Greetings, friends and fellow blogstars! How is life treating you? I haven’t been very active in the blogosphere of late because (1) I’m lazy and (2) I’ve been busy preparing for my 16 day trip to Korea, China, and Mongolia – actually a lot of time was spent procrastinating and most of the preparing has been done in the past few days and is actually still under way e.g I get my credit card tomorrow, God willing. I leave this Wednesday. I’ll be back, again God willing, on the 25th. Also, I spent Wednesday and Thursday of last week in Tokyo. The city is completely nuts, and I loved it. I wouldn’t mind living there actually. As long as I could live within walking or riding distance of my workplace so that I didn’t have to catch the trains in the mornings and evenings with the 12 million other inhabitants of the city. Perhaps I could be a pusher – the stations/rail companies employ people to push commuters onto the trains during peak times. I think I’d be good at that.
Anyway . . .
As some of you well know, I have lived in Fukuoka city, on the southern island of Kyushu, for just over two years. Despite this it wasn’t until last December that I was able to take myself on a little trip around the island. The places I went to included Nagasaki, Kagoshima, Miyokonojo, Saga, and Aso. This post will look at my brief stay in Kagoshima, the sho chu capital of Japan.
This trip of mine began on 28 December. By chance, and on the same day, my good friend Masa happened to be returning to his hometown of Kumamoto with his family to visit relatives. As Kumamoto is on the way to Kagoshima he offered me a seat in their car. I sat up front with Masa. His wife sat in the back with the kids (aka Noah, Rimn, and Kira). Little Rimn had wanted to know why Santa was back. Masa explained that because Christmas was over, Santa was going on holiday; and because he was Santa’s manager, Santa – that’s me – would be travelling with them. He told them that it’s very important they keep it a secret.
Two and half-hours later we arrived at Kumamoto where Masa dropped me off at the station, and from there I took the shinkansen, or bullet train, the rest of the way to Kagoshima.
It was about three-thirty in the afternoon when I arrived in Kagoshima station. It is a large monstrous complex, a Frankenstein building, part shopping complex part amusement centre with a Ferris wheel jutting out of the roof.
I found a hotel room very close to the station. There I consulted my Lonely Planet plus a few pamphlets that I picked up from the information counter in the station. Proving much more useful than the weighty guidebook, the pamphlets listed a number of tours that I could take of the city and its surrounds. One tour listed under Red Liner Bus Tours caught my eye. They were offering a six-hour tour of the city and of the nearby volcano-island of Sakurajima. I returned to the information counter and bought a ticket. The bus would be leaving the station at 8:50 the next morning. For me, rarely out of bed before 10:30, waking up and getting there on time would be a challenge.
Thus thinking it would be best if I stayed away from the bars and the shou chu I decided simply to take a walk through the busy streets and the intersecting arcades until I found a place to have dinner. I ended up eating at a little Mexican restaurant: two tacos, one chicken fajita, and a glass of orange juice that was red. The young woman who was serving me said it was Spanish. I think she was the restaurant’s owner. I’d ordered the juice because there was no alcohol on the premises, probably a blessing in disguise.
After dinner, I returned to the station’s shopping and entertainment complex to watch a movie. It might seem like a strange thing to have done when visiting a city for the first time, what a waste, right? Especially since it was only for a short time. But I knew I would be in for plenty of exploring the following day and for the moment all I really wanted to do was kick back and relax. So I gravitated towards the cinemas. The name of the movie I chose, reluctantly, to see – reluctantly because they were not providing English subtitles – was Iwojima kara no Tegami: Letters from Iwojima.
The theatre was unusually full. Even more unusual was the high percentage of the audience who were elderly. At first I just assumed this was because the movie was about Japan and WWII. But later I would find out that Iwojima is in fact part of Kagoshima, and thus the story had added interest for the locals – this was the first of several coincidences I experienced during my short stay in Kagoshima. Also, I would discover, later, that the island is off limits to tourists, which explains why I was unable to find it in my Lonely Planet.
Some music played before the previews came on, most of it British and American. A song by the one and only Mr Snoop D-O-double-G came on containing just about every cuss word known to man, plus a few that are not. Far as I could tell this registered with no one but myself. This produced a mixed reaction within me: slightly amused, yet also annoyed that to these people my native tongue was nothing more than an ornament. Then, when the movie started those feelings quickly disappeared and were replaced by the usual feelings: regret at having not studied more diligently, and shame from having been in the country for two years but still being piss poor at the lingo. Like I said, there were no English subtitles and so for most of the film, save for the odd word here and there, and the one or two English scenes, I sat watching without fully understanding the dialogue between the characters. Even so, I felt, bodily, the gut wrenching emotion and the gravity of the situation portrayed in the film. I could hear those sitting near me trying to stifle their tears.
The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn i.e. 8 o’clock (near enough to dawn for me). Shortly thereafter, and well on time – a tremendous start to the day – I was handing my ticket to the tour guide who stood at the open door of the bus which was red as promised. She wanted to know if I could understand Japanese. I held up a thumb and forefinger and gave my standard response: “Sukoshi”, which as you may have guessed means a little. She giggled nervously, handed me a couple of English pamphlets, ushered me on board.
I was one of the first. While I waited for the bus to fill up and the tour to get under way, I read through the pamphlets and drank a can of black coffee that I had grabbed from a kombini (convenience store) en route to the bus stop. Then, at exactly 8:50, we were off. My fellow bus buddies, much like my fellow moviegoers of the night before, were mostly middle-aged and elderly. And as far as I could tell I was the only gaijin.
Now as I mentioned before, it was a 6-hour tour, don’t worry I’m not about to take you through an in-depth play-by-play, just the highlights, of which there are one or two. Our first stop was Shiroyama (White Mountain). Along the way I strained my ears trying to listen to the guide who was speaking at a million miles an hour as she directed our attention to a statue here, a shrine over there, and several nondescript buildings of apparent importance here there and everywhere else. She seemed hardly to take a breath. As had been the case at the movies I was pretty much in the dark, but again, like the movies I was enjoying myself. In an attempt to get around this language barrier I tried referring to the pamphlets but soon I realised when I looked up, having found the relevant information, the statue shrine building etc, was half a K behind us, shrinking out of sight. The pamphlets were a distraction and so I tossed them aside, thus resigning myself to the flow. I did not need to understand every word that was said. It was enough simply to enjoy the moment and to take in everything with my eyes. I didn’t know it yet but one of my fellow passengers was in the same boat as me, though for very different reasons. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
At Shiroyama we got off the bus and were led by our fast-talking, now fast walking, guide, along a path strategically lined with souvenir stands. She held a red flag high in the air presumably so we wouldn’t get lost in the crowds . . . that at present were somewhere else. The place was deserted except for us. At the end of the path we arrived at a lookout from which we could see the city below and Sakurajima behind it on the other side of Kinko Bay. Of course we spent the next few minutes taking photos. Also vying for our attention were a couple of old men dressed in brightly coloured tracksuits who, during the time we were there, did a lot of stretching and limbering-up, and, most impressively, hand stands. Also, they made a great display of breathing in the mountain air. Regrettably, I did not take their photo.
The view from Shiroyama
Next stop was a place that has two names: Sengan’en or Iso Garden, take your pick. It is the site of what was once the residence of the Shimazu clan, the family that ruled the Kagoshima region for nearly 700 years until the Meiji Restoration. Again led by our flag-bearing mother goose, we wandered through the garden and then had a group photo with Sakurajima behind us. I gave a thousand Yen and my address to the photographer, trusting that he would send me a copy. A week or so later I got it in the post, and I now have it pinned to the wall in my room. It’s an odd photo – clear, good quality, Sakurajima looks very impressive, but none of us, myself included, are smiling. More than that, we look miserable. I cannot explain it; perhaps it was the sun in our eyes.
The view from Iso Garden
After the photo we were told we had roughly half an hour in which to have a look around and get back on the bus. I snapped a few photos of my own. The most impressive thing I found was a 150-pound iron cannon. I knew nothing of the stream where poetry parties were once held – cups of sake floating down the stream, partygoers rushing to compose a poem before the next one reached them. Had I known about it I would have definitely taken a Captain Cook.
Iso Garden
Back on the bus there was a quick headcount and we were off. Again our guide had much to say and seemingly not enough time in which to say it.
“Can you understand what she is saying?”
The question came from a middle-aged man sitting across the aisle from me.
“Not a word,” I said.
He chuckled. “Where are you from?”
I told him. His eyebrows lifted, his whole being became animated.
“I work for Cochlear! I’ve been Sydney many times.”
We chatted until we arrived at Sakurajima Pier. I won’t bore you with the details. I mention the incident only because it was one of those queer coincidences that I alluded to earlier.
Once we were on board the ferry we were permitted to get off the bus. We climbed the stairs up to the passenger seating area on the top level. The sky being clear, we had an excellent view of Sakurajima as we made our way across the bay. I went out on to the deck to take a few pics. As you might expect with a volcano there was a fair amount of smoke. It billowed, lazily, out of the mouth, and out of gill-like crevices in its sides. It seemed like a huge, living, breathing beast, albeit momentarily sleeping. I’m told it is Japan’s most active volcano. Doubtless one day it will wake with a start. Every few minutes or so the smoke at the beast’s mouth would grow rapidly, puffing itself up as if readying itself to release all of hell’s fury. For me, this being my first volcano experience, it was quite alarming, and several times I had to fight the urge to scream for everyone to run for their lives, though obviously that would have been difficult for us to do being on a ferry.
We arrived at Sakurajima Port and then proceeded on a lap of the island making a few stops along the way. There was the torii (shrine gate), which had been buried by lava flow, only the very top of it showing above ground. For this we didn’t get off the bus but instead just parked next to it taking photos through the windows, the result of course being very shite photos. Next we stopped at a little souvenir shop selling jars of some kind of jam and bottles of sho chu. I purchased the latter. (This would have an impact on things later in the evening) Then we stopped at a lookout, had a stroll through a lava field, ate lunch at a restaurant-slash-souvenir store, and then we drove part way up the mountain to another lookout. Here it was frucking feezing, and a strong wind set my teeth a chattering. I took quite a lot of photos. Mr Cochlear was kind enough to take one of me with the volcano behind me. From where we were you could see where chunks of the volcano have fallen away and where the lava flows have over the years created natural canals. In addition to these there were many man-made concrete canals leading down to the bay behind us, of which we also had a good view, and of the city of Kagoshima. They looked like heavy duty storm-water drains and were strewn with a lot of volcanic debris.
The buried torii (told you it was a shite photo)
It was almost time to head back to the port, but before that we had one more stop. The bus delivered us to what looked like yet another small shack-like souvenir store. Inside was a pottery workshop. Standing at the rear of our group I listened to a man give what I assumed to be an explanation of how they go about making the pottery which included tea cups, sho chu and sake cups and all sorts of dishes and bowls etc. I could not see the evidently short man who was giving the explanation but when he finished he directed the group to about-turn so that I now found myself at the front of the group and reluctantly leading the way into the next room where we were served tea. There was the distinct impression it was hoped we would buy some of the pottery displayed in and on several glass counters and shelves that lined the walls. I did not buy anything and when I had finished my tea I was straight back outside to have a look at something that had caught my eye on the way in: two caged pens. One contained a very old, arthritic and no-longer-wild boar, the other, an Emu. Old man emu, why not? We were two Aussies very f’ing far from home. He looked in pretty good nick, though. Judging by the lush vegie garden behind his pen, I’d say he eats pretty well (assuming Emus eat vegetables). Having said that, I also reckon that it had been a long time since he’d really stretched his legs and gone for a good run, poor fella. Obviously I was stumped as to why he was there and when the others emerged from the teahouse I put the question to Mr Cochlear but he was unable to shed any light on the matter. It was a bloody mystery. An only in Japan kind of thing, and by that I mean that it was completely bizarre and inexplicable, like when I found The Cable Guy in the suspense section at my local rental store.
Finally, our tour nearing its end, we rolled back onto the ferry, and once again climbed the stairs to get a seat. I sat right up the front, promptly losing myself in thought and reflection – on what I can’t remember – as I stared out the window at Kinko Bay and Kagoshima City on the other side. I hadn’t noticed anyone sitting next to me until I felt someone tapping my left arm. I turned, half expecting it to be Mr Cochlear, but it turned out to be another member of our group, a gentle-and, it must be said, nerdy-looking guy, no stranger to computers was my split-second appraisal. Anyway, he was holding an A4 sheet of paper on which he had written ‘Where are you from?’
The penny had not dropped, was nowhere near dropping. ‘Australia,’ I said happily, dumbly.
He looked as though he had not quite heard me and I was about to say it again only more slowly and clearly when he pointed to his ears and then made an X with his fingers. Deaf. Feeling rather stupid I accepted the pen and paper from him and he watched as I wrote Australia.
Nodding his head vigorously, he took the pen and paper back off me.
‘I love Australian film.’
Fair to say I had not seen that coming. I took the pen and paper again.
‘Why? What Australian films do you know?’
He told me there had been an Australian film festival in Tokyo earlier in the year. He listed the names of a few of his favourites but I had never heard of them. I guess they must have been older films. He had not heard of Chopper or The Castle. His English was very good and we talked in this way, passing the pen and paper back and forth, until it was time to get back on the bus. His name was Masanobu, he was an interpreter who lived in Tokyo with his mother, and he had not been born deaf but had only become so after an infection following some kind of operation as a child. He introduced me to his mother who was sitting next to him. She wanted to know where I was from and I tried to tell her but she couldn’t understand me. Masanobu tried to explain using sign language but I guess the sign(s) for Australia are not well known to her because she still seemed unable to understand. Indeed she seemed to have more difficulty communicating with her son than I did. I asked her to take a photo of me and Masanobu, and then, when we got back on the bus, he gave me his business card. In return I gave him a scrap of paper on which I had written my email address and a little note saying to contact me if he were ever in Fukuoka. Several days later, however, when I was back in Fukuoka I was disappointed to find that there was no email address on his card and therefore I was unable to email him our photo. Sadly I haven’t heard from him since.
Meeting Masanobu made my day. It seemed like something more than mere coincidence. For the past day and a bit, starting from when I had gone to see Letters from Iwojima, my own ears had been all but useless. And having met Mr Cochlear earlier in the day it seemed fitting that the day should end – at least this part of it – in this way. Perhaps the cosmos was trying to tell me something, though what that might be I’ve got no idea.
We're smiling on the inside
Everything you ever sense, in touch or taste or sight or even thought, has an effect on you that’s greater than zero. Some things, like background sound of a bird chirping as it passes your house in the evening, or a flower glimpsed out of the corner of an eye, have such an infinitesimally small effect that you can’t detect them. Some things, like triumph and heartbreak, and some images . . . attach themselves to the secret gallery and they change your life forever.
( Lin in Gregory David Roberts’s Shantaram)
