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. 

Workaway

My home for the next few weeks is a third-generation family-run bed and breakfast located at the base of Miyayama (shrine mountain) on the Irago Peninsula that I found through the website Workaway. Foregoing the work visa red tape issue, hosts all over the world post ads on the site offering a place to stay (and usually meals) in exchange for travelers' labor ranging from nannying to housekeeping to farmwork, or some combination of the three. For the adventurous spirit who doesn't mind light manual labor, it's a good way to stay in one place for a while wthout blowing the entire travel budget.

Cape Irago.

Here, the work days generally go from 9am to noon, and then 3-6pm, with lunch and dinner prepared by the family matriarch. (Think hearty, traditional Japanese dishes like miso soup and rice, big bowls of udon, curry or yakisoba, and sides of pickled vegetables, sweet omelets or fried chicken). Although the b&b has a sizable garden where the family tries to grow  as much of their own organic produce as possible, foreign helpers are generally asked to pitch in with house work. (Alas, strict sanitation laws prohibit kitchen work).

I feel a bit like a character out of a Miyazaki movie, Setsuko from Totoro, perhaps, or Chihiro from Spirited Away; all that's missing is the cotton yukata. I enjoy airing out the fluffy futons, draping them on balconies and window sills; squinting up at the clotheslines as the sun glints off the damp white sheets. Then there's the vacuuming of the tatami mats, scrubbing the big ofuro tubs, sweeping the entryway where guests and staff switch from outdoor shoes to slippers and, my least favorite, cleaning the toilets.    

In addition to obasan, the main cook, the family consists of a couple and their two children - a boy and a girl slightly older than my brother and I. The father is retired, and from what I can tell the business is primarily run by his wife and children. They're nice enough, calling me Misa-chan and onnesan like a long lost relative that was maybe dropped on her head as a child and consequently has trouble communicating, but surprisingly superstitious. The mother, in particular has been known to go on at length about various conspiracy theories, but she is so sweet, so innocent with her girlish laugh like a flute trilling that you can't help but smile and nod. Hai, wakarimashita.

The first few days of my stay overlapped with V, a Barcelona native and chef about my age, who showed me the ropes and took me around one afternoon to some of his favorite spots. He'd been at the b&b for almost a month. Borrowing a couple of bikes from the family, I followed him to a secluded shrine, behind which is a path leading up to the Irako View Hotel which, of course, has the best view of the peninsula from its rooftop observation deck. Along the way we passed an abandoned house and hotel - common, I suppose, in this quiet agricultural region and, for the first time on this trip, I began to feel like I truly was on an adventure.

Irago Shrine.

Empty house.

See more photos on Flickr.

An Outsider's Impressions of Japan

Oh, Japan. Land of my father's family, small cars, earthquakes, people who are unfailingly polite, and interesting sartorial choices. It can feel pretty "foreign," a sense perfectly captured in Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation, but there are some things that the Japanese do much better than other countries (see #1). As for others, well, I'm still figuring out how I feel about them. Warning: lots of potty talk ahead.

1. Simple syrup with your coffee. It's beginning to catch on in American coffee shops that sugar does not dissolve well in beverages, particularly chilled ones. So imagine my delight when I realized that all drinks you could possibly want sweetened are served here with simple syrup. Amazing! 

2. Taco rice. A bed of rice topped with beans, greens and a dollop of "salsa." As far as approximations of ethnic food go, this one is highly questionable.

3. Musical PSAs. At 5pm music is played over public loudspeakers. I asked my current host why this is, and she replied, "So that people know that it's 5pm." Okay. In Okinawa this occurs also at 7am and noon. Sometimes announcements are made.

4. Inexplicable business hours. Even in the most remote places (e.g. winding backroads of Okinawa), small businesses are often closed 2-4 days a week, which begs the question: how do they survive? Are they merely retirement passion projects? Or a front for something else...

5. Drawn out greetings and goodbyes. I appreciate good customer service, but it can feel overwhelming when you're the only patron in a shop, and each person on the sales floor addresses you with the standard irashaimasennnn. When everyone is paying attention to me, I'm never quite sure whom I should look at when I'm speaking.

6. Warm toilet seats. This is the connection that my mind makes when I encounter a warm toilet seat: someone was sitting here for a while; they were probably taking a dump; it is [most likely] really stinky; gross. But, in fact, Japan's high-tech toilet seats include heaters,  which are generally turned on. There are few things as startling as a blast of heat on a bare ass when least expected.

7. Flushing sound effects. This one caught me be surprise when I was reaching up to get toilet paper, and suddenly a flushing noise came on. Turns out that many public restrooms have this function, I suppose to cover the noise of you peeing/farting/pooping. 

8. Flushing sensors. The first time I used the restroom at the TOHO cinemas at Roppongi Hills, where the film festival took place, I puzzled over how to make the toilet flush before, ultimately, giving up and running away. (Not my best moment). There was a motion sensor, but not the American kind that often goes off when you are still sitting on the toilet. No, this sensor was wall-mounted and, contrary to the diagram (which simply stated "place hand over sensor"), you had to apply just the right amount of pressure for it to flush. It's times like these that I wish I could use a urinal.

9. Crocs. I was surprised at first how many people in Japan wear Crocs on the daily - not like at home where stigma has relegated them to hospitals, kitchens and other places where employees value comfort over style. But, now that I'm in a traditional Japanese-style home where shoes must constantly be removed when coming and going, I get it: Crocs are kind of awesome. 

10. Rubbish bins. If you thought that separating trash, compostables and recycling was hard, try combustibles versus non-combustibles. Pop quiz: where does plastic go?

Wrong. That's combustible.* However most people are equally confused, because I see the same items in both bins. They, like me, probably stood there and agonized for a few moments before giving up and arbitrarily picking one.

*Unless it's a bottle or bottle cap. Those each go in their own bins. 

A Dark Past

Everyone knows that World War II did not end well for Japan, but the often overlooked plight of Okinawa is perhaps almost as tragic as the fates that befell Hiroshima and Nagasaki. While no atomic bombs were ever dropped on this particular island, its history as a victim of political suppression and exploitation stretches back much further than the 1940s. And after the war ended, the destruction wreaked upon it became a factor in why the American military base remains there to this day.

Okinawa was once an independent, thriving empire, brought under Japanese rule in 1879 and becoming the southernmost prefecture. With their king overthrown and their language standardized, Okinawans were treated for a long time like second-class citizens. As Japan's power grew and waned in the 20th century, the islands south of the mainland became stages for ill-fated stand-offs against the Americans. With resources tight, thousands of locals were unable to escape to safety, and thus were pressured into helping the war effort by digging tunnels, serving as messengers, and caring for the wounded - or else committing suicide, so as not to betray the homeland when captured by the enemy after victory was deemed impossible.

The entrance to the tunnels.

South of central Naha, the Japanese Navy Headquarters represent the remaining network of tunnels from this era. Dim, damp but remarkably well-preserved, the earthen stronghold offers a bleak hint at the struggle of wartime life; once the Americans landed on Okinawa, soldiers hardly ever left during the daytime. And, in certain areas, the tunnel walls are flecked with holes from when Rear Admiral Ota and members of his staff committed suicide, some using grenades. (By the museum's estimate, 4,000 men ultimately took their own lives down there). In one of his last telegrams to the mainland, Ota praised the perseverance of the Okinawans and implored the government to consider their wellbeing in future decision-making.

The nearby Okinawa Peace Prefectural Museum provides a more in-depth look at Okinawa's role in WWII and the severe impact it had on the island's people and environment. (It gets heavy; like Holocaust Museum heavy). I cringed when a giggling gaggle of girls passed us toward the end of the exhibit, because even though Okinawa was able to rebuild itself, there are countless people today who are confronted with the living hell of warfare and civil strife.

Peace park with museum in the background.

The massive park that sits between the museum and the ocean honors the dead with stone walls engraved with the names of the deceased and monuments donated from various prefectures adorned with strands of colorful paper cranes. But beyond the last of these stone monoliths lies a rarely-used pah that, cutting along rock faces and through swaths of otherwise untamed jungle, leads to a secluded, rocky beach.

With curiosity overpowering our fatigue, Poncie and I dutifully followed the path to the end (me freaking out internally because I've been watching too much of The Walking Dead lately and it seemed like the perfect setting for a walker ambush), encountering only one other visitor - an elderly Japanese man toting a DSLR. He had already reached the abrupt end of the path - the last bit of stone stairs having been ripped off in some previous typhoon, and stood admiring the beach before him as we approached. I had thought it strange that my earlier coughing fit had not caused him to turn around, but as we came closer it became clear why: he had ear buds in.  

Our new friend and me.

He did not notice us until we were right behind him, and although his face did not register much fear or surprise, he dropped his walking stick. He recovered quickly, and after a disjointed conversation in Japanese/English, asked if he could take a picture of Poncie and me for his blog. (His version of events in that post corroborates ours; i.e. that we scared the crap out of him on accident).

We wandered around the beach until dusk began to fall and Poncie suggested we turn back before the snakes would emerge from their daytime slumber. It was a quiet walk to the parking lot, both of us still thinking about the powerful images and words we had seen earlier in the museum.  

Okinawan Odyssey

Driving north from Naha, Okinawa's largest city where the airport is located, feels a lot like passing by endless strip malls bedecked with neon signs advertising a surprising number of 'pachinko' casinos. (Surprising because gambling is illegal, and yet tokens won inside can be exchanged for cash behind the main buildings. Or so I'm told. I am too risk-averse to actually find out). And then finally the cheap sushi restaurants, convenience stores and outposts of American fast food chains subside, giving way to tall trees, gorgeous ocean views and the occasional hotel resort.

Okinawa may have been the home of the earliest hominids in what is now Japan, but it doesn't look or feel like it. There are virtually no old buildings because World War II left the island in ruins. Instead, it's like an alternate version of Hawaii where people drive on the left. The trees are alive with the humming of cicadas, and from every angle the water is bluer and prettier than any other part of the Pacific.

Aside from military-related visitors, most tourists come from mainland Japan. Because as lovely as the island is, it doesn't quite offer enough to bring a person to Asia. Luckily I had good reason to visit, in the form of a good friend from college who is in the midst of an internship at the Okinawa Institute of Science and Technology Graduate University - a sleek, insular facility that lures students and faculty with state of the art equipment on a tropical island. (Because if you're going to dedicate years of your life to the pursuit of science, why not do it in paradise?) On the day that I accompanied my friend to work, I attended Japanese class with her and was pleasantly surprised at how much I remembered from childhood. 

By day I braved the unpredictable bus system and went up north to visit the Okinawa Churaumi Aquarium and surrounding park, as well as back to Naha for the museums and Shuri Castle. Making use of the rental car she'd checked out, Poncie and I wandered the famous pottery village in Yommitan, hiked up to a waterfall, sat on the beach, discovered the eery melody road and devoured borderline unhealthy amounts of sushi. 

People often ask if it gets lonely traveling solo. Usually I find that not to be the case, but through staying with Poncie I came to appreciate just how much the presence of an old friend can make a foreign environment feel less daunting. A home away from home.

Sea turtles at the aquarium.

Mugs drying at a workshop in Yommitan.

A group of friends enjoying the nice weather.

See more of Okinawa here.

Taipei in Photos

Candles at Longshan Temple.

Songshan Cultural Park.

Rush hour traffic near Taipei 101.

See the rest on Flickr.

The Great Language Barrier

I arrived in Taipei on a red-eye from San Francisco. Exiting the airport in the early morning, I was met by warm air heavy with moisture that occasionally burst into showers and, on the following day, torrential rain. Inclement weather = museum day. 

En route to the National Palace Museum, the home of what is widely regarded as the finest collection of ancient Chinese art - which may be true but [SPOILER ALERT] contains limited English translations and is more overcrowded with slow-moving masses than SF Chinatown on a nice day, I spotted signs at Shilin station for a cake and pastry museum. So, intrigued and unsatisfied by the jaunt through Chinese history, I doubled back in search of the latter. 

The Kuo Yuan Ye Museum of Cake and Pastry grew out of the family-owned bakery founded in 1867 as a way to commemorate the traditional methods and recipes that the business is founded upon. Or at least that's what I think it's for; again, little to no support for English-speaking visitors.

A semi-English speaking docent explains the role of funny hats in engagement ceremonies.

Since by this point in the afternoon the rain showed absolutely no signs of letting up, I decided to kill some more time by taking part in what the brochure referred to as the "Creative Pastry DIY Experience." The nice man who helped me sign up for the class warned me that it was in Mandarin but, I figured, after being berated by French people in culinary school, how hard could it be? I wish I had taken a picture of the sign-up sheet, because I felt pretty lame writing the anglicized version of my name (M-i-s-a) underneath rows and rows of characters.

It wasn't difficult copying the instructor to make the pineapple-filled cookies, but I found myself unable to communicate with the other students at my table, which included two mothers and their young children.

My classmates.

Now that I've moved on to Japan, I am still experiencing locals speaking to me in their native language and expecting me to understand. But, alas, I don't.

More thoughts on not speaking the language of one's ancestors in a previous essay here, and no doubt there will be more to come.