happened in real life.
When I was about to exit the school, I noticed a guy in front of the window on the other side of the river. I waived at him from afar, and only later realised I was surrounded by life-sized puppets. I probably gave him a fright. He must’ve thought I was a mechanical scarecrow or something.
He and his companions approached the school. They were a family of six Germans – two parents, plus four cool twentysomethings. I enjoyed talking to them, and gave them some tips about the area.
Sadly, they were also driving east from here, to visit the double vine bridges. Every single tourist I’d met was headed in that direction.
Even a Japanese guy from Tokyo, here on a solo visit, around my age. He didn’t seem too keen to hang out.
After taking my time exploring the village and photographing myself with the scarecrows, I was done. It was 13:00 – two and a half hours before the next bus.
I sat in a shade, surrounded by puppets. Pretty sure I gave every passing driver a heart attack. So I moved my chair to the bus stop under the sun.
Crows were cawing all the while; fitting for a scarecrow village. I saw one or two locals work their garden.
Resuced in Ochiai Village
After forty minutes, the German family drove by the village on the way back from the bridges, and picked me up.
They were headed to Ochiai village, which I’d recommended them. For the sake of food and accommodation, this was where I wanted to go.
We had lunch at the only restaurant around. No other customers but an old Japanese couple.
I ordered a bunch of dishes, more than they did. It was twenty-one hours since my last meal.
They asked me a bunch of questions about Japan, and at some point we started talking about ourselves. I was delighted to learn that one of the guys had done an M.A. in creative writing the same time as me (in his homeland). I’d never met a graduate of creative writing, let alone a writer, outside my program.
Since then, he’d forsaken writing in favour of DJ’ing. But it was still so cool to talk to him. And his girlfriend, who was working in fashion. And his sister. Their company made today the complete opposite of last night.
We got a complimentary plate of fresh strawberries for dessert – yum – and drove up to Ochiai village. I showed them the farmhouse from this morning. Then we sat under its thatched roof and watched the view.
When it was time to say goodbye, I checked if their hotel in Nishi-Iya had any vacancies.
It didn’t. I couldn’t spend more time with them.
We were greeting each other farewell, when I saw something on the sister’s face. Reluctance to part, mingled with a taste of more. Affection and interest and sadness, since these were all going to end. Her expression was mirroring my emotional state.
This was probably the first time I’d seen this look on someone else. She kept wishing me well and uttering sentences just to prolong the conversation. I would’ve paid for a room at their hotel no matter the cost.
Maybe I was reading too much into things. Maybe I was seeing what I’d wanted to. But I felt like she didn’t want to say goodbye, either.
I gave them my phone number in case they needed anything, like help with translation. This had already happened twice or thrice on my trip, when I’d helped struggling tourists.
They drove away as I called the lady from this morning.
She said something about local accommodations I should call to make a reservation for tonight.
“Oh,” I thought. “She’d changed her mind.”
I said okay, that I would check if something was available, and grew paranoid as I hung up. How the hell would I find something now in this tiniest of hamlets?
I decided to call the Germans – maybe they could drop me off in Nishi-Iya, where I’d find something – but they hadn’t given me a phone number in return. I saw their car go down the slopes, and waived at them from afar.
Too late. They were exiting the village. And I was stuck.
I returned to the farmhouse. The local who worked there said there were no accommodations.
Panic.
The only thing left to do was to call the lady again.
I told her there were no vacancies. We met a minute later, and she invited me to her home.
“No food, just sleep, okay?” she asked. I left the restaurant hungry (didn’t want to keep the Germans up, I was the last one to finish eating), and returning there by foot would take a while.
I put my things inside. She and her husband gave me a tour. A traditional, one-storey house, with wooden floors, a stove, an technologically advanced appliances (such as automatic light). The guest room was huge, with a view of the valley.
Then the woman asked if I was hungry, and hurried to serve me lunch.
My stomach was so empty, that a second, full meal couldn’t stuff me. But the food was great. The vegetables, she and her husband had grown.
“Don’t leave any leftovers, please,” she said. (In Japanese, this was a nice way of saying “please eat a lot”.)
With the inclusion of tomatoes and chicken, this was a challenge. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hated both. Asking Japanese people to make changes to your dish was considered extremely rude, and I was in no position to turn down any offers. They’d invited me into their home. The least I could do was smile and say thank you.
So I hid the disgust on my face as I chewed both.
After lunch, the woman took a photo of me, and sent it to her daughter. She was originally from Ochiai, but spent her winters in Kobe, to be near her daughter.
Her husband – the worst example of a slurring Japanese elder, by far. I could barely understand him. He kept talking about his family who’d died in the war, particularly about his late father. A lot about the olden days. He had a bit of a hearing problem, and reminded me of my grandpa.
He was chugging beer, can after can, like water. She said it was the only thing he drank.
“ね、お父さん、” she uttered after every sentence. I’d known the latter word could mean “husband” in an honorific way, but always heard its more common meaning (“dad”). I wondered if this couple had ever called each other by their first name. This was a rural, conservative place.
Only twenty people still lived in this village. All their age. I grew frustrated at the fact that I was once again surrounded by elderly locals, like in Hokkaido, and longed to spend my time around people my age.
Then I reminded myself: not many people could say they’d stayed at a locals’ house in such a village.
A neighbour couple showed up, curious to see me. The woman said I looked like a girl (sans the beard).
My host suggested I took the bus tomorrow. Possessing a car, she probably wasn’t aware of the shut service. I said I’d rather take a cab; she called a driver, and booked it for 7:30.
Then they ran for me a bath. There was a regular one inside the house, and a goemonburo (cauldron bath) in its own separate structure. A tiny, round bath, warmed by a wood stove underneath; the husband placed a cover before I entered, so I wouldn’t burn my butt and feet.
I could barely fit inside, but it was still relaxing. The wife laid down a futon for me in the meantime, and served dinner soon thereafter.
Thank god – I was still hungry. She was the kind of woman who constantly went to the kitchen to bring more food and drinks, instead of paying attention to her plate. I was clearing mine faster than her, so she just moved stuff from her plate onto mine. Every time I got up to clear the table or do the dishes, she told me to sit down.
We watched the news while eating. (Sausages this time, instead of chicken.) Instead of reporting about crime and tough living conditions, it showed people visiting attractions, to promote tourism; people guessing the price of groceries; and went to people’s houses, to see what was inside their fridge. The only bad news was from abroad, e.g. a hurricane in the US.
I noticed my pants had clung to my left knee. Apparently, my wound had been oozing so much puss after the bath, that it was like glue. The wife covered it in talcum and gave me a bunch of band-aids.
Later, she showed me pictures of her family.
“ほら、” she said with every swipe on her smartphone. “ほら、ほら、ほら、ほら。”
Then she brought out an enormous, expensive bottle of sake. The husband filled my glass of water with it to the brim. It was strong and delectable. I got so full and tipsy, that I couldn’t finish my drink and meal.
They excused me as I went to bed. The futon was the cosiest and fluffiest it could’ve been; the three blankets were heavy and consoling. After last night, a full 180 degrees.
Between 20:00-20:30, I typed today’s occurrences on my phone. I’d parted with my laptop yesterday for the first time on this trip. Then I put on ear plugs, because the paper sliding door was too thin to block sounds from the TV.
Snug and quiet. Stomach full, head light and merry. I loved going to bed like this. It made every struggle unimportant.
By 21:00, I was fast asleep.
Today’s highlights: standing in the middle of the river in early morning; the double vine bridges; Nagoro village; hanging out with the Germans; eating strawberries and a soba dango; eating, bathing, and sleeping in a locals’ traditional home; and going to bed (or rather the snuggest futon) with a belly full of fresh food and top-notch sake.
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