welcome to the haikutimes
In November of 1998, I joined a team of Boulderites who traveled to Yamagata, Japan, to participate in a trade fair that represented the arts, crafts and foods of Boulder, Colorado. I participated by selling landscape t-shirts and pen-and-ink greeting cards. I was hosted by two different families while in Yamagata, and then traveled on for another week by myself. This whirlwind two-week tour was an inspiring journey for me, and I sketched whenever I had a chance.
Friday, October 29, 1998 Boulder, Colorado.
Friday, October 29, 1998 Boulder, Colorado. I'm sleepy-but at least I am on the bus, headed for an early morning rendezvous with a United Airlines flight to Los Angeles, where I will connect with a flight to Tokyo. Providing this segment of the flight goes well, I'm then to make my way to Yamagata by bullet train, where I will meet my fellow Boulderites as well as Yamagata's Sister City representatives. We will be participating in the Colorado Boulder Festival, an event showcasing some unique aspects of Boulder's life to the citizens of Yamagata, part of an ongoing series of exchanges between the two cities. After the festival, who knows how the visit will unfold? My Boulder t-shirts, greeting cards and other items which I plan to sell are (I hope) waiting for me, as I shipped them off three weeks ago. I can't guess what the Festival in Yamagata will be like, but there's no turning back now!
Although I lay myself down to sleep at an early hour last night, thoughts about the coming day preoccupied my brain, and thus from 11:00 p.m. onward I fell prey to nervousness, unable to lose myself in a full, deep sleep. Such a beneficial act was denied by my hyper-contemplative brain.
From my bus seat I can see the steady illumination of the eastern sky as it transforms itself into a diaphanous curtain of pale blue. Wispy clouds in dark contrast unfold gently above the horizon, where the sulphur
glow of a sleepy Broomfield suburb signals the day's awakening.
flying to Tokyo
my eyes are red and bloodshot
early morning sun
The weight of tiredness and the burden of anxiety press upon my brow, yet I truly want this trip to be a success, both personally (I hope to sell lots of shirts and cards)and extra-personally, in the larger context of Boulder's Sister City relationship with Yamagata.
fast, modern airplane
video screen for my eyes
headphones for my ears
A sea of hazy white engulfs the plane. But for the turbulence and clouds passing high overhead, we would appear to be hovering, stationary.
landing in L.A.
sixty-three degrees with smog
I'm full of coffee
waiting to take off
boring, insipid music
pretty stewardess
Hours later. I figure it's 1:00 a.m. for me at home; another hour to go before we reach Tokyo. Even then, immediately afterwards, I have to travel to Yamagata. Somehow I have to figure out how to get from Tokyo to Yamagata, where a room has been reserved for me at the Grand Hotel.
The sky below yawns beneath me, the clouds wispy and pebble-like in the fading blue grey light.
shadow of the plane
in the ocean far below
hungry for some food
October 31, 1998. I'm not in Yamagata after all. A victim of jet-lag, I'm hanging out in a small cubicle of a room in some suburb of Tokyo (Minowa). I hardly know where I am. It's amazing that I found this place, a small budget hotel that the woman at Narita airport's tourist information center recommended.
I'm here because I missed the train to Yamagata. By the time I had made it through customs and picked up by backpack, the last train to Yamagata had left. So I had to go into Tokyo to find a hotel, a frightful challenge in my disoriented state.
November 1, 1998 For a Halloween day, yesterday was a wild one. I wrote that last bit at 3:00 a.m. after waking up to the sound of rain periodically washing over the city. After watching a few minutes of Japanese MTV on the small television provided, I gathered my gear together and headed out of the hotel's darkened (and open) doorway and into the quiet streets of Tokyo at 4:45 a.m.
Compared to last night, the evening before when I felt tired and anxious and frustrated with making train connections, this morning's subway negotiation was easier. Last night, I was shocked at my first encounter with such a huge onslaught of Japanese commuters. I realized with dismay that one of the three train connections I had to make (in order to reach the hotel in downtown Tokyo) was completely overbooked. The line I needed was taking the overflow from another line that had suddenly shut down; the door that slid open revealed a huge number of folks already crammed into the car. I grimly resolved to surge forward and join the lot of them, feeling burdened and bulky by my large backpack and banjo.
The subways and train stations in Japan contain a maze of undecipherable lettering, overwhelming the few English signs that indicate major destinations. Along every step of the way last night I felt completely dependent on the assistance of the Japanese to clarify where I was going. In doing so, I made my foreign ignorance and lack of Japanese language skills plain for all to see (as if that could be concealed). But by 10:00 pm. I had reached the hotel, four and one-half hours after landing at Narita airport.
But this morning, as I mentioned, I faced the subways and trains with fresh energy and was soon heading north to Yamagata.
waiting for the train
to Yamagata city
I made it last night
I got to see Tokyo in the daylight, or at least the small portion that was visible from the bullet train line (Shinkansen). In my first few moments on the train I concluded that, consistent with rumors, Japan is a crowded place. A glance out the train window as we sped through Tokyo's suburbs gave me glimpses of endless urbanization. So much mountainous terrain puts habitable space at a premium! In just a few hours I was in sunny Yamagata, ready to face the next leg of my sister-city visit.
It took some time for me to find the Grand Hotel, my contact point with everyone else from Boulder. This time, when I asked people for directions, they just shook their heads and scurried away. I wandered on, humbled by peoples' reactions to me, wishing I spoke Japanese and hoping that I was going in the right direction. I stumbled upon the Grand Hotel by accident. I wandered into the main lobby and immediately ran into Yoko Tamaki Brandt, Boulder's Sister City liaison with the City of Yamagata, and the first familiar face I had seen since arriving in Japan. Mission accomplished!
Feeling significantly more relaxed, I stashed my gear and took off to explore. Within seconds, I had discovered the site of the Colorado Boulder Festival: a parking lot right alongside the busy main street of Yamagtata. With the help of John Clump, Yamagata's principal English-speaking liaison, I located my boxes of shirts and cards, stored a short way away in the City Hall. Soon the parking lot (hemmed in by a parking garage on one side, Yamagata's main street on the other and decorated by two huge, hyper-colorful murals depicting the Flatirons and Pike's Peak) was a scene of intense activity. A crowd of Japanese volunteers erected tents, assembled a music stage, and busied themselves with grills and booths from which to serve Colorado's famous buffalo burgers, Boulder beer and Boulder potato chips. I set up my own booth, arranging my merchandise on a long, flat table, all the while feeling parallels between this event and Boulder's Art and Craft Market, which I have participated in for two years, as well as hawking my wares at Boulder's Creek Festival for two different seasons. The significant difference, of course, was that now I was assembling my booth several thousand miles to the west, in a completely different culture.
I got some help from a Japanese teacher of English in making small signs that explained the nature and cost of my merchandise. Still, the question remained: how do I bridge the cultural and language gap between east and west and become a successful merchant? How do I set the value of my shirts and greeting cards and CDs? I eventually settled on prices that were not dissimilar to what I charge in Boulder.
selling shirts is hard
when I can't speak a word of
Japanese language
The Colorado Boulder Festival was jump-started by a formal ceremony
shortly after noon. We Americans were made to feel warmly welcome. Although
I couldn't understand the content of the many speeches that were made, the
feeling of good will in the parking lot was unmistakable. Yamagata's deputy
mayor opened the festivities with a speech, blessing the Sister City relationship between Boulder and Yamagata and the connection that continues to thrive between these two cities, each of which rests in the shadow of tall mountains, though on
opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean. I reflected that even though our countries had been locked in a vicious struggle during World War II, there now existed a mutual posture of genuine curiosity and a willingness to explore the creative expressions of each of our cultures. I hoped this attitude would continue to flower during our short stay.
Some of the Coloradans at the Boulder festival I met for the first time. These included the musicians Calvin Standing Bear and James Torres, the native American dancers Nico Strange Owl, Anna Strange Owl Raben, Rachel Magpie and the seventeen month-old Dah'Som Strange Owl, accompanied by his caretaker, Kaitlyn Archambault. Those from Boulder whom I had previously met included Charlie Pellerin, Yoko Tamaki Brandt, John and Yayoi Shaw, Scott Semple, Sarah Meyers and Tom Cannon. As guests, we sat in front of the music stage until the ceremonial greeting concluded and then dispersed to enjoy the native American flute and piano music of Calvin Standing Bear and James Torres, along with demonstrations of native American dance, which inspired some brave Japanese folks to join in.
I felt more than ordinary pangs of hunger and tiredness throughout the day.
I was starving by 1:00 but wanted to avoid the buffalo burgers and chips,
preferring to taste some of the local fast food instead. Nourishment finally materialized (with the assistance of Sarah Myers) in the form of fish and
noodles in a small, neatly packaged box, a tasty prelude to what was to come later in the evening.
As the day wore on, I began to relax and enjoy the companionship of
both the Japanese and American personalities surrounding me. I also began
to realize the challenge faced by our small group in surviving, and reciprocating, the marvelous hospitality. After cleaning up for the day, we Boulderites were whisked away to a rebuilt temple in the center of town, the Higashi-Otemon. In an interior room built with huge cedar beams we were served sake and treated to the music of two koto players and the unfortunately undecipherable blessings of a Shinto priest. Then it was off to a lively kabuchi meal (a meat and vegetable fondue) at which I successfully displaced my tiredness with fresh conversational and nutritional stamina. I sat with my host family, which, presided over by the benevolent matriarchal presence of Kikuko Tamatsu, included her son, the ebullient, 31-year old Kenji Tamatsu; his sister, Setsuko Endo; and her husband Makoto Endo. By the time we sat down to eat, Kenji informed me that he had already taken a good look at my web page.
Receiving the hospitality of these friendly folks was a rare and honorable experience for me. Later, in the Timatsu's living room, I distributed gifts (cards, t-shirts, prints) and showed them photographs of my family and my humble mobile home in Boulder. We also had a rather abstract discussion about recording CDs with today's technology and what it took for me to record Hut Trip (the CD I have brought along to sell).
Lastly, I enjoyed a hot bath. Having been forewarned about the need to
follow proper etiquette when bathing in Japan, I have been reading about and preparing myself mentally for this experience. Thankfully, I avoided making a fool of myself by following the tub-time protocol with a high degree of attention.
I feel like I am slowly starting to adjust to the time change, and I think I
finally ate enough food. Onward to another day of the festival!
November 3, 1998 Two more days of the festival have passed. Attendance
has unfortunately diminished, reducing my sales. I think the buffalo burgers, Boulder beer and Boulder potato chips are a hit, however. The attendance at this festival is surely a miniscule percentage of Yamagata's total population of 250,000, making the popularity of this fair seem not dissimilar to that of Boulder's Art and Craft Market. However, I have been trying to keep my spirits up by focusing on the interesting people and entertainment.
Musically, it was a rewarding day; between sets of music by Calvin and James, a Japanese bluegrass band performed. I didn't feel courageous enough to bring my banjo out in the face of this facsimile of an American bluegrass group, who were fascinating to watch. Wearing cowboy boots and nine-gallon hats, the musicians sang old American country and bluegrass favorites in a western twang. Their lead singer had a deep, husky voice, making him sound like Johnny Cash on steroids. I listened from my booth, tucked away in the corner of the parking lot. Even so, I sold a satisfactory number of shirts and cards, including five CDs.
Kenji took me and a small group of Boulderites to lunch at his aunt's soba shop, a tiny, 50-year old alcove nestled amongst department stores along Yamagata's main street. Soba is a noodle made of buckwheat flour. The shop had a rich wooden interior, set modestly with antique tables. A single menu posted horizontally on a bulletin board announced the day's soba offerings. The simple surroundings and the hearty, flavorful meal charged my spirits.
By the time the day was over, however, I had "hit the wall" (meaning, I
encountered overwhelming waves of tiredness), right when Kenji and his
sister decided to take me on a tour of the art and design school where Setsuko works. This venerable institution overlooking the town is a grand, palatial,
concrete hulk of a conceptual architectural wonder, perched high on a hill
overlooking Yamagata City. We watched a professor and his students make abstract steel-and-iron insects. I was so tired that I felt nauseous. Back at home, I requested a nap to ease my condition. I had a sense that Mrs. Tamatsu was preparing an elaborate meal for me. In frustration, I lay awake feeling too exhausted to sleep, my head pounding.
When it came time to face the family I was a post-wall wreck, yet I managed to drink some sake and engage in scattered conversation. They lavished food and gifts upon me ("You should eat with gusto")! After the meal I gazed in amazement at the collection of thoughtful gifts they had given me: scarves, wall hangings, a wooden doll, tiny figurines, cups, postcards, books and tea-ceremony bowls.
soba delights me
the other thing I just ate
was sea-urchin eggs
The third day of the festival was decidedly quiet, with just a few
suit-and-tie businessmen lining up for buffalo burgers and chips. The
weather was sunny, and after awhile I got my banjo out and strummed away
and sang. My musical contribution was decidedly low-key, but I continued until a group of us were taken to the mayor's office in the large and opulent Yamagata Civic Center where Terence Barber, the United States minister of agriculture, had just
arrived. We were received by Yamagata's mayor and his attendants as foreign ambassadors, formally and officially welcomed amidst speeches of hospitality and small cold drinks of lemonade nestled in concave cup-holders (reflecting the convex ceiling of the receiving-room, I thought). Nicole Strange-Owl's infant son, along for the occasion, occasionally gurgled and squirmed in his mother's lap, adding a bit of humor and life to the proceedings.
In the evening we headed to the Grand Hotel to prepare for the formal
banquet. Prior to the meal we were party to a discussion (all in Japanese, of course) between Mr. Barber, fluent in Japanese, and various distinguished Japanese guests. The issues being discussed, as I later understood it, concerned matters of international trade between Japan and the United States. A fear the Japanese have is that by allowing American companies to sell rice in Japan, Japanese rice farmers will suffer. America is exerting a little trade muscle in this area, and I discerned that Mr. Barber answered some of the questions put to him with questions of his own about the balance of world trade, effectively and diplomatically skirting an issue that evokes the high emotion and interest of Japanese people. In the middle of these discussions I escaped in order to experience the ritual of a Japanese tea ceremony, generously provided by my host-family mother.
The banquet began in a highly formal fashion. I received a name card and proceeded to a pre-ordained table in the far corner of the room. It appeared at first that I would be surrounded by faces unfamiliar to me; business-suit clad executives, all smoking heavily. Fortunately, I was joined by my host-family mother and another fellow who spoke excellent English. We selected sushi and soba from elaborately prepared tables and settled in for yet another feast.
I had no intention of bringing my banjo out, but after the meal, when people started to make toasts and sing, I was approached by Mr. Yuichi Misawa, one of the volunteers of the festival. He urged me to play my instrument. I froze up. What, play in front of this crowd?
Since my refusal conveyed the smack of an insult, I changed my mind and went downstairs to the lobby to retrieve my banjo. Why did I practice for hours and hours at home, I thought, if only to travel all the way to Japan and shirk an invitation to play? In the elevator, I sweated through my fancy dress shirt and attempted to keep my composure.
The moment of truth arrived as I strode up to the stage. I played three
bluegrass tunes, drenching my shirt under the curious eyes of the crowd. Deciding to call it quits I attempted to exit, only to be called back by shouts of "encore!" After playing two more of my own songs, I again attempted to leave, only to be called back yet again. Finally, I broke into "U.S. Blues." To my great surprise, everyone in the room got up and started dancing, forming a circle and then a moving snake line. Someone came up to me and shouted, "Keep playing for two more minutes"! By now, I felt I was just making noise, even though Sarah Myers had leapt up on stage to sing with me. I was not prepared for the effect my banjo was having on the normally staid Japanese. Calvin Standing Bear began beating on a drum, and we played together until music from loudspeakers flooded the room: the chanting and drumming sounds of traditional Japanese hat dance or Hanagasa music, melodies and rhythms to which everyone in the room immediately responded by marching, singing in step and waving empty plates (meant to imitate hats) above their heads. A feeling of reverie and calm flowed through me. I was happy to be out from under the spotlight, but gratified to have helped spark such a chaotic, energetic mood.
I went home with the second of my host family volunteers, Mr. Yuichi Misawa. He is the owner of a pottery shop and lives with his wife and daughter in the northern part of the city.
pillow filled with rice
deep tub filled with water
I am going to bed
November 4, 1998
Today, the fourth day of the Colorado Boulder Festival, was the best yet. Sunny skies and abundant crowds helped me increase my total sales. Of course, I hope to sell the remainder of my shirts in Boulder next summer, helping to offset the cost of coming here.
I was so busy selling my wares that I never even had time to eat lunch. A fine selection of entertainment provided a backdrop for our presence, including an hour of traditional Japanese drumming and a curious demonstration of American football by a collection of enthusiastic Japanese youths, coaches and cheerleaders. When the day was over, we went straight to the banks of the Mogami river to indulge in a re-creation of the traditional Imoni festival, normally held in September, wherein a huge pot of soup is prepared and served to the whole community. A tent (complete with lights powered by a diesel generator) sheltered us as we ate squid and soup, drank sake, and listened to a set of traditional Japanese music, including tunes by the master of the shakuhachi flute, Ryudo Takahashi, and a set that featured three samisens (loud, banjo-like instruments) playing at once. Calvin Standing Bear played his flute, too, and I was touched to hear how two flute players from different sides of the planet could evoke the same deep well of feeling. Calvin said it well, speaking after he played: "We are all related."
November 5, 1998
Yesterday I spent many hours sketching in the mountain
enclave of Yamadera, a limestone sanctuary that shelters a collection of
extraordinary Buddhist temples. Misawa San took me out there, dropped me off, and left me to explore this ancient retreat where Basho, the Haiku poet, once rambled and wrote. My appearance proclaimed me a foreigner as I wandered up the steps leading deep into the cedar forest, hauling around my big backpack full of art supplies, as I tend to do. Sketching in foreign locations is usually a highly public affair. If I am out in the open as the drawing progresses, people tend to stop and stare at what I am doing. Usually this is a good opportunity for positive, non-verbal communication.
where Basho once wrote
Temples of Yamadera
I draw in the sun
The temples of Yamadera are nestled in cozy limestone alcoves. Their
ornate, angled wooden roofs preside over Yamadera's hilly landscape, the
foliage of which, at this time of year, blends from green to yellow to red. Far below,
the town recedes into a steep mountain valley. I drew the gateway
temple, the roofline of another, and a statue. The statue was not Basho (as I had originally thought) but another saint, Rakan Sama. I did find a Rodin-esque statue of Basho hidden in the trees, but its position and lighting precluded a sketch. In addition, it was getting late.
Around 3:00 I thought of calling Misawa San. I had assumed that he would be at home, but as I walked down the street looking for a phone I heard someone honking. There he was! His business takes him to this area regularly, and we stopped into a restaurant where he sells pottery. He happily greeted the proprietor, who quickly procured several small, moist rice cakes and cups of green tea for our refreshment.
Misawa San is in his late 50s and has traveled widely through Japan, Canada, and the United States. One of his daughters lives in America and has a new child. Misawa San often hosts people at his house. His quiet wife, Yuko San, fixed hearty breakfasts. She could not speak much English, unlike her 14-year-old daughter, Ritsuko San, who faced English classes every day at school and therefore was more fluent. Ritsuko San appeared at the breakfast table dressed in a full blue uniform, ready to ride her bike to school. I think they enjoyed my presence, and I asked many questions about their life in Japan. Misawa San s house (which belonged to his great-grandfather) is more rustic and traditional than the Timatsu's house, but, as in the Timatsu household, his bathtub is deep and long and offers profound relaxation.
After returning from Yamadera, Misawa San helped me pack my remaining
shirts, cards and CDs into three sturdy boxes. I am expecting them to show
up in Boulder in a month or two.
The final event planned for us Boulderites occurred at the community
center in the Matsumi-cho district of Yamagata. The proprietors of this
establishment, soba-makers who traveled from Yamagata to Boulder in August to demonstrate their ancient craft, set out to entertain us in royal style, but not without first making speech after speech commemorating the Boulder-Yamagata connection and showing news clips of their Boulder visit (which, when aired in Japan, gave them unexpected notoriety). The Japanese also broke out plenty of cigarettes, gleefully recalling that, while in Boulder, they were not allowed to smoke.
Once again Calvin Standing Bear played his flute, and the soba-makers and their friends sang the city song of Yamagata. Charlie Pellerin looked at me in terror: "What on earth are we going to sing? Quick, think of something!" Representing the Boulder group, I sang "We Bid You Goodnight," and we were off the hook. I consumed abundant quantities of shrimp, soba and sake, and a merry time was had by all. Everyone in our group stood up and made a speech of thanks and gratitude for the hospitality of the people of the city of Yamagata.
After the dinner I discovered that Calvin Standing Bear and James Torres were heading to a local bar to play some blues and to meet some women. Meet some women? Play the blues? I couldn't resist, if only for the sake of curiosity, to see how such an event on the streets of Yamagata might unfold. We walked slowly and carefully to the bar. The past week had proven to be a unique and lively experience, and we had much to reflect on. I continued to feel the effects of the sake, which appeared to be increasing as we walked to the bar. I kept thinking that I should call Misawa San, but I was having so much fun that I put it off.
The bar was a real mix. In a glass-walled, empty room, a Japanese rock band waited
for us. An American flag hung on the wall. As we walked in, they announced, "You
are late" and immediately broke into blisteringly loud renditions of western pop tunes. I was stunned by the volume of the music. Because of this chaos, we were unable to speak to the women who had met us there. Misawa San and Ritsuko San (who had been looking for me for the past hour) appeared outside the bar, their faces pressed to the glass windows, curious at the scene inside. Once again, Misawa San had anticipated my whereabouts.
The band let James play the piano for a short set, and Calvin came up and played the electric guitar. I joined them and sang vocals to the song "Stormy Monday," improvising the lyrics on the go.
November 6, 1998
(Notes from the bullet train--Yamagata to Hiroshima--a
journey of eight hours). In Japan, all is efficiency, but for a foreigner traveling around, all is confusion. Many miles away from the center of Tokyo, the suburbs and industrial areas retain their size and density, filling in, filling up, pressing close together. This is a hilly country, spread thick with suburban humanity and industrial effluvium.
(From the Hiroshima youth hostel).
On arrival, I descended into the melee of the city without the benefit of the tourist information desk to show me the way. Fortunately, I was able to secure tourist information by phone and so figured out what bus I needed to get to a hostel. My particular hostel (there are three here) is perched on a steep hill overlooking the city. I was pleased and relieved to find it, and felt welcome in this large, quiet, and fairly run-down establishment. Right now (from the balcony window) I can see north to the center of town, where the bustle of 1.3 million Hiroshima-ites creates vitality in what was once ten square miles of destruction.
Last night I ate a successful meal at a Chinese place and showed the
proprietors of the restaurant some of my photos from home. Back at the hostel, I took a bath in a large, square metal tub and gazed at peeling paint and mold spots. I slept well until 4:00 am when Bill Martin, a septuagenarian from Glasgow, woke me up with his snoring. I successfully covered my ears with a blanket and awoke at 7:30, minutes away from missing breakfast.
I ventured into the heart of Hiroshima today. First I tried to find fellow Boulderite Tom Canon, now selling his pottery at a huge department store called Sogo. I aroused the interest and consternation of the department store guards, who couldn't understand why I was requesting information about an American potter. Finally, they understood. I was escorted to the eighth floor, where I located Tom's wares. Unfortunately, I was too early, and missed Tom by several hours. I noted that his work was well displayed, though, and wondered how I could sell my work in such a busy department store.
To the famous Peace Park and the Atomic Bomb Dome I ventured next, spending the next hour slowly circling the carcass of what was once the city's prefecture building, originally designed by a Czech architect. Today, by the river Motoyasu, the building's preserved shell is dwarfed by the ferro-concrete artifacts of modern Japanese economics. The psychological impact of the dome looms larger than the office buildings, however. I felt moved to tears just by being there.
An unusual feature of the prefecture building's grounds (and of the peace park in its entirety) that I hadn't anticipated was the presence of busloads of schoolchildren who gaily followed their schoolteachers. The children animated the space with their lively, vital presence, filling the air with laughter, drowning out any leftover reverberations of that first atomic blast. The children provided a vivid contrast to the real and awful truth, that atomic weapons were once used on a civilian population.
The entire area of the Peace Memorial Park was once a bustling, lively
district of commerce. The area's main function now is to remind people of the fruits of fear and mutual distrust, of the futility of war, and the extent to which, in times of conflict, we ignore our shared humanity. In the museum, many details of the conflagration were expressed; the charring of skin, the burning of cloth, the ending of time.
eight-fifteen a.m.
is when the clocks stopped working
in Hiroshima
Dredging up the details of the blast serves the purpose, I think, of sparking the memory of this event, one that has left a crater in the human psyche. Today, the physical scars of the bomb are largely covered up. The event could easily be forgotten were it not for this large-scale diary that recollects well the day of August 6, 1945, when the skies lit up and radiation spread.
I spent quite a bit of time in the museum. Feeling emotionally exhausted, I left to sketch the Childrens' Peace Monument, a reminder of the nature of human frailty in the face of radiation poisoning. A young victim of the bombs blast believed that if she folded 1,000 paper cranes, she would be healed of her wounds; unfortunately, she perished, but her spirited attempts at self-healing are recognized by thousands of schoolchildren who visit the memorial every day. They leave folded paper cranes, identifying with her tragedy.
My evening meal, like the lunch I consumed earlier in the day, was in a shop that served native food. Dinner was harder to order than lunch because the earnest employees were unwilling to cook for me what I pointed to on the menu. I never understood why. Eventually, I was served a bowl of soup. The restaurant was memorable because the waiters and cooks wore bright blue outfits, and each cook wore a braided red-and-blue headband.
November 8, 1998
Miyajima Island. It is my second day in this sacred
(and touristy) place. I have completed four sketches and climbed to the
summit of Mt. Misen, a point from which one can view Hiroshima and the
mainland. The shrines and temples here, both Shinto and Buddhist, stand
out in contrast to the lush foliage of the island. I drew from within the
Itsukushima (Shinto) shrine yesterday, detailing a section of its floating
architecture and a portion of the five-storied pagoda towering above and
behind it. I also sketched the famous Torii gate, a famous Japanese landmark.
I made it to Miyajima-Guchi (on the mainland side of the bay, directly
across from the island) without much problem, but was disappointed with the
hostel. The rooms are expensive for a hostel, (about $28 a night) and quite
run-down. Cheaper than a high-priced hotel, though!
There are deer everywhere on the island: small, placid, and harmless.
Today I was thinking that perhaps they are the reincarnations of Buddhist
saints from generations past.
deer stand on the path
in Miyajima Island
waiting for some food
Miyajima Island seems to be a magnet for Japanese families as well as for groups of schoolkids. The grounds are spotless. I'm not sure if this is from the ever-nibbling deer or the basic levels of high sanitation, a Japanese standard. Public areas are clean, but of course the environment suffers, both because plastics are burned and because of the mass utilization of disposable wooden chopsticks. We humans seem so self-absorbed in our lives, living our days according to a habitual process, never questioning the grooves we get into.
everything is wrapped
and placed in a plastic bag
where does it all go?
While hiking, I found that almost everybody smiled at me and made eye contact, in contrast to the complete lack of communication I've noticed from other strangers on subways or on buses, for instance.
climbing Mt. Misen
I mumble "konichi-wa"
to people passing by
I've been thinking about Calvin Standing Bear's statement that "we are all related." This sentiment has stuck in my head. The Japanese appear to be so different from me, as I observe their strange predilections for music or advertising (I've been watching a fair amount of Japanese television, as there are sets in all the hostels, blaring away during meals). But the Japanese are just another shade of human.
Right now I'm eating a bunch of food and drinking sake at a place in Miyajima-Guchi. I came back to the youth hostel feeling lonely and tired. I took a bath, watched John Glenn and six other astronauts land their space shuttle, and came to this bar/fast food place to get nourished. My hostel room is the pits. I feel estranged from everyone because I can't speak any Japanese. However, I must eat, so here I am, spending all the money I earned selling art!
I feel good about the sketches I did today. I was quite focused and
drew a long-nosed saint, Karasu Tengo, right next to a stairway leading to
another temple that had prayer rolls available for spinning. I also drew
another statue of a Buddha in front of a temple.
November 10, 1998 (From the Kyoto Hostel)
I was glad to leave the Miyajima hostel because it hovered over the edge of a major thoroughfare, amplifying sounds from the road. I did have an interesting conversation in the hostel with a woman named Debbie (an engineering student from Texas who is working in Japan for a year). We had a wild time trying to converse with an older Japanese guy who happened to be in the room. He couldn't believe that Debbie was an engineer. Speaking of old Japanese
guys, there's a real weirdo in my room right now who insists on jabbering at me in Japanese, even though I've made it plainly evident that I can't understand one iota of what he is saying.
After leaving Miyajima Island, I decided to head down to Iwakuni to visit a fabled, multi-span wooden bridge, the Kintaikyo. The trip to the town of Iwakuni was easy enough, but then I faced the dreaded bus-transfer, a thirty-minute ordeal of confusion and tight squeezes. My backpack and banjo don't lend themselves well to travel on the Japanese buses.
I sketched once at the bridge (after a light snack of squid) and felt pleased
to be there, despite the confusion of transportation.
sketching Kintaikyo
a leaf falls on my paper
people passing by
After sketching, I was able to make a transfer to the Shinkansen station and to travel back through Hiroshima and then on to Kyoto. During the entire train ride I conversed with a group of Japanese high school girls and their professor. We shared the same coach, and as soon as they saw me, they realized that they had an opportunity to practice their English. (Some did, at least). Therefore, the train ride, which took several hours, was taken up by simple discussions and (on their part) giggles. I even bumped into the same group today while walking through some of the temple grounds on Kyoto's eastern side. That's how I spent my day, exploring and sketching temples.
Because Kyoto was spared the ravages of World War II, many of the city's big temples escaped unharmed. The world is fortunate to retain this heritage of ancient wooden structures, expertly built, harboring untold images of Buddhist deities. I lost myself along a maze of narrow streets inlaid with stone walkways, catching sight of roofs of pagodas here, edges of a smartly curled rooflines there, threading my way all the while through crowds of young schoolboys and girls.
I was up before the sun rose and so was walking around with the early
morning light guiding my investigations. I sketched a dramatic monument; a
huge statue of the Buddha, Ryozen Kwan-on, meant to be a memorial to both
American and Japanese soldiers who perished in World War II. I also sketched at the Kiyomizu Temple complex, choosing to focus on some hanging lamps. While I drew, waves of schoolchildren washed over me.
I made my way to the south-central part of town and ate a 1,200-yen meal made by a gentleman who spoke broken English and who happily broadcast the music of Nat King Cole for his patrons.
The Sanjusangendo Temple was next on my list, a place that two German
guys, Bjoern and Ralph, had waxed poetic about back at the hostel. Inside
the 390-foot long temple I was stunned to find a thousand golden Buddhas, each with twenty pairs of arms, all surrounding a central Buddhist figure. Observing this multitude of golden Buddhas and their multifold arms was a treat. The number of the Buddhas and the number of arms represent a complex, specific numerical idea that has a precise religious significance in Buddhist cosmology. The idea behind this
multiplicity is curious; the reality is arresting.
I walked through the center of town, finding a few more temples scattered within the sprawling metropolis of modern Kyoto. I drew once more by a dragon-spouted water fountain.
coming round the bend
finding another temple
drivers in traffic
In my journey back to the hostel I traversed one of Kyoto's busiest commercial areas, Kawaramachi street, observing some contrasting concerns of modern Japan. Commerce and consumerism are as much objects of contemplation as are the temples of old, an insight that became apparent to me when I noticed a chance contrast between two buildings on opposite sides of the busy avenue. One building, a brightly lit, neon-pink-and-rose-colored convenience store with a thousand-and-one items (like the number of arms on the Buddhas in Sanjusangendo) faced a quiet wooden structure with an earthen-toned garden of neatly trimmed bushes and freshly raked gravel paths. The space between them shook with the energy of the city.
November 11, 1998
I'm sitting in a seaside bar and restaurant in Kamakura,
eating my second meal of the evening. I ate previously at an elegant
restaurant near the Daibutsu, the great Buddha of Kamakura, which I saw lit up in the setting rays of the sun. Reaching Kamakura was more of an ordeal than I anticipated because it involved so many train and bus transfers.
if I try to squeeze
my banjo behind that seat
maybe they'll get by
I failed to locate the youth hostel in Kamakura when I arrived. To this end, in mild desperation, I enlisted the help of an American marine and his Japanese girlfriend, who eventually helped me find my lodging. I am not so excited about this hostel, which is a sprawling, expansive dorm-room complex. I'm relaxed, though. I just took a bath and I'm eating again, spending more of the money I earned in Yamagata. I'm preparing to do some lightning-quick sketches tomorrow morning before heading to the Narita airport to fly home.
I'm close to Yokohama, where America's top naval commander, Commodore
Perry, staked out a diplomatic showdown in 1853. He requested--or you might say, demanded--that the Japanese open up trade relations with the United States, thus symbolically ending nearly 200 years of Japanese isolation. Kamakura, close to Yokohama, is the site of ancient Buddhist leadership. The Daibutsu is in the Kotokuin temple and features the huge, 35-foot-high, bronze-plated Amida Buddha, cast in 1292, three centuries before foreigners reached Japan. It was principally to see this monument that I persevered through a challenging morning of bus and train rides. I enjoyed the statue for a short while in the evening until the temple complex closed, sketching Amida and his metal lotus blossoms.
Centuries after its erection, this work still conveys a sense of grace and
awesome calm, an aesthetic blessing for this weary American traveler who is
tired of rushing through Japan's modern infrastructure.
I suppose I am absorbing a good deal more than I realize about the reality of Japan in the year 1998. Right now, I am glad that I don't have permanent
residence here, as I have found Japan to be decidedly urban, at least, based on the places I have visited. Of course, I realize that I am only traveling the most heavily populated corridors of the country; were I to explore more isolated spots, I would probably leave with a different feeling.
Japan is actually the origin of a lot of current American sophistication. So many Japanese cars, electronic equipment and other technologies have made their unassuming way into American popular consciousness that we just take them for granted, scarcely thinking of their origin. Now, at least, as a result of the opportunities the sister-city exchange gave me, I have a deeper sense of
Japan s culture, as well as a firm feeling for the goodwill that now flourishes between our two cultures.
copyright 2004 Haikutimes.com
drawing/writing/photography
jonathan machen