Irago in Photos: Part 2

Just beyond the Irago ferry port is a concrete wall that projects out from the mainland, bending once at an angle that creates a mostly-enclosed area for the ferries and fishing boats. If the signs don't outright say 'Do not enter,' I'm fairly confident that they at least say 'Caution.' For although the wall is just wide enough not to be scary on a nice day, a high wind could be deadly for even those with good balance. Regardless, it appears to be a popular fishing spot.

Fishing, along with golf and bird-watching, have never interested me much because I lack the patience that they require. My father once took my brother and I out fishing, but what I remember most is my brother, in a characteristic bout of enthusiasm, showing me how to cast the line out. He swung the rod back over his shoulder and then forward onto the water, eyes widening and mouth forming an o as it slipped out of his hands at the last second, continuing its outward trajectory before finally sinking below the surface. There may have been some tears as a result, but after some tense, quiet minutes, my father succeeded in fishing it back out using his own pole. Between the three of us, I don't think any fish were caught that day, but I know that my brother was pleased to have the fishing pole back.

The Retreat

In a few days I'll be leaving the cabbage fields, virgin forests and shrines of the Irago peninsula, where the nearest convience store is a thirty minute bike ride away and the few local restaurants change their schedules on a whim. It gets dark early and there are no street lamps. Many people would probably find it too quiet, but it's felt like the perfect stop between urban jaunts. To me, the past few weeks represent The Calm Before I Go to China. 

When was the last time I watched the sun set and saw the stars at night? When have I ever not had to worry about locking up my things? (An aside: there is even less security here than in the cheapest hostels I've stayed in during my travels. I was worried when I first arrived, until I noticed that V kept his DSLR and laptop in plain sight from the door, which all but faces the main road).  

I've embraced the bland-smelling eco soap that we use for everything, the minimal electricity use and limited wi-fi access, and relished not shaving my legs or wearing makeup. Instead of checking my email and social media accounts before lights out, my new ritual is a mug of herbal tea and a good novel. Although I miss certain foods like brie and tacos, obasan's home cooking has led me to embrace the simple deliciousness of miso soup and a bowl of freshly made rice. I feel better, calmer, more productive.

Of the questions people ask me about travel, the most common are whether it gets lonely on the road or if it's hard to acclimate to a different culture. And my answer is that no matter how many thousands of miles you are away from your geographic comfort zone, it's just as easy to slip into a new one somewhere else. Getting there is usually the hard part.

Irago in Photos, Part 1

Taken on separate occasions. The first, a sunny afternoon when I biked (taking the hilly way rather than the flat way) around the cape to a rocky beach that I'd spotted from the observation deck of the Irako View Hotel. I have an innate predilection for climbing things (sculptures, fire escapes, roofs) that sometimes gets me into trouble. It was fun until I very nearly tumbled into a deep ravine after what I'd thought was the perfect handhold broke away from the main rock. For a split second my hands grasped at the air, and then my knee came down - hard - onto the ledge I'd been perched on when I took the second photo below.

On a different day, I took the bike in the opposite direction and followed the coastal road that runs along the bay side of the peninsula. It was so windy that the grains of sand pelting the part of my face uncovered by large sunglasses stung, and I felt like a drunk person trying to keep the handlebars steady. Despite the challenges, I enjoyed watching the almighty waves crashing up against the concrete barriers, formed by interlocking bits of concrete that resembled pieces from a giant's game of jacks.

The Guests

This is the off season for the b&b. Although the peninsula is no doubt beautiful at any time of year, right now night falls by 4:45 pm (I googled it and the results indicated that Japan only observes DST "sometimes") and it's much too cold to even dip your toes in the water - that is at the few beaches where the waves are mild enough that it's safe to. Below is a summary of the people who have come to stay during my tenure and my impressions (read: judgements) of them.

The first real challenge was the overnight stay of a children's baseball team with coaches and parents in tow. V was still here, so both of us donned awkwardly large black chef coats, brown aprons and matching newsboy caps, as well as plastic nametags bearing the names of our countries of origin and helped serve dinner. (The nametags were to prevent the guests from trying to engage us in conversation. V, being Spanish, was an obvious foreigner; I am not). The meal was a long and drawn-out affair, full of kids running and yelling in the hallway and the coach's feeble attempts to make them be quiet. Thankfully everyone was quieter the following morning at 6:30 am breakfast.

When we cleaned out the adults' rooms after the group's departure, I had a sudden flashback to the mornings after parties I'd thrown in my room in college - cups, scattered and half-empty, and beer cans that everyone had been too lazy (or drunk) to consolidate into a trash bag. No matter, if those had been my kids I would have been drinking a lot too.

Next came a group of university students who, we were told, had come here to party. We cleared the largest tatami room for their use, but with all its austerity it seemed, to me, the last place I'd want to let loose and potentially make a mess. Whatever shananigans they may have gotten up to, however, they were much neater than the adults in the last group, neatly bagging up all their trash before they left. 

The weekend of a local marathon, a rather unhealthy-looking group of young people stayed for one night. One of the guys had an unfortunate condition that left his sheets and corner of the room covered in flakes of skin that, from afar, looked like crumbs. I shook off what I could outside, and hoped that the lint catcher inside the washing machine would take care of the rest. 

For the most part, though, guests at this time of year are lone travelers, truck drivers, or maintenance workers assigned to the area. All men, of course, whose pungent, left-behind odors after only one or two-night stays never cease to amaze me. (If they're smokers, it's even worse). After checkout we leave the windows open for a day or so, willing God to return the room to state of olfactory neutrality.

There's also the occasional Single White Male, which under the circumstances I put in a separate category. I always hope that they're not here to find a Japanese girlfriend/wife but, you know, yellow fever is as yellow fever does.

No-Name Mountain

On a morning when we didn't have any guests, my host mom cheerfully announced that we'd be going on an excursion with her daughter. We drove a little way out from the inn, to another mountain resting on the peninsula. I asked what it was called. Neither knew.

At the trailhead, mother and daughter performed a little ritual that they have to make decisions - mom pinched her thumb and forefinger together and daughter tried to pull them apart. They did this twice (once for each direction), and somehow divined that we were to head right, which we did. Eventually the path began to slope upward, crude steps cutting into the mountainside that made us lose our breath.

Rounding a corner to see a large red torii gate looming ahead, I realized that the other woman had stopped. I looked back, and noticed their uneasiness. They gestured for me to return to them, and proceeded to take an alternate path up towards the top of the mountain. Once we were far enough away from the shrine, the daughter explained to me, between breaths, that red gates were bad, and that shrines who had them paid homage to foxes, known in Japanese culture for their deception and, in her words, "bad energy." I immediately thought of Fushimi Inari Taisha, one of my favorite places in Kyoto, which has tons of red torii (and so close together they form tunnels) and fox statues.

At the end of the trail is a wooden deck that enables a panoramic view of the surroundings without interference from the tree tops. Panting slightly, I willed myself up the wooden steps, and what should I find at the top but a group of middle-aged bird-watchers dressed in varying degrees of camo. The man I immediately singled out as my favorite was wearing camo pants and jacket (but different shades), a camo face mask and had his phone in a camo pouch attached to his belt. Not to mention the bands of camo covering his DSLR lens. What were they doing up there? Apparently this is prime hawk season. 

We stayed about twenty minutes past the point that I found the group to be entertaining, and truth be told I was feeling cold and slightly hangry (when you get so hungry that it makes you inexplicably irascible). Finally, mom and daughter bade goodbye (my Japanese is still well below the conversational level), and we continued the hike through Flower Road - named for its blooming trees on either side and back down to the car.  

Mom made a detour at the supermarket for bento boxes, which we greedily ate en route to the next destination, a secluded temple called Sempuku-ji. Halfway up a different mountain, this is one of the area's oldest temple, which I had guessed from the faded orange paint, cobwebs and deteriorating wood. After admiring the curious statues inside the main building, we piled back into the car to head home. I had spotted what looked like a trail leading upwards but made a point of keeping quiet about it - I was already beat.

Ready, aim, fire.

Flower road.

Sempuku-ji.

More from this excursion in the Irago album.

Maestra, Sensei

I have a little note pad that I carry around with me throughout the day, scribbling odd Japanese words and phrases. I would never dream of becoming conversationally proficient in the little time that I'm here, but it always surprises me how stimulating just hearing the language is. Stirring long-lost lessons from the Saturday Japanese classes that I attended as a child from the recesses of my brain, I can often grasp onto particles of concepts - verb endings for the past and future tenses and the command for, phrases like "be careful." I can't force it though; it's like trying to remember a dream from the night before. Best to let it bubble to the surface on its own, and even then it's only bits and pieces.

If anything, though, it's my Spanish that's been getting exercised of late. The owner's daughter decided a while ago to teach herself Spanish and, now that V is gone, I've become the de facto teacher. (Not that I'm totally unqualified - in total I've spent some eight years or so learning it in school). We make an unlikely good student-teacher pairing. She's learned quite a bit on her own, but is not so advanced that I can't stay ahead of her. And while I'm rusty on compound verb forms and more literary grammatical rules, I still know the most commonly used conjugations like the back of my hand.  

On light work days when there are no guests, we'll have "lessons" where she comes to me with a page of handwritten questions and vocabulary that she wants to learn. We'll practice speaking, me sometimes having to mentally extricate the Spanish from the French, and before I know it an hour has gone by. And then I realize how much I miss it - languages, learning, classrooms.  

I've also become the unofficial photography mentor, as she purchased a DSLR kit several months ago and is earnestly trying to improve her style and technique. This I feel more unsteady about; once you've mastered how to use the hardwear, it's a little impossible to teach artistry. Regardless, I provide feedback when I can on lighting, framing and which lens to use. Together we've gone out to shoot near the beach a couple times at sunset. Watching us one day, her mother joked that I was like the big sister even though she's a few years older than me.

This, of course, reminds me of my own older brother, who for many years growing up I believed knew everything. Literally. As in I took whatever he told me to be the absolute truth. Maybe that's part of why he continued to feed me such tall tales even after I was old enough to know better - there's something warm and fuzzy about someone putting their complete trust in you when, half the time, you don't even believe in yourself all that much.

Seeking Solitude; Finding Food

An hour's ferry ride from Irago Port, past rocky monoliths covered in forest green the texture of delicate broccoli florets, is Mie prefecture. Certainly, the Irago peninsula is beautiful, with its beige sand beaches, ample fishing and picturesque sunsets, but one gets the sense that for travelers, at least, it's more the rest stop than the actual destination. For many Japanese, Mie, home to the most important Shinto shrine in the entire country, is a site of annual pilgrimage. Tourists tend to go on to Nagoya, but Ise Shrine falls neatly into the category of Things You Have to See. 

Visitors relaxing by the river.

Passing under a large, natural wooden torii and over a bridge high above a shallow river, the entire shrine complex, with its gravel paths and ancient wooden structures, is thoughtfully carved into the forest. Some areas have manicured trees and potted flowers, and yet the overall effect is still one of peaceful harmony. I'm told that this area of Japan (including the Irago peninsula) has some of the oldest land, not just in the country, but in the entire world, and that entire pockets of virgin forest exist to this day. It's lovely at this time of year, when the leaves are starting to change from emerald green to fiery shades of orange and red.

Apart from the fact that it's dedicated to Amaterasu, the rain goddess, Ise Shrine is unique amongst Japan's many Shinto places of worship in that it's one of the oldest. Unlike Buddhist temples, which are always thick with smoke from candles and incense, and full of tables threatening to collapse under the weight of offerings, Shinto shrines are quite sparse. People come, rinse their hands, bow and clap their hands several times, and perhaps toss some coins into the provided wells; a quiet and simple affair.

After traversing the entire park, marveling at all the old trees and thickness of the shrine's thatched roofs (2 feet at the widest point!), I returned to what had initially interested me the most: Oharaimachi, the nearby shopping district.  Consisting of one main promenade and various little side streets, it's reminiscent of the beginning of Spirited Away, when Chihiro's family happens upon the food stalls that turn her parents into pigs. (And by that I mean the old architecture, the alleyways and traditional food; as far as I know there is no human transfiguration involved).

Those trees!

Street view.

This area is known for many culinary specialties, ranging from sweets like tofu donuts to savory dishes including udon and skewers of various seafood and shellfish, that are served in traditional tatami rooms, tiny stalls, and holes in the wall with wooden benches outside. It's dangerously easy to leave laden with souvenirs from the shops, like non-perishable foods, fancy ohashi, ceramics, textiles, baskets and toys.  (For me, traveling as light as possible, food seemed the best option. I opted for matcha mochi and shortbread cookies shaped like dogs. Alas they are all gone now).

The famous rocks.

On the way back to the ferry port I stopped at Futami to see the Meiotawa rocks, linked together by a ton (literally) of rope and representing union in marriage. A small shrine nearby featured statues of frogs in all shapes and sizes, which apparently represent fertility in Japanese culture. I guess that explains why I saw so many couples there. I still am not used to how many babies and children I see in Japan, considering that back in San Francisco, 97% of the population is over 18. An unfortunate side effect of the tech boom: a plethora of single males that results in phenomena like Visible Man Lines.

See more of Mie on Flickr. To see what gender imbalance looks like, drop by a house party held by someone who works in tech. Bonus points if it's in the Mission, SoMa or North Beach.