The idea of going to Oshima was first hatched back in December, when Greg and I were lamenting the fact that, although Japan is a nation made up of islands, neither of us had seen a proper beach since arriving. Consulting our trusty Lonely Planet guidebook, we discovered that just south of Tokyo lay a chain of 7 volcanic, semi-tropical islands, Oshima being the closest. A seven-hour overnight ferry connected the island to the mainland. I happen to have a thing for ferry boats, and the island sounded like a nice escape from the soul-sucking, mind-numbing throttle of Tokyo. Janessa’s visit, pneumonia, and general laziness postponed our plans, but this weekend Greg and I finally made the trek to Oshima.
On Sunday night we embarked on our trip. Neither of us was quite sure what second-class passage on a Japanese overnight ferry would entail. We were directed down to one of the lower decks, where we discovered a large carpeted room, marked off into a grid of 6x2 foot rectangles with duct tape. Each section of floor was numbered, corresponding to numbers on our tickets. These were to be our beds for the night. It was eerily reminiscent of Jr. MYF retreats, with rows upon rows of snoring people stretched out on the floor, sleeping together. We ditched our things and headed up and outside to the main deck, happily watching the blinding neon of the city recede into the distance. From the deck we noticed a restaurant inside and, being cold and hungry, we headed back in for it. We wound up spending the vast majority of the night there, the sleeping conditions being less than optimal. Greg taught me to play poker, using crappy Japanese snack food as chips, and I promptly beat him.
5:30 am rolled around surprisingly quickly and dawn greeted our arrival at the island. The coast was rugged, populated by evergreens and black volcanic rock. The air was fresh and crisp with a strong, biting wind. The winds were so strong that our ferry had docked at Otaka port, on the opposite side of the island from the main port, Motomachi, which is less sheltered. Unfortunately, due to our lack of Japanese language skills, Greg and I missed this announcement. After wandering a bit, we noticed that the port seemed to have none of the landmarks mentioned in our Lonely Planet. We also (eventually) noticed that the port we landed at wasn’t called Motomachi. This little comedy of errors resulted in us walking the 7 km to the other side of the island. Finally we arrived at Motomachi, hungry, cold and weary. As we searched for a place to eat, fate intervened, taking the form of a middle aged Japanese hair stylist named Katsuyoshi Nishihama.
“Hello”, he called as we passed him the first time. As we turned around and headed back past his hair salon, he called to us again. “Do you have a map?” We did not have one. “Come in, please,” he insisted, “I will give you a map”.
Over the next hour, Mr. Nishihama gave us more than a map. Eager to practice the English skills he’d acquired during a dozen or so backpacking trips the world over, from Ireland to New Zealand to the American southwest, Vienna, and Alaska, Mr. Nishihama offered us a plethora of tourist pamphlets, cups of steaming coffee, his binoculars, and a ride to the base of Mt. Miharayama, a volcano which last erupted in 1986 and still spews steam into the air. Turning a corner on our drive to the start of the hike, we were suddenly greeted by the elusive Mt. Fuji, rising majestically out of the water on the distant mainland shore. I have to admit I’d been a little confused by the fuss over Fuji, but my confusion was erased upon seeing it myself, the day’s strong winds giving us a rare clear view. Its snow-capped solitary peak is one of the most striking sights I’ve ever seen.
Soon we arrived at Miharayama, said our goodbyes to Mr. Nishihama, and started out on our journey up the volcano through rivers of solidified lava. The further up we traveled the brisker the winds became, to the point that once, as we were circling the massive crater, I was actually pushed over by the force of the gale. The Japanese word for wind is kaze. The word kamikaze literally minds “divine winds”. I think I felt the kamikaze on the top of that mountain.
For someone who has a chronic oversleeping problem, the fact that I’d managed to walk across an island and climb a mountain before noon was quite the achievement. From the top of Miharayama we headed on another hour-ish long hike to an onsen (hot spring) hotel. The hike took us through rugged volcanic rock, tall yellow grasses and twisting green trees and left me both energized and aching. The prospect of a long hot soak was so inviting that I didn’t even mind so much that soaks in onsens are typically done stark naked. Onsens are extremely popular in Japan and the people think nothing of stripping down to participate. It’s sort of a social equalizer. I, however, am an uptight Canadian with body issues. Nonetheless, I nervously disrobed and tried to focus on the gorgeous view of the volcano that I had just hiked! that the outdoor bath afforded and not the other naked ladies sharing my (blessedly single-sex!) bathtub.
Monday afternoon continued with a bus ride with a bunch of friendly Japanese seniors, another decent walk back into Motomachi, and a visit to the hair salon to return Mr. Nishihama’s things. That’s when he gave us more coffee and invited us to join him and his wife on a sea-side hike the next day, their day off. “Do you like onigiri? Do you like ginger? My wife will make us ginger onigiri for lunch tomorrow. Is that okay?”
We spent the night at a minshuku, the Japanese equivalent of a bed and breakfast. Our hosts were very friendly and spoke little English, which allowed us to practice our Japanese skills. These skills were put further to the test at dinner (a veritable feast of Japanese food, the best I’ve ever had), when we had the chance to chat with a delightful old man who was also staying the night and spoke zero English. I managed to understand and get across a few basic sentences (Greg totally bested me, I must study!). After dinner, our hosts informed us that a community matsuri (festival) featuring traditional dancing would be happening at the port that evening. Intrigued, we headed down and found ourselves the only foreigners in a crowd of a couple dozen or so locals who all seemed to know each other. We certainly stood out, and were pointed out, but not in the typical, let’s-mock-the-gaijin Japanese way. We were invited to join in the arcade games and (admittedly forcibly) the traditional dance with yukata-clad women. For the first time since arriving in Japan, I was experiencing community, and I was being included.
Tuesday morning we met the Nishihamas at their salon, picked up our carefully packed lunches (!!!) and piled into their van for our tour of the island. Our first stop was a traditional Japanese house that had been built about 200 years ago by one of Mr. Nishihama’s ancestors and was preserved as a historical site. Next we were taken to a tiny, simple shrine in the middle of a towering cedar forest. Finally we reached the start of our ocean-side hike. I spent the majority of our walk taking pictures of the crashing waves (Japan really is an island nation!) and attempting to chat with Mrs. Nishihama, a sweet and beautiful woman who spoke far less English than her husband. At the midpoint of our walk we stopped to eat lunch at a bluff overlooking the water. As we dug into our delicious lunches, Mr. Nishihama set up a portable cd player and we were serenaded by the strains of Mozart. Seriously.
After our hike the Nishihamas informed us that the traditional dancers of the night before would be putting on a repeat performance outside nearby. Having enjoyed them the first time, we decided to watch again. We should have known that we would be recognized and cajoled once more into joining the ladies in their dance once more. This time, however, they thought it’d be extremely kawaii! (“cute”, perhaps the most overused word in Japanese) to dress me up like them… and yes, there are pictures.
We had only an hour until we had to catch our ferry back to Tokyo but the Nishihamas still had one more place to take us. We drove to the home of a semi-famous ceramic artist whose name I have, criminally, forgotten. Anyhoo, we were invited into the artist’s workshop, where his latest works were being cooled in his kiln, and then into their home for tea (fulfilling Greg’s dream of seeing the inside of an actual Japanese home). It was just about time for us to head back when the artist’s wife offered us 35% off coupons for the ferry. She also let us know that, with the coupons, the first-class speed boat, which took only 2 hours to cross to the mainland, would be almost as cheap as normal ferry tickets and would give us another hour to chat and look around their house. So we went with speedboat. Finally, it was time to leave, and the Nishihamas drove us down to the port, where we sadly sped off from our island oasis of calm and back to the frenzy of the city.
This weekend was, by far, the best I’ve experienced in Japan. I got to see a side of the country that I’d always heard existed but that, living in Tokyo, I’d missed out on. Oshima has no fast food restaurants, no convenience store, and I don’t think I saw a single neon sign. While Tokyoites, despite living in impossibly close quarters with each other, rarely deign to look up at their fellow human beings on the train, the people of Oshima were shockingly friendly and hospitable. I discovered that I don’t hate Japan, I hate Tokyo. I also discovered that I’m more resilient than I’d thought- we hiked more than 20 kms in those two days and, for the most part, I kept up. What I’ll remember most about Oshima though is, undoubtedly, Mr. Nishihama. He was an interesting fellow, wise in his own folksy way. Returning from our first day’s hike, Greg and I told him that our trip up the volcano had been exhilarating but extremely windy. As the path wound up the mountain, the wind would first be at our backs, propelling us forward, then, as we turned a corner, would blow into our faces, pushing us back.
“Ah,” he replied, “just like life”.
