Takachiho Gorge

Japan is a beautiful place, but its countryside is scarred with concrete. Flat land is built on, or farmed. Steep land is useless, so allowed to grow free. But even there, the cloud soaked hills bear the weight of large red and white pylons, rivers are strictly channelled, and bridges abound. There seems to be little concept of wilderness here, as all is tamed, directed, sanitised.

Bridges seem to come in threes, stacked above each other.

Fact: No river in Japan remains undammed.

The cause is well documented. The civil engineers make the decisions, not environmentalists. Politicians pump in money for public work schemes that reduce unemployment and shift benefits to the democratically-stronger countryside constituencies. Murkier dealings come to light from time to time; there is a lot of money to be made in construction, legally or not.

But there seems to be more going on in the underlying attitude to nature here. The Japanese have a strong sense that nature is out to get them, whether by Tsunami, Earthquake, Typhoon, Jellyfish [see entry for 10/21/06]. There is some truth in it, but the resulting paranoia is both restrictive and damaging.



I went to see the great gorge in Takachiho, central Kyushu; a wonderful place, with scuplted rock, corrugated cliffs, and cool green water.


The gorge is lined with concrete paths and fences. At least, it keeps the hordes of tourists in one place.



But the most beautiful part of the gorge has become a boating pond, for tourists to row around in. Or rather, for tourists to photograph each other rowing around in. While in fact going in circles. Is there a word to describe something that is at once comic and depressing?

As the gorge opens up at the end of the tourist trail, the path continues, but signs tell you not to carry on: “Dangerous! Stop!” Knowing by now the civil authority’s attitude to danger (ie paranoia), I carried on walking. As it turned out, by ‘danger’, it meant you would not have been able to get along it in a wheelchair. Probably not recommended for the infirm or very elderly. The path was wide and concrete, the river mellow, the single boulder easy to cross.





I should point out that these excessive warnings are not like those in the U.K. or America. Japan does not share our highly litigious culture. These signs are not the ‘Get out of Jail’ cards that our companies and organisations sprinkle so liberally to prevent damaging court cases. Rather, I think these are a sign of the very strong sense of public duty and culpability in Japanese society. If someone hurt themselves, that would be YOUR fault, as municipal worker.

As I walked, I grumbled to myself about all this paranoia and environmental damage. I clambered around on the rocks, and sat in the drizzle on a boulder, twisting around to try to find a direction that would allow me to avoid seeing any concrete. As I stepped from one stone to the next, it gave way beneath me, and I sprawled into the river, banging my knee and drenching my leg.



I limped back into town, tail between my legs. I think something heard me muttering about paranoia.

Life's a Beach

Beach life, in late October. Life IS good.

We went up the coast to a tiny fishing village called Keya, and managed to find a beach that the civil authorities had managed NOT to ruin. The mile long concrete sea wall next to the beach was a tad excessive, but the beach itself was clean sand stretching into distance. A gorgeous sunny day, a slight chill in the wind, but the sea was easily warm enough to swim in. It seems local people rarely swim in the sea, especially at this time of year; any suggestion of the activity is met by shock and discouragement - "Too cold! Too dangerous!" Dangerous; surely not. But then, maybe so - there was rather more life in the sea than I am used to back home. First time we swam we were greeted by foot-long silver fish leaping a yard out of the water. At their closest, they were barely 5m away, throwing themselves into the air. They weren't actually Flying Fish, but 'fish that like to jump'. Anyone know why they do this? Answers on a postcard please...

They weren't the only sea inhabitants we found. After an impromptu skinny dip late at night, I had warmed up by the fire, and wandered down to see the stars and listen to the surf. At the foot of the beach, something bulked largely in the darkness. An absolute beast of a jellyfish...

It was about 3ft in diameter, and half a foot high at the peak of its dome. I tried to lift it with a couple of sticks, but it was far to heavy. As can be seen from this photo, it was about the size of a Dave. I'm rather glad I didn't swim into it while naked. Really very glad indeed.

Shudder.

There's a huge amount of light pollution in Japan, so I was relieved to find that the beach provided a rare chance to see the night sky. The Milky Way was out in force. The constellations are largely the same as in Britain, but as I'm a bit further south, Orion and co have all moved further up the sky than I'm used to.

We drove back on the Urban Expressway, an incredible motorway that flies over the dense centre of Fukuoka. It must have taken real chutzpah to build such a big road so high up in the sky, especially in an earthquake zone. It is lit by a mesmerising cacophony of neon, with blinkng multi-coloured cat's eyes, arrows with running red lights, flashing signs and policemen waving crimson light sticks. Best of all was the section side lit with evenly spaced, piercingly yellow lamps, which a high speed created a strobe effect sufficient to induce epilepsy in just about anyone. You cannot see road, car, or sign; all you see is light. Absolute chaos.

Spiders

I used to think I wasn't scared of spiders. Then I went for a walk in the woods.



I've been in Japan for nearly a month, and I hadn't been for a proper hike yet. So I got suited and booted and cycled up through Dazaifu to a shrine at the base of the very-small-mountains (well, hills). It took about an hour to get up there from my house, and on my skoda of a bicycle it was exhausting. Had a pleasant lunch in the grounds of the shrine, next to a friendly little old lady nattering to her friend in speedy nihongo [Japanese]. I decided to only attempt the smaller hill by the shrine, and save the much larger and steeper Houmon-san for another day. (Japanese mountains are given the same honorifics as people, eg Mount Fuji is Fuji-san, just as my name is Ollie-san. Or rather Oh-rrie-san.) Once I got into the woods and started up the hill I found the path was repeatedly broken by fallen trees and bamboo; Typhoon Shan-Shan clearly did more damage than I'd thought. I was in a bit of dopey mood from lack of sleep, and when I found there were three paths up the hill rather than the expected one, I was a bit flummoxed. Similar confusion followed my discovery of a signpost at a fork in the path, pointing in two different directions, neither of which I could read. Check mate Nihongo.

After a bit of an explore, I deemed the whole path thing to be overrated, and decided to go off-piste. With a map and compass, clear skies and well-spaced trees, what could possibly go wrong?

Suddenly I stopped. There was a cobweb inches from my chest, poised like a trip wire, ready to collapse onto me. My whole body flinched backwards, skin crawling. At the web's centre, an eight-legged, three-inch, black and yellow striped spider, balanced on its toe tips, curled like a claw. It was feeding on a large, tightly-bound moth. The web stretched between two trees about 2m apart, and the core of the web formed a disc 2ft in diameter. Baby spiders patrolled its edges, where the wind had scattered a few insects (now dessicated bundles).

I used a stick to clear the way in front of me, snapping the silk joists at arm's reach. With the first jolt the spider shot upwards with graceless mechanical speed, before freezing at the highest point, well above my head. With its strength broken, the web wafted free, hanging on the breeze. The thought of walking into it made my skin shriek. The stroke of those fine strands on my face, the realisation and hurried flutter of hands brushing away the clinging silk, carefully exploring the backs of my arms and body, dreading that I'd find needle legs on soft skin, unnatural scuttling across my lumbering limbs, sharp black and yellow on pale pink. With those thoughts in my mind and my stick held firmly above my head, I cowered under the web. I may even have whimpered, which can only have lowered the spider's opinion of me yet further. Then, well past the web, I stepped forward with relief.

Only to find another web, expectant, in front of me. I stopped to look around me. Two in every five or so trees had just such a web stretched between them. Every web with its dominant spider, content to wait and watch. As far as I could see, sheets hung in the trees, a creeping jewel nestled in each. Blowing full in the breeze, but remaining tightly bound as they stretched. The sheer number of them turned my stomach.

It took me a few minutes to get back onto the path, walking slowly as I peered ahead of me; checking for webs and clutching my stick, ready to fence. I wanted to head straight back down to the shrine, but decided to try one last path. After clambering over yet another fallen tree, I found myself facing an extended troop of 10 or so japanese hikers, descending in the opposite direction. My 'konichiwa' was met with an amiable but curt 'ah, english teacher'. (I don't think I've tried my Japanese on anyone yet who has not immediately replied in English, whether stilted or fluent.) They had kindly cleared the path ahead for me, so the remainder of my ascent was spider-free.

That said, I walked into my room that night and felt those slender strands across my face. I could see neither web nor spider; perhaps it was just my over-active imagination. But I keep looking in corners, and flinch whenever I see a spider. I wonder how long this will last...


ADDENDUM: Am not actually mad. Just found the spider in my room. Very small. Definitely not scary. Phew.

Typhoon Shan-Shan

Typhoon Shan-Shan had been approaching Japan for a few days, working its way northwards along the Asian mainland. By the time it passed over Fukuoka it was much weaker, but still considered the worst storm in many years.

I live on the 8th floor, which overlooks a set of paddy fields, and then a built-up town between there and the facing hills. I went out on our balcony to watch the storm draw in. The sky was full of bulky white clouds, but underneath them raced sharp black whisps. The wind had a warmth that I’ve never felt in England; like a hair dryer at arm’s length. Clouds could be seen flying in five different directions at once. Rain was only occasional, but when it came it was flung onto the balcony with such force that it stung my face. I had to prop the window open so I didn’t get locked out on the balcony, and hold it shut with an outstretched arm so it didn’t slam and shatter in the wind. As the wind got stronger it became more and more difficult to hold it shut, so I had to press the weight of my body against it. Given that I was on a circular wind trap on the 8th floor, it seemed time to go back inside.

Over the next couple of hours I could hear the storm worsening outside, and my ears popped from the pressure change. Cambridge House is a large modern building, and locked up safe inside it would have been easy to forget about Shan-Shan but for the wind bashing against the windows. So I went for a walk with Dave and Graeme.

Once we got out the door it was clear that though strong, the wind had died down a bit, and was nowhere near full Typhoon speed. It was nighttime, but the distant glow of lightning and cold artificial light from the petrol station lit up the paddy fields. The rice was dark in silhouette, but when the wind turned it over it showed pale green. Plastic bags flew hundreds of metres in seconds. The cicadas strained to be heard above the shrieking and humming fence. The wind washed through swathes of rice, and scooped water from the pools and scattered it like seed. The neat lines of paddy field no longer spoke of rural peace and order; now their strict edges became token boundaries, desperately trying to contain a chaotic lake of billowing rice.

Between gusts it was calm, but when the wind blew it was strong enough to lean into, though never enough to blow me off my feet. It was beautiful and exhilarating; a tiny glimpse of power much greater than my own puny self, though it never fully exerted itself.

Honestly, I'm happy with a glimpse for now.