Irishman Walking (Stage 20 Chapter 1) is about my walking the main and coastal roads of Japan. Summer 2017.
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Dear Friends and Readers:
Irishman Walking was about my walking the main and coastal roads of Japan in a series of spring, summer, autumn, and winter stages. It took me eight-years to complete my mission on foot, around the sixth longest coastline in the world -- 29,751-kilomters. This summer-stage, Stage 20, began on 16 August, 2017, at Oskhotsk Monbetsu Airport, in northeastern Hokkaidō, the second largest of Japan’s four main islands. This was not far from the Sea of Oskhotsk coastline in the western Pacific.The sea covered an area of 1,583,000-kilometers-squared, with a maximum depth of 3,372-meters. Across the water headed east lay the Russian Kamchatka Peninsula, and south the Kuril Islands. The Kuril Islands were controlled by Japan, up until the end of the Pacific War, 1945. Administered curently by Russian, Japan still held claim over the southern Kuril Islands, which they called the ‘Northern Territories’. “Mmm!” I I had not misinterpreted my readings, the Okhotsk and Ainu peoples, a nomadic race of hunter-gathererS, predated both the Japanese, and the Russians. The Japanese archipelago consisted of 6,852 islands, with 430 of them inhabited. An island was defined as being land with more than 100-meters in circumference. The five main islands, from north to south, were Hokkaidō, Honshu, Shikoku, Kyushu, and Okinawa. Honshu was the largest and was often referred to as the Japanese mainland. After about 17-days on the road, and the trials and tribulations that went with it, the stage was finally concluded on 2 September, 2017, at Cape Sōya, at the Monument of the Northernmost Point. Of course, the real northernmost point under Japanese control was the tiny uninhabited island, Bentenjima, about one-kilometer further northwest. However that did not matter one bit to me. For me, Sōya Misaki was the most northern point of Japan, and where my mission had begun eight years ago. The climate of Hokkaidō was rather cold and harsh in wintertime, warm and humid in the summer. Thankfully, this was the tail end of summertime. At around lunchtime, when I tramped into Sōya Misaki park, the area was crowned with tourists. Further inland, I remembered how the green and roving Soya Hills appeared most welcoming. The idyllic hills were home to about 3,000 cattle and 57 giant windmills, not to mention the highest point in the region, Mount Maruyama, some 400-meters high. The sweat poured off me, as I made my way towards the public toilets to clean up a bit. Wiping the sweat from my face and put on some dry clothes, was more on my mind than the fact my mission had just ended. Why not? There was no one about to welcome me, to congratulate me for a job well done. What I do remember was feeling restless, like I did not want to hang around in anyone place for very long.
Be happy, keep smiling!
Yours sincerely
Michael Denis Crossey
From Monbetsu Oskhotsk Airport to Cape Sōya, the most northern point in Japan
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20 May, 2017: The headlines in the newspaper, The Japan Times, on this day, 20 May, were: ‘Cabinet OKs one-time-only abdication bill’, ‘U.S. rebukes China over ‘nuke sniffer’ intercept’, ‘Conspiracy bill get through Lower House panel’, and 'Japanese billionaire pays record for Basquiat’. The painting set the buyer back some $110-million dollars -- a record sum for an American artist’s painting. The artwork turned out by Jean-Michel Basquiat, in his short life, was not the sort of stuff I would hang on my wall. His art kind of made me shudder, as if, like racism, had become abhorrent to me. Then again, what the hell did I know about art? The biggest event for yours truly, in the weeks that led up to my departure on the final stage of my mission, was to attend my daughter Anna’s wedding, in Karuizawa, on 21 May. At the wedding reception, I could not recall the last time I found myself under the same roof of so many pleasant and educated strangers. The wedding guests were mainly fellow doctors, and nurses, from the hospitals my daughter and her husband-to-be, Yuuki, worked. There were many family mambers on Yuuki’s side. On the other side of the coin -- my daughter Anna was represented a small group of people -- her mother, Kikuyo, an elementary school friend, and her mother. Both the friend and her mother were clad in a kimono. As for yours truly, I was clad in a coat and tails. At the wedding, I gave my daughter away, as was traditionally expected on such occasions, even if Kikuyo and myself had long been divorced. What I recalled the most about the wedding, was a full glass of red wine, I knocked over a white tablecloth. It was a lovely full-body wine, not the kind I was used to from Chile. Then again, Chile produced some very good inexpensive wines -- from vines that had been imported from Europe, in the nineteenth-century. In a sad sort of way, the faces at the wedding belonged to people whom I would never see again. All the same, I was more than happy to meet many happy and smiling friends, and acquaintances, many of whom traveled all the way from Tokyo, and other places, to Karuizawa in Nagano, to attend the weeding. Most of them, had to head back to their homes later in the evenring. Somewhat sadly, the faces belonged to people whom I would never see again. Like most days, weeks, and months, the newspapevrs were full of one issue or another. On August 8, 2017, the American President, Donald Trump, told the North Korean leaders, on no uncertain terms, that any nuclear threats would be met by “fire, fury, and frankly power, the likes of which the world” never saw before. The remark followed a media report that American intelligence assessed that Korea had successfully launched ballistic missiles, into the Japan Sea. This meant the country now had a nuclear weapons capability, not to mention, stoke fears of war. At the time, fears of a possible war with N. Korea were batted about. Mountain Day, was a public holiday, on 11 August, in Japan. It was a day when many Japanese stayed home and and relaxed. It was a Wednesday, when the schools and most businesses were closed.
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"Mmm!" It was also the wettest start to August in 40-years, which made me wonder who in their right mind would want to go hiking up mountains in the rain? The miserable weather made it seem like any other season, but summer. The number of visitors to beer gardens had dropped -- not warm enough to entice people to them. As for myself, I could easily down a beer or two, at any suitable time and place. The unstable weather, and lack of sunlight, meant almost no photosynthesis -- to synthesize nutrients and growth of plants -- meant the price of vegetables had shot up. As if the rainy season in Japan was not bad enough -- through June and most of July -- the year's prolonged rain was a serious matter. Before I started out on the final stage of my mission, I had made a short trip to Toyama City, with a friend. The plan had been to meet my friend's parents, whom, as things turned out, were not keen to meet me -- a wasted journey. We stopped at the Toyota Inn in Toyama, from 8-11 August.
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— At long last, the final stage, Stage 20 —
16 August, 2017: Today was Wednesday, which marked the start of the final stage, Stage 20, of my mission, from Monbetsu Airport to Cape Sōya, where it all began in the summer of 2009. Before my return to Hokkaidō and on the road for Cape Sōya, I planned to meet an Australian friend, Sean, outside Yotsuya-Sanchome Station on Route 20, at 19:30. As I waited for the car to show up, the rain poured down. Earlier, the NHK news reported that the weather across the Kanto region was expected to remain rainy for some days. If all went well, I would stop the evening a house Sean had in Oarai, a 10-minute walk to the ferry port. If it had not been for Sean's, I would have needed to make the journey to Oarai Port, by train. And, more than like have found myself on the road in the rain. It was late in the evening when we got to Oarai City, the rain continued to fall. Fortunately, there was a supermarket open, where a short stop was made to pick up something to eat, and a few cans of beer. The last time I drank to inebriation, was along time ago. Those where the days. Sean's home from home was old and somewhat unkept house, that had seen better days. It was as good a place as any, to crash for the night. Even though we were both tired, our meeting gave up a chance to talk and catchup on a few things. All that I needed to do later in the morning was to walk to the ferry building. The life saved me time and money, and trouble to make the journey to Oarai, alone. The last time Sean and I rubbed shoulders together was about five-years earlier, so we had a fair bit to catch up on. We shared a satirical-cum dark sense of humor together, but the least said about that the better. We first met years earlier, in the teacher's room at a high school in the Kuramai district of Tokyo, where we taught English. In a strange sort of way, not a single word passed between us, in the first year. Upon reflection, our desks were only a couple of meters away from each other, so I do not know why we did not talk. When Sean quit the school after a few years, we kept in touch. When we did meet up, the times were few and far between.
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17 Aug, 2017: Because of the car ride to Oarai, I was able to get to the port easily, to check the ferry times for Hokkaidō. The ferry bound to Tomakomai Port set sail in the evening, at 19:45, but this was not for some hours yet. So there was still sometime to kill.
We had planned to take a dander about the town, but a niggling pain in my friend’s lower leg, had put an end to that. Sean decided to treat me to lunch at one of his favorite restaurants, in the area. He told me that the distance was too far to walk. Soon, we sped along the road in that direction of the restaurant. It was by no means a cheap restaurant, and specialized mainly in fish dishes, which included sushi. Fortunately for me, there were other Asian dishes, and some western, on the menu. We both settled on Thai green curry. It would be wrong for me to imply that I knew everything about Japanese food, for I did not. The Japanese ate with their eyes. This was particularly true among the upper crust eateries and traditional Japanese restaurants, where seasonal ingredients were often used. The dishes were artistically arranged in small portions, and with the appropriate sauces, and sake, which only added to the appetizing appearance. If the food proved substantial and filling, then that was a bonus. In away, it was a provocative elegance, for the restaurants charged an arm and a leg for the pleasure. The cliental at such restaurants were virtually indistinguishable from the averge Joe Public. Then again, I hated the repugnant loud slurp noises at the common ramen restaurants. This was our second visit to my friend's favorite restaurant in as many hours. On our first visit earlier, the place was full up to the brim -- the lunchtime crowd. Rather than wait to be seated, Sean decided to take me to the beach where he liked to surf. Like many Ausies, my friend was a keen surfer. The beach in question was a good 10-kilometers from the restaurant, along a coastal road, Route 2. The road headed in the direction of Chiba Prefecture. When we got there, the wind kicked up and the waves apeared uninviting. As a non-surfer, I could haedly imagine for the life of me, that he would have loved to be out among the waves with a surfboard in such conditions. As we drove along the road, Sean pointed in the direction of a nuclear power plant, and added a few satirical words, for good measure.
Nearby, a group of children ran about along the side of a steam that gushed from the round. This was in a sort of science-related garden or park. Back at Sean's house, there was still a good hour to kill, before I walked down to the port. The usual anxiety ran about my head, and felt that it might be better than not, to buy the ferry ticket earlier than I had planned. That was until Sean proposed we play a game of backgammon first. As it turned out, we played two games, both of which I miserably lost. My excuse for the first loss was that I needed to re-familiarize myself with the game -- it had been ages since I last played it. As for the second loss, my mind was preoccupied with the ferry journey to Tomakomai Port, and then to Monbetsu, where the previous stage ended.
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All the same, I enjoyed my friend's satirical sense of humour, being the target of his lighthearted slander. However, I was not so sure about my poor effort at backgammon. The time had flown by, like it did when one had fun. After I had given my gear a last minute check over, the time had come to take my leave. As Sean's leg still hurt, he saw me off on the road in front of his house. A few snapshots where taken, then we said our goodbyes, and with a wave, I walked down to the port. By then, I knew the way to the ferry with ease. All the same, I knew that I would have to do a bit of waiting about. The wait allowed me the chance to glance at, The Japan Times headlines: ‘Guam missile intercept possible but not legal.’ ‘Trump, businessman President, loses CEO’s support.’ Thankfully, everything went as smoothly as things could be.
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18 Aug, 2017: The Sunflower Furuno was the newest of the three ferries that operated the Oarai-Tomakomai route. Tomakomai, where I would embark, became a village in 1873 and town nearly half a century later, in 1918, the year the Great War ended.
Tomakomai was granted city status some 30-years later, in 1948, not many years after the end of the Pacific War. The name Tomakomai came from two Ainu words, which meant ’a marsh’ and ‘river' that flowed deep into the mountain. As ships should be, the ferry was spick and spam, with all the shiny floor and polished wood. In a lobby radiated modernism -- the colored monitor told me that the sunrise and sunset, in Tomakomai, was 04:22 AM, and 18:59 PM, respectively. The weather, according to the monitor, was supposed to be a mixture of sunshine and cloudiness, which suited me just dandy. No doubt for the benefit of the passengers, the following questionable verse was printed near the monitor: ‘Somewhere over the sea/your dreams come true/causing aboard Sunflower.’ The crossing had been smooth and comfortable, still, it felt better when I disembarked from the ferry. The sky was heavily overcast, which caused me to think about rain. Absentmindedly, I had left my umbrella at Sean’s place in Oarai. It reminded me an unwanted talent I could not shake off -- to lose stuff along the road. Such was the thought I had, when I boarded the bus for Sapporo. Thankfully. sleep had come quickly on the ferry. The cabin that I was assiged to, had 20 other male passengers, with drawn curtains for privacy. It seemed a little strange that the tatami-size space on either side of me, remained empty. The Japanese were not the easiest of people to understand. There were a couple of times in the night when I awoke from my sleep. The first time was at 04:00 AM, to tiptoe carefull out of the cabin to go to the toilet. Everyone was fast asleep, so I needed to be careful not to trip or stamp on their feet. The second time I awoke was around at 06:00 AM. Already, the other passengers seemed to be up and busy with their gear. Some checked their smartphones. For a time, I set at a table in a brightly lit lobby, where I tried to open my iPad. This was soon achieved, but only for a few moments, but long enough to get off a couple of emails. The Pacific coastline journey well and truly behind me, my arse was planted on the front seat of the bus. The bus moved slowly along a busy road that had many traffic lights. After a good while, the bus took its leave of the local Tomakomai roads, and turned onto the Dō-Ō Expressway. Now, things had begun to look up -- less traffic, no rain. Somewhere along the way, the sun made a guest appearance and cast a welcomed shadow over the road. A road sign told me that I was not far from the New Chitose Airport. Yes, things really looked good. The clouds remained dominant high up in the sky, and when we passed an exit for Eniwa, the sun disappeared behind the clouds. A military helicopter circled overhead, but soon that too disappeared from sight. This morning headlines in the Japan Times were: ‘Defense ministry seeks funds for Aegis Ashore’; ‘Moon offers to restart diplomacy if Pyongyang halts nuclear efforts’; ‘Inpex eyes bid for Iran’s Azadegan oil project’; and ‘New U.S. Ambassador Hagerty arrives in Japan’. Hagerty was a common Irish name.
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19 Aug, 2017: Slept quite well, on a single bed at the Toyoko Inn, in Sapporo. On the bus into the city, I had been a wee bit worried whether I could get a room or not. The business hotels on Fridays, through the weekends, were usually fully booked. There was always at least one event or another held in many cites across Japan. Sapporo stood on the Ishikari Plain, a region once inhabited by the indigenous Ainu. Sapporo was also an Ainu word, which meant ‘dry large river’. Teine-yama was a mountain the source of numerous rivers in the region, prone to floods. In the Ainu language, Teine-i meant ‘wetland’ or ‘marsh’. The Tokugawa shogunate
had an eye on the future. A canal was completed through the region, in 1866. It was hoped the canal would encourage early settlers to resettle in and around Sapporo. Sapporo became the administrative center of the island, during the Meiji period. Unlike other towns and cities, in Japan, Sapporo was planned along the lines of a rectangular street system, simular to America. Sapporo was home to a famous namesake beer, and the annual Sapporo Snow Festival, noted for its enormous ice sculptures, among other things. The city hosted the 1972 Winter Olympics, and the 2002 FIFA World Cup. The city was to host the 1940 Winter Olympics, but was cancelled due to the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937-45). Sapporo was the fourth largest city in Japan, after Yokohama, Osaka, and Nagoya. Around 36-percent of the population of Hokkaidō lived in Sapporo. In 1965, a massive typhoon (#23) hit the area with devastating affect. A second typhoon (#24) passed over the area a week later, and casued the rivers to breach their banks. To protect against further floods, work was carried out on some major river -- enlargment of the Shinkawa, divertion of tributaries along the Garu-gawa. New laws were implemented for the construction of new buildings on raised ground. The last great flood occurred in the region, in Showa 56 (1981). At last, the bus pulled into the city center and stopped. It was too late to get the bus-connection to Mombetsu, where the final stage of my mission was to start. Even if the times had worked out according to the bus-timetable, I could not have reached Mombetsu until after ten in the evening. Therefore, I had dicided to stop the night in Sapporo, which allowed me the chance to get the 09:45 AM bus. One good thing about a bus journey in the morning, was the scenery -- a view of the Land of the Rising Sun, as as the bus sped along the road. The bus pulled out exactly on time, under a partly cloudy and at time, sunny morning sky. Often to get out of a city, on foot, was not a straight forward thing. Even the bus driver, needed to make a series of manoeuvres round sharp corners, before we reached the out-skirts of the city. After awhile, the bus moved along Route 12 for a short while, then turned onto Route 175, for an even shorter time. The bus then got onto Route 89, where it stopped, momentarily, at a traffic light.
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On the far sice of the road, stood a steak and hamburger restaurant, called ‘Cowboy’. A green sign hung high up over the road, told me that the would soon be on the Hokkaidō Expressway. The bus made another stop, this time at the Sapporo Toll Gate. After a short while, the bus passed its first expressway distance-directional road sign -- a good 131-kilometers to go, before Asahikawa City. Asahikawa was granted city status almost 100-years ago, in 1922. Today, the city had a population of more than 350,000. After the Pacific War, Asahikawa grew into an industrial, particularly in the production of beer, lumber, and paper pulp. It produced its own unique brand of quality household furniture. Asahikawa was also famous for its local sake and rice, important products in Japan. North from the mainline train station, set the first permanent pedestrian-only shopping center in the country, called Heiwa-dori Kaimono Koen. In addition to shopping, there were many restaurants and food courts that sold the city’s local cuisine. For noodle lovers, Asahikawa Ramen Village offered its own signature soy–based noodle soup. Asahikawa was home to the Asahiyama Zoo, which boasted around 110-species of wildlife, as well as, polar bears, penguins, and orangutans, to name a few. More than half of the animals came from the Antarctic. The highway passed rivers and mountains, and headed north of Daisetsuzan National Park. So it was, for the most part, a pleasent journey. The region had more than its fair share of rivers and tree covered mountains.
One of them was the Ishikari-gawa, the longest river in Hokkaidō, and the third longest, in Japan, at 268-kilometers in long. Life in Hokkaidō was hard at the turn of the century, particularly for farmers, as noted in Japanese writer, Takiji Kobayashi's 1929 novel 'The Absent Owner'. In part because of natural harzards -- avalanches, eruptions, heavy rain and snow, earthquakes, tsunamis, and typhoons. The year Kobayashi published his book, was also the year of the Wall Street Crash, which plunged the world into an economic depression. (The Shinano-gawa in the Niigata, was the longest (and widest) river in Japan, at 367-kilometers. The Tone-gawa in Kantō, was the second longest, at 322-kilomters). The Ishikari-gawa source was at Mount Ishikari, 1,967-meters high, and part of the Daisetsuzan, a volcanic mountain range. Asahi-yama was the highest of the mountains, at 2,290-meters high.
Another river was the 59.2-kilometer long, Chūbetsu-gawa, known as ‘river of waves’ and ‘sun river’. in the Ainu and Japanese languages, respectively. The source of the river was at Mount Chūbetsu-Dake, within the Daisetsuzan National Park. During the Meiji period, efforts were undertaken to repopulate many regions in Hokkaidō, by mainland Japanese, this included Asahikawa. The program, known as 'tondenhel', or field-encampment of soldiers, was a state-sponsored farmer-militia resettlement program, that ran from 1868 until 1912, that marked the start of the Taisho period. The main purpose of the program was not soley to control immigration and emigration, and trade.
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It was also to develop and defend Hokkaidō, and its outer islands, from a fear of Russian encroachment. This was an issue even today, over the jurisdiction of four small islands, north of Hokkaido. The Kuril Islands were occupied by the former Soviet Union, at the end of the Pacific War, which Japan believed to be illigal. Hokkaido had two volcanic zones, with many volcanoes and hot springs, and was a part of a country that had a countless number of islands and islets to its name. The term ‘tondenhel’, had its origins in ancient China, when colonist militias defended the frontiers from invasion. During the pre-Pacific War years, Asahikawa thrived as a military base for the 7th Division of the Imperial Japanese Army. Even today, a division of the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force kept its headquarters in the city. On a lighter note, the Asahikawa Winter Festival was held each year on the banks of the Ishikari-gawa. In the winter of 1902, a weather station recorded the lowest temperature in Japanese history, -41 °C. After a while the expressway appeared to increase with vehicles. The bus shot past the first rest-stop -- Iwamizawa Yubari -- as if it was not there. We were not long out of Sapporo, to even think to make a stop. Fortunately, there was a public toilet at the rear of the bus. It was not easy to notice how fast the bus sped along the expressway, until you made your way to the toilet. Another road-sign told me that the bus was now 81-kilometers from Asahikawa. From the window of a bus on an expressway, was not the most enlightened means to travel. Everything came and went from sight and mind, so quickly. Anything learnt was soon forgotten. Much of anything of interest was blocked out by high barriers at the side of the expressway and monster tunnels. One of the long tunnels the bus entered -- Bibai Tunnel -- would have been hell to have tramped through. For much of the time, the sky was sunny and blue, not so bad for life on the road. There was still a good distance to go before I started off on my goal -- Mombetsu Terminal to Soya Misaki. After my arrival at the terminal, I needed to get my arse over to the airport, the start-point for the final stretch for Cape Soya. Like most things along the expressway, Sunagawa Exit came and went, and Asashikawa drew nearer, now 59-kilometers. One good point about the journey, the bus was less than a third-full. At least I had a sense of space to stretch. There was noting worse than a long journey on a crowded bus, which had no toilet. The best thing to do was not to think about toilets, and at times, I calculated the arrival time in my head. Who coined the term: ‘Let your joy be in your journey—not in some distant goal’? Some of the passengers on the bus dozed off, or so the snores told me. To fall asleep on a bus, was a talent that I never mastered. A good number looked at smartphones like there was no tomorrow. Their faces lit up by the bright screens. From the window, I tried to make sense of things the bus passed by. The Hokkaidō Expressway headed deep into the mountainous heart of the northern island.
The trees dominated much of the landscape.
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At times, distant towns popped into view, and the farmland "smiled with cultivation" -- to use the words of a Scottish poet, Tobias Smollet (1721-71). Smollet, better known for his collection of picaresque novels, believed that farms transformed the appearance of the rural environment. In time, the mountain range flanked the area, as if to close in on the bus. It was not belong until the bus pulled into the mountain city of Asahikawa, just 30-kilometers away. The bus made a short stop, where the drivers were changed. After a little while, we were merrily on our way again, in the direction of a village called Takinishi. The name of the village meant ‘Western Waterfall’. The bus raced through a series of long mountain tunnels, and each time the road opened out onto a wonderful countryside. The familiarity of the remote grassy hills, tree coated mountain slopes. There was something, however, more wide about Hokkaidō, than the rest of Japan, that I had tramped through.
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An Ussuri brown bear, about to be sacrificed (Ainu?) (Wikipedia)
Ainu woman with mouth tattoos and live bear (Wikipedia)
Further along the road, a 15-minute stop was made at a place to us the public toilets. There were also two vending machines, which I did not bother with. The bus passed under the Pippu Toll Gate, then turned in the direction of Mombetsu. The bus past an uneventful little town called, Aibetsu, in the Kamikawa region, a scenic spot flanked by a low mountain range. The town had a population around 3,000. Not long after the stop to use the toilets, a series of long tunnels popprd into view, the first was called Aibetsu Tunnel. The bus also passed over many small bridges, overpasses, and minor rivers. Much of the scenery through a tree covered mountainous region, was food for any poet’s pen. The region was also home to the Ussuri brown bear. From the early-1960s to 2008, in Hokkaidō, 86 bear attacks, which resulted in 33 deaths, had been recorded. The long tunnels came and went, one after the other. The tunnels caused me to recall the monster tunnels south of Otaru, some more than 4,000-meters long. That was when I started to refer to them as monster tunnels. It was an experience that I could have done without. There was no escape, for that was the way the roads were. The bus made a short stop at a T-junction, then it turned left onto a national highway, Route 273. A road sign told me that Mombetsu was 81-kilometers away. Not long afterwards, another long tunnel popped into view. As the driver seemed in no hurry, it took a fair while to get through the Ukishima Tunnel, same 3,332-meters long. Therefore, it seemed one of the longest tunnels that I had experienced in my life, and wondered how long it wound have taken me had I been on foot. With a heavy backpack, it was not for the faint hearted. A road sign told me that Mombetsu City was 71-kilometers away, about 90-minutes, at the latest. The road, Route 273, was a series of ups and downs, and sharp left and right bends. This caused me to think that it would more than likely take the bus two-hours to reach the city. The national highwat appeared devoid of shops and restaurants, since the bus got off the expressway. Had I been on foot, along this ribbin of highway, I would have had to load up on a couple of dats of supplies. There was no shortage of water -- streams and rivers -- to be boiled. In time, the bus slowly pulled away from Nigorikawa, in the direction of Takishita, another uneventful little town. The name Nigorikawa meant: ‘muddiness’, or 'muddy river'. Nigorikawa was located between two rivers -- Shokotsu-gawa and Onraneppu-gawa. The rivers were famous for their trout and salmon farms. There were a number of places in Japan, called Nigorikawa. Needless to say, it only added to the difficulty when it came to research for information on such places. A railway line to service the area, JNR Shokotsusen, was opened in 1923. About a year later, Nigorikawa Station, opened, in 1924, and was one of the oldest stations along the line. A bus service replaced the railwat line, when its services ended, in 1985. Takishita, like many locations in Hokkaidō, offered a splendid tree covered mountain view, which conifers predominated. The bus journey -- through many towns and villages -- had been a pleasant one.
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Timber provided a bulk of Japanese imports. Unlike the way lumberjacks in the old back and white films swong an axe, however, the lumber trade was highly mechanised, with mills and factories to produce newsprint and process the wood. The demand for domestic timber was on the rise, at a time when world prices were also on the up. A limited number of suitable forests with coniferous trees ready to be harvested, made it difficult to increase production. The timber trade had other problems -- track down land owners for permission to harvest thier land, deforestation work to develop resorts, a shortage of loggers, difficulty for lumber companies to keep workers. As it was dangerous work, it took a long time to acquire the skills neccessary for the machinery used in the timber trade. As world market prices rose, orders for timber from Hokkaidō also rose. This did not mean a major increase in the production of timber, in Japan, which had increased from only 10 to 20-percent. A demand for wood had decreased by 1.9-percent, in 2015. At Kamishokotsu I caught a glimpse of a Seicomart, a convenience store chain mainly located on Japan's second largest island. As far as I was concerned, the Seicomarts ruled supreme among such stores, at least in good old Hokkaidō. The word ‘kami’ meant ‘lower’. Shokotsu was granted village status in 1906, and went through a series of transformations in the years that followed, before it was renamed, Kamishokotsu, in 1937. Later, the villages merged to form Mombetsu Town, in 1954. After the bus pulled out of the town, the road passed through farmland, where I got my first sight of cows. Hokkaidō accounted for 25-percent of the country’s cultivated land area, mainly field crops and dairy products. The farms in Hokkaidō was much larger than other prefectures across Japan. After a while, the bus passed through was called Nakashokotsu. The Japanese word ‘naka’ had a host of related meanings -- ‘in’, ’middle’, ‘among, ‘inside’. The Ainu words 'sho' and ‘kotsu’ meant ‘waterfalls’, and ‘hollow’ or ‘valley’, espectively. It was easy to imagine the course of the Shokotsu-gawa, as it wound down the rocky slopes of Teshio-yama. The mountain was part of the Kitami mountain range. The 84-kilometers long river then passed through the town of Takinoue, to the Sea of Okhotsk. A road sign pointed in the direction of Central Mombetsu. Anumber of towns popped into view, and soon fell away like there was no tomorrow. My first glimpse of the sea suddenly came into view. Soon I would pass this way again, on foot. What mattered most, was to get to the airport, first. That was where the previous stage of my mission, Stage 19, ended. Mombetsu became a city, in 1954, after the merger of neighboring villages and towns. Mombetsu was an Ainu word that meant, ‘quiet river’. It was not a big city, and had a population of around 23,000. The local economy was geared to fishing, and harvesting of crab, said to be the best in the country. A reminder of this was a 10-meter high sculpture of a crab, on the waterfront. Tourism was also important to Mombetsu.
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Countless visitors were drawn to the region from January to February, to observe the drift ice, a main symbol of the city. The Okhotsk Tower allowed visitors to observe the icy phenomenon from above, and below the sea. There was also an information center on hand, including an aquarium, worth a stop at. For those with time to spare, the Garinko II, an icebreaker, made regular sightseeing cruises through the drift ice. The Japanese loved their festivals. The Drift Ice Festival, in winter, coincided nicely with the Sapporo Snow Festival which featured impressive ice sculptures. One main feature was the city's Okhotsk Sea Ice Museum, which included a sub-zero room, a ”frozen aquarium with different species of fish preserved in ice. In other neighboring regions to view drift ice, such as, the Okhotsk Ryu-hyo Museum in Abashiri. In summertime, when the sea ice melted, Russian visiters, particularly sailors, became a common sight in Mombetsu. A number of local businesses had banned Russian visitors for unruly behavior. This led some activists to criticize Monbetsu for racial discrimination. Unfortunately, I had no time to look about the city. The only thing was to find a local bus stop. This was soon achieved, and after a short while, a bus pulled in. The fare to the airport was ¥430, about double the cost of a bus in Tokyo. The time had gone three-o’clock in the afternoon, when I walked into the airport lobby. In fhs lobby, I sorted out my gear, before I hit the road proper. This included a visit to the John, to point Percy at the porcelain. It felt good to be on the road again, especially after the lengthy time and trouble it took me of get this far, by car, ferry, and bus. Along the national highway, Route 276, a short stop was made at Okhotsk Sea Ice Park, for a look-see. Across the way, a group of children bounced up and down on what looked like a giant rubber dome. Back on the road again, I came to my first bridge and river of the day. The bridge, Monbetsu-bashi, not far from Morappu Camp Sight, located on the southshore of a caldera lake, Shikotsu, in the Chitose region. There were a number of campgrounds and onsen in the area. Shikotsu-ko was the second deepest lake in the country, behind Lake Tazawa in Akita prefecture. The 108-kilometer long Chitose-gawa, was famous for its ‘Indian Fish Wheel’, a device used to trap salmon, on their return from spawning at the lake. Red salmon was a noted product of Lake Shikotsu, where fishing was a favorite summer pastime. It's name came from the Ainu word, ‘Shikot’, which meant, ‘hollow’ or ‘big depression’. Located on Shikotsu-ko shoreline, stood Tarumae-zan, a 1,041-meter high active volcano. The volcano had a long history of major eruption, the most recent, in 1982. Mount Tarumae, was believed to erupt again, in the not so distant future. It was designated a natural monument, in Hokkaidō, and remained popular for hikers. Mount Tarumae was a pleasant place to hike, along a mountain path that was refered to as, ‘a corridor of moss’. The path was, however, currently closed to visitors, due to recent landslides. Tarumae-zan was part of the Shikotsu-Toya National Park.
Done
My initial plan was to stick to national highway, Route 238. According to a distance-directional road sign, however, the road headed towards Esashi and Okoppe, 100-kilometers and 28-kilometers, respectively. By now, the sun had disappeared, only to be replaced by what looked like rain clouds. In time, another road sign told me that Wakkanai was 221-kilometers away, but I had no need to go there. Soya Misaki, my target, was about 31-kilometers before Wakkanai. In the distance I could sea what looked like a Seicomart, a convenience store. As I drew nearer, I could see that the store stood on the corner of Route 239 and a minor road, Route 713. The minor road headed left to Takinoue and right to Central Monbetsu. In no way a big town, Takinoue had a population of over 2,700. The main industries in the region focused on dairy farming, dry-crop farming, and forestry. About 95-percent of Japanese mint, called hakka, was produced in Takinoue Town. Takinoue Park was famous for its Shibazakura, a pink moss that grew in abundance, and which attracted countless visitors each year. The Ainu name for Takinoue was Ponkamuikotan, which meant ‘Village of the Small Gods’. Each year, two festivals were held in the town-- Shibazakura Festival (May-June), and the Summer Festival of Love (August). Along the road, a tourist sign pointed left for Okhotsk Sky Tower, four-kilometers away. The 30.9-meter high tower,
locally called Oyama, was built on Mount Monbetsu, and opened to the public, in 1994. Because of its location tower doubled as a television-radio tower. Away to the right, Okhotsk Forest Park was much nearer, just 0.3-kilometers. The Okhotsk Observatory was located in the direction of the park, four-kilometers along the road. The observatory on the summit of Mount Tento, boasted a 360° panoramic view. In 1938, the mountain, nicknamed, ‘heaven city mountain’, was designated a national cultural asset for its scenic beauty.
Done
20 Aug, 2017: Near the road, Route 238, camp was set up under the Shokotsu-bashi, which spanned its namesake river. The 305-meter long bridge was built in 1959. The pedestrian segment of the bridge that I used, was added in 1977. The 84-kilometer long Shokotsu-gawa flowed from Mount Teshio, through the town of Takinoue, on its way to Mombetsu and the Sea of Okhotsk. Mount Teshio was part of the Kitami Mountains. The time was around seven-thirty in the evening, so it was near dark. Thankfully, the bridge was well lit up, its lights cast out over the embankment. Therefore, I had little difficulty to do what had to be done -- pitch the tent, and what not. At last, "the blue-black darkness had at last fallen," if I may be so bold to use the words of D. H. Lawrance. In the early hours, the temperature dipped to such a level that I shivered and found it hard to sleep. So, I regreted that I left my little Colman blanket back in Tokyo. The blanket had proved useful on previous occasions. In the summer months, a sleeping bag was often a waste of space, however, I could have done with one now. My problem was soon put right, when I put on the other T-shirts I had in the backpack. A part of me was not happy -- forced to use clean clothes with dirty ones -- caked in sweat, after a day on the road. Another part of me knew that beggars could not be choosers, as the old expression reminded me. In the morning when I dragged myself from the tent, the temperature had noticeably risen. The sky was so overcast, that I now hoped it would not rain. At least not before I had managed to up camp and get my sorry arse back up onto the road again. Before I hit the road proper, a quick stop was made up on the bridge for a look-see. This was mainly to double check its name, the kanji, and make sure I had jotted it down correctly. Also, to confirm the name of the river that flowed under the bridge. My water bottles were low, so I needed to keep an eye out for a place to replenish them. This did not take long, for after about three-kilometers, I came to a Michi-no-Eki, called ‘Omusaro Nature View House’. However, it was the old story that had plauged me again and again -- bad timing. The place had not yet opened. It's wild flower garden, was also closed. All the same, I was able to wash a few clothes and give myself a badly needed soapy scrub down, in cold water. It would have been a good place to have stopped the night. Omusaro Nature View House was next to the sea, and a bit windier than other places I a had passed. This segement of the road continued without a pavement. Therefore, I needed to keep my wits about me. In time, the road led me across Kohan Bridge, a plain looking structure, which was as windy as hell. Later, a road sign told me that my next stop would be Okoppe, a town about five-kilometers further along. As of last year (2016) Okoppe Town had a population of around 3,963. The local economy focused in dairy products, forestry, and fishing -- salmon, trout, scallop, and the horsehair crab, called kegani in Japanese. At where I stood, Wakkanai City and Esashi Town were 198-kilometers and 77-kilometers, respectively. Esashi grew to become a prosperous herring fishing town, in the Tokugawa period.
Done
To paraphrase Wikipedia, the prosperity coined a saying, Even Edo (Tokyo) was not as busy as Esashi in May' -- "visitors to the town described the quantity of herring being so great that it turned the color of the sea white." Even the name or the town derived from an Ainu wored for kemp, an edible kelp popular in Japan. Esashi was one of Hokaidō's oldest towns. Most of the historic buildings stood along the Esashi Inishie Road. It was also the birthplace of a traditional folk music called 'Esashi oiwake'. A touristy sign pointed to another Michi-no-Eki, a roadside station, called Okoppe Joy Park, just two-kilometers along the road. It was a pleasant place, home to a couple of old railway carriages, converted for the benefit of travelers to stop the night. The Sōya Main Line, operated by JR Hokkaidō, still serviced the area of passengers and freight, between Wakkanai and Asahikawa. By now, the sun hd done its best to shine through a cloud covered sky. The sun remined me that it was still very much in charge. At times, the weather took my mind off the road for a while, which was not a good thing. At last, I reached Okoppe Town, where I stopped by at a Seicomart for a look about. At the store I treated myself to a small cake and filled my cup with hot water from a thrombus flask, for a well deserved cup of tea. The first cup of tea in five days, since I had left my place in Tokyo. It had been said that a cup of tea was a good way to pick you up. At times, tramping the road could bore one to tears. At such times I wondered why I bothered at all. The sky remained overcast, with the odd break in the sky to let the sun peek through for a short while. Then again, as long as the rain held off, I could not complain. A cool breeze blew low over the road, and was more than welcomed. Before I hit the road this morning, I taped up the soles of my feet, for fear that blisters would form sooner than usual. So far, so good! At the ourskirts of the town of Okoppe, a road sign told me that Ōmu Town was 20-kilometers away. As the time was already five o’clock, there was no way I could reach the town before dark. According to a 2016 census, Ōmu had a population of 4,596. My mind was made up to keep and an eye out for a good spot to pitch the tent. Until then, I was contented to tramp slowly along the road, with my backpack firmly fastened, for a few more hours. That should at least be another 10-kilometers under my belt, before I called it a day. High up in the sky, the sun did its best to keep me company, and most welcome it was. The region was noted for its humid continental climate of very warm summers. The rain fell throughout the year, the heaviest through August to October. In other words, I expected the to bucket down at any moment. Last night, the road led me across the long Okoppe-bashi, that spanned the Okoppe-gawa. On the riverbank, not far from the bridge, I came to a good place to make camp — a path, cut grass, some benches, and rather isolated. Okoppe koen, a large park, was roughly the same distance, north along the national highway, Route 238. The riverbank proved more inviting and peaceful than the park.
Done
Earlier, I had gotten off Route 239, because it turned left and headed further inland, where I did not want to go. By now the time was well past five o’clock, but as the sun was still in the sky, I decided to push on a bit further. It was important to keep a positive mindset, or so I told myself, when I wanted to find a place to pitch the tent. Along the road I momentarily stopped at a large Ohaka, a cemetery called, Okoppe Reien. In the Japanese an ‘R’ sounded like an ‘L’ and an‘E’ like an ‘A’. Therefore, the name, ‘Reien’ of the place of rest sounded like ‘lay in’. In English, ’rei’ meant ‘spirit’, and ‘en’ garden. Sometimes I liked to stop and look out over a cemetery of some interest. Recently, I had it on my mind to find my own final place of rest. One such place I visited was the Tama Reien in western Tokyo. A staff member told me that I needed to be dead first, in order to apply for a plot to place my ashes. That would make me the first corpse ever, to buy his own grave. The Japanese never failed to amaze me. Up ahead, a wooden outdoor picnic shelter, popped into view. An ideal spot to camp. Countless times before, I had pitched the tent under such places. Such shelters were good spots to camp under on s rainy or snowy evening -- if the wind did not blow in sideways. At such times, you could really feel the power of the wind. Wind was one of the more accessable sources of power, which, incidentally, was first harnested in Persia, around 120 BC. My thoughts were in such an excited state that I thought I heard Sōyamisaki tidal waters call to me. Therefore, I decided to push on a while longer, instead.
Done
21 Aug, 2017: My flashlight beam fell on two eyes. The fox seemed more interested in me than I was in it. Regardless, the fox lay low in the grassy field for a while, then it took its leave. It’s silhouette turned and disappeared into the tall grass, a poetic action of sorts. What I needed to do was to watch out for the crafty little bugger's return and steal something. Not 30-minutes had gone by, when I thought I heard something move in the grass. When I glanced out off the tent, I saw a fox pass through the entrance to the main road, Route 238, and hoped it was the same one. A light breeze started to kick up. An evening breeze over the grass kept me awake for a while. Even after I had tossed and turned, I slept fairly well in the end. The sun was well up in a cloudless sky, by the time I pulled my lazy arse out off the tent. The tent had become hot, that I the sweat started to drip off my face. The only thing I wanted to do was to get back on my way. So, I took down, rolled up, and put away the gear. This was not done in my usual unhurried way, but in haste. There was no point in a campfire to boil water for a hot drink. Nor was I in any mood for the dried fruit I brought with me from Tokyo. Besides, there was no shade to enjoy a humble breakfast under, and escape the rays of the sun. The large flies did their best to land on my arms and legs. The only logical thing to do was to get back on the road, quickly. When I did get back on the road proper, I knew that it would not belong when the old hunger pangs would be felt. Yesterday, the last of the tiny Snickers bars, for a burst of energy, were finished. What I really needed to do was to replenish the two-liter water bottle. My army-style hip flask was also nearly empty. Still, I was not overly concerned, for I had an idea that Ōmu was only 10-kilometers, if my map was anything to go by. It would be nice to find a place and eat something somewhere, even to nibble on a little dried fruit. It did no good to think about food. A road sign told me that Esashi was 63-kilometers away, and that Central Ōmu was 11-kilometers.
Sawa Fishing Port was just 0.5-kilometers away to the right. Not that I gave a damn about the port, and would never see the place again. Some distance back, I stopped at a bus stop hut to rest, and ate a little of the dried fruit, for some energy. Back on the road again, I asked a local man if he knew of a store nearby. He said that as far as he knew, the next one was at least 20-kilometers away. Needless to say, I found hard to believe, as the next town was not that far away. Surely, there was a store in Ōmu, or so I hoped. Later, a local post office popped into view, where I stopped to get off some postcards to family, friends, and colleagues. A little further along the road another stop was made, this time to boil water for a cup of coffee. This was not so easy, for I did not have my little Capt Stag burner with me this time. So, I gathered up some dry twigs and tinder to build a small fire.Thankfully, the fire was only to boil water. The sun ruled surpreme for much of the morning. However, I was glad that the sun was not toast me to a crisp, like it had on previous times on the road. A welcomed breeze blew in over the Sea of Okhotsk.
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My tramp across the long Ōmu-bashi also meant that I was near Ōmu Town, which gave me a sence of accomplishment. Soon the bridge was behind me, and the breeze. The sun now stamped its presence big time. Life on the road could be endlessly thirsty. For some reason, I did not seem to sweat very much, which kind of surprised me. At another road sign I passed, the towns of Esashi and Hamatonbetsu, were now only 52 and 81-kilometers away, respectively. Wakkanai City was further at 173-kilometers. All in all, this had been a slow and lazy day on the road. In away, it surprised me somewhat that I was in no great hurry to wrap-up anything, anytime soon. Even at a slow pace, each step that I took on the home run stretch, brought me nearer to my goal -- Sōya-Misaki. Today's weather could not have been more different, than whan I started my mission, in July, 2009 -- a time when Hokkaidō had record rainfall. Back to the present, I needed to stay positive. In time, I found myself on the outskirts of Horonai -- an uneventful township with farmland in all directions. The 44-kilometer river, Poronai-gawa flowed through Horonai on its way to the Sea of Okhotsk. An Ainu word, which meant ‘big river’ and ‘parent’s river'. The river-source was Mount Piyashiri, a 987-meter peak, part of the Kitami mountain-range, north and east of the Ishikari Mountains and the Teshio Mountains, respectively. The construction on a dam, for electricity, began on the Poronai-gawa, in 1949. Prime Minister Shigeru Yoshida had already been in office about a year, when the dam was built. In the course of time, the dam suffered a series of accidents -- fire, and collapse, mainly due to heavy rain in the area. Work on the dam was completed quite recently, in 2015, and was used mainly for mud and debris control. The old Hokutan Horonai coal mine, closed in 1989, was located inland, not far from the city of Mikasa. The remains of an old redbrick farm building caught my eye. The sight of such buildings always gave me a sence that I had tramped back in time -- to my childhood days in Belfast, a city of many streets of redbrick houses. Many of the redbrick buildings that survived, in Japan, used Western agricultural methods implemented during Hokkaido’s pioneering period, from the 1880s. There was an elegance about the proud old buildings, part of a neglected past. A countless number of historic buildings had long been torn from the heart of this country. What remained of the building looked as if it could stand firm for many more years to come, unless of course, someone out there had other ideas. Nearby, there were a few old wooden buildings, too. They were so dilapidated, that to demolish them might prove a kind act. The wooden buildings looked like the sort of places that once housed workers. On previous stages of my mission, I had passed so many redbrick buildings and bridges. None of the buildings were as famous as the Kanemori Red Brick Warehouses in Otaru, originally built in 1887, or the Red Brick Warehouses in Yokohama. Both of the Yokohama warehouses were originally custom houses, built in 1911 and 1913.
Done
Ryōunkaku before and after the Great Kanto earthquake
The redbrick buildings were often the only things of the nineteenth-century. These days, local governments pushed for the construction of new and moderh harbor facilities. Many of the redbrick structures survived the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake -- the deadliest earthquake in the country, with more than 105,000 deaths. Baring the famous Ryōunkaku, Japan's first skyscraper, in Asakusa in Tokyo, many redbrick buildings survived the powerful earthquake. The absence of such old buildings, like the British Embassy, was one of Japan’s historical weaknesses -- an exacerbated ill-planned effort to modernize. A postwar government attempt to shake off the past, and dismantle it bit by bit. Surely in the long term, a country that dismantled its past, lost all direction to its future. Right? The object of society, I felt, was to bind the present with the past, so as to make any appropriate connections with the future. In a climate of modernity, it was a wonder that anything of Japan's past survived at all. It was as if Japan had little to gain from its past, or retain its grand old buildings. The oldest wooden building in the world, was the main hall of Hōryū Gakumon-ji, a Buddhist temple in Nara, which dated to 700 AD. The temple included a five-story pagoda. Another tourist attraction was the Hōrai-bashi, a wooden bridge that spanned the Ōi-gawa in Shimada in Shizuoka. The bridge was built in 1879, and was registered in the Guinness World Records as the longest (897-meters) wooden bridge in the world. Today, only the bridge's upper portion survived, its wooden pilings were replaced by concrete, in 1965. In fact, designing concert box-like buildings was to the architect a supreme pleasure, like, religious duties were to religious fanatics. These days new apartment blocks and skyscrapers went up in such a colossal scale that entire cities changed, and altered, every aspect of daily life. The resident faces disappeared and diminished -- moved away, died off. What local ways and customs remained unchanged, found that the clock of change was against them. It was hard to perceive any merit in the ugly and outrageous buildings, along the streets of towns of cities throughout Japan. If I was not mistaken, only the religious places — Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples-- shunned modern intrusion. They resisted authority, even when the fingers of modernity reappeared periodically. I was unsure which appalled me the most, the ugly buildings or the lack of attitude local people had towards them. Apart from the 634-meter tall Tokyo Skytree, the appearance of the tall buildings did little to arouse interest or attention. It surprised me that so few people resented the influence architects, held over them and their cities. In the eyes of the modern architect and man of many talents, Charles-Édouard Jeanneret (1887-1965): 'A house was a machine for living.' Was it possible to call a machine a home? "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" to quote from Shakespeare's play Romeo and Juliet. Of the many towns and cites I tramped through on my travels around Japan, I came to believe that many architects, if not enemies of nature, were in the wrong profession.
Done
The ancient art-form of ikebana, or flower arrangement, brough kind of life to the cut flowers. Strictly put, a cut flower no longer grew, becasue it was no longer alive. To some exxtent, ikebana conquered nature, it made dead flowers appear as presentable as possible, in the way people did to loved ones who died. It seemed strange that long ago (1841), a decree in the Tokugawa period once forbid women to have lessons in flower arrangement, among other things. Bonzai was another beautiful art-form that puzzled me. The trees were not dead, like, shrunken heads, but very much alive and sturdy by nature, when cared for. The artistic manipulation of growth, stretched out over many years, involved a careful cultivation of trees in small containers, and use of wires, that restricted the growth of roots and branches. The bonsai tradition in Japan, dated back more than a 1,000-years. Like the archetects and the concrete jungles their structures helped to create, ikebana and bonsai contradicted nature. Despite this, there was genius in perfecting the arts. It would be a great mistake to simply dismiss them. Both ikebana and bonsai -- art-forms of interest in their own right -- had long influenced the works of painters and photographers. Particularly, with Japanese artists and photographers
in their focus on traditional themes and period details. If only I could have felt more colorfully about most of the Japanese towns and cities that I had tramped through on my mission. The building boom madness in Japan, in my view, was an ignorant and inconsiderate extravagance, in which the architects imagination had run riot. The obnoxious modern buildings progressively destroyed a past that could only be read about in books. Like feathers in their caps, proud of their accomplishments, the
architects grotesque and loathsome concrete and glass boxs popped up just about everywhere. Actually, I knew nothing about architecture, but I was intelligent enough to know what was attractive, like, ikebana and bonzai, and what was an eyesore, like, so many of the modern buildings. One building I considered an eyesore was, The National Museum of Western Art in Ueno in Tokyo, opened to the public, in 1959. The main aim of the museum was to house the artworks owned by Japanese industrialist, Kōjirō Matsukata (1865-1950). Up until the museum opened, Matsukata’s collections had been kept in France and England, until the end of the Pacific War. In order for the Japanese art-works to be returned to Japan, it was stipulated by the French government that the new museum, be designed by a French architect. Therefore, Charles-Édouard Jeanneret (1887-1965), known as Le Corbusier, was chosen to design the masterplan. In return, the Japanese government requested that some of its architects be assisted in the work. All in all, much of Le Corbusier's designs were influenced by urban life, and dedicated to the improvement of life in urban surroundings. Japan was the world's most highly urbanized country -- 15-percent of the people lived in cities with than 100,000 inhabitants.
Done
The National Museum of Western Art in Ueno was considered a modernist gem, and a nationally registered Important Cultural Property. A number of his buildings had been inscribed as UNESCO World Heritage Sites, in 2016. In truth, most architects devoted themselves fiercely to their work. Their profession could be deemed useful, for the world could not get along without them. Unfortunately, center of cities had become concrete jungles -- a disorderly coalition of buildings of all shapes and sizes. The Building Standards Law was applied to all buildings, wood, steel, and concrete, throughout Japan. If so, then why did buildings not compliment each other? One reason was that the district-wide and uniform use zone restrictions in the different wards often clashed. Nothing was concrete, so to speak, that could not be changed by a technicality or loophole. A number of architect firms wielded considerable influence over local city authorities, on a so-called professional basis. This illustrated a serious weaknesses in a local government's power, usually made-up by a bunch of old-fashioned, conservative, inactive characters -- obsessed by an industry established financial economy. For me, the ugliness of a building was a blatant intrusion into a person's private life. If the complete structure was anything to go by, then the itch to build seemed an ill-planned policy. There were few demonstrations to protect historical location, in Japan. Surely in was only a matter of time before a showdown came about. Local people protected the main Tokyo Station building from being demolished. The area around the station had undergone extensive redevelopment work, completed in 2013. The central Tokyo area had its fair share of high-rise towers, multi-story offices and shopping plazas. The construction work included new university campuses -- the stage had been set for the continuation of a long tragedy. Surely, it was only a matter of time before the fingers of modernity reached out and touched what other historic sites remained. Unlike a lot of countries and their cultures, Japan was not the place where hysterical chorus of criticism was openly aired. At least not since the anti-Vietnam riots of the 1960s and 70s. If only the inhabitants of a city united to protect their shared interests, to keep their cities beautiful and treasure the past. Wishful thinking! Back to the present, the time had gone seven o’clock in the evening when I finally made my way across a plain looking Horonai-bashi, a bridge that spanned the winding namesake river. The Horonai-gawa basin, in the town of Otake, was dotted with old Ainu forts, called chasi in the Ainu language. The forts were used in the sixteenth to eighteenth-centuries. Like castles in Europe, the forts made the most of the natural terrain -- hills, cliffs mountain tops, rivers and islands, and so forth. Many had moats around them, like the castles. This was as good a time as any to keep an eye open for a spot to pitch my tent. A few kilometers short of Horonai, a car pulled over and stopped. A man in his 30s asked through an open window if I wanted a lift.
Done
At that time, I was on the side of the oncoming traffic, so I needed to cross over the road to thank him for the kind offer. It was the tail end of the rush-hour traffic, so the road was not so busy. “Hop in! Hop in!” The man called out to me, as I drew nearer. At the car, I bent down at the window and thanked him, but politely declined, with a smile. Then I said that I really needed to walk, and give him a quick rundown on my mission around Japan on foot. He then reached into a large plastic shopping bag on the passenger seat, and pulled out a 300-milliliter can of Asahi beer, and handed it to me. Needless to say, I was more than happy to accept the gift. On a hot day like the present, it would not have been easy to say no to a cool beer. The sweat poured off me. “I’m on my way to meet some friends on the beach just up ahead.” He said. “You know how things were with friends on a beach -- talk, laugh, drink, and eat.” It might have been interesting to have joined them, but I had more pressing issues on my mind. A part of me wanted to notch up another 10-kilometers, before I called it a day. Another part of me wanted to make camp unnoticed, perhaps on the beach in question. The time was late, and my body and mind were tired. The man had already drove off, and it did not take long to make quick work of the beer. After only a kilometer or so on the road, a car turned left onto the main drag from a side street. An elderly fellow at the wheel poked his head out of the car window. “Amelika-jin? Amelika-jin?” He called out to me. “Hai!” I shouted back, with a smile and a wee wave, too tired to care. The car did not stop.
Done
??? Airport