At the brief Nagano stop, city emissaries meet us at the platform with more smiles, handshakes and bowing. And they graciously return my wayward Matsumoto ball.
SENDAI
The Poet’s North
June, 1994
MATSUO Basho, Japan’s famous bard of the back roads, was delighted by Matsushima, a bay of hundreds of odd islets near the city of Sendai.
“Much praise had already been lavished upon the wonders of the islands of Matsushima,” the 16th-century itinerant poet wrote. “Yet if further praise is possible, I would like to say that here is the most beautiful spot in the whole country of Japan.”
The early travel writer and master of the haiku form of poetry traveled to northern Honshu Island when it was considered a wild, unexplored territory, a “far province beyond the roads.” His famous book The Narrow Road to the Deep North describes his two-and-a-half year trip in prose and poetry.
Sendai, 350 kilometers north of Tokyo, is now the hub of northern Japan. The Shinkansen bullet train reached it in 1981, and international flights began in 1990, with direct connections now to Seoul, Chengdu, Guam/Saipan, Singapore and Hong Kong.
Basho strapped on his straw sandals and walked to the north from Edo (now Tokyo). Taking an easier route, I hailed a cab to Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport and flew on Dragonair’s new direct flight.
On the plane, over pre-dinner drinks, I learn something about the city from my seat mate who is returning home from a holiday in Hong Kong. “Sendai is the center of everything,” she says, not meaning to be as immodest as she sounds.
This former “unexplored territory” has become a modern industrial, commercial and cultural center for Tohoku, Japan’s northeastern district. It is a city of learning, with 10 universities and 10 junior colleges, high-tech industries, 30 labs and research institutions such as the 21st-Century Plaza Research Center. The Tohoku Intelligent Cosmos Plan aims to turn the region into an international high-tech center.
After dinner, she shows me photos of her home in the Izumi Park Town, an industrial and residential area on the outskirts of Sendai. It is Japan’s version of a pleasant American suburbia, with spacious houses (rare in Japan), real yards, and a futuristic research center where outside companies rent time on computers and advanced lab equipment.
“With so many branch offices of major companies there, men are often transferred without their families. We call them ‘Sendai bachelors,’” the young lady says with a slight glint in her eye.
Feudal lord Masamune Date, the warrior who established Sendai as his castle town in 1600, was known as the One-Eyed Dragon, because he lost his right eye as a child. We agree that Dragonair and Dragoneye make a fortuitous sounding parallel, and toast the new flight.
However, this is not just a Japanese Silicon Valley, but a scenic area with historical sites, ancient temples, shrines and castles and famous local delicacies. Numerous hot springs and ski slopes are within easy reach of Sendai, a major outdoor recreation center.
The first impression when the plane doors swing open is that this is a northern country, the air as sharp and clear as the famous local sake -- the best in Japan, Sendai aficionados insist.
After the crowds of Hong Kong or Tokyo, Sendai is a spacious, uncrowded city with parks, broad streets and the scenic Hirose River winding through the center. “We call this Mori no Miyako, City of trees,” explains my friend. “Families of trees line the streets.”
Although Sendai means one thousand years, or longevity, the city was destroyed in an air raid in 1945, so most buildings are new. And it is growing rapidly. The suburbs we drive through from the airport were rice paddies just 10 years ago. Despite its newness, there are beguiling traces of old Japan -- cherry trees growing along the riverbank, satellite dishes sprouting on tile roofs, traditional low houses among the modern office buildings.
The Sun Mall Ichiban-cho typifies modern, prosperous Japan, where East and West meet and mix. A life-size plastic Santa Claus -- with a slightly Asian face -- stands outside one store, American fast-food places such as Mister Donut, Baskin Robbins, Kentucky Fried Chicken and McDonald’s feed the strollers, while American brand names such as Levi’s and Lee clothe them. But a few place names in Western script and signs such as “I feel Coke” and “Let’s sport” are the only concessions to a foreign language.
My stay coincides with the winter Pageant of Starlight, when half a million tiny bulbs glow like fireflies in the branches of the zelkovas (a kind of elm) on Aoba and Jozenji Avenues. The happy young people walking along the fantastic streets of lights give the evening a festive, college-town atmosphere.
Next day, I visit the forested park on Aobajo Hill in the center of the town, where Date built his castle in 1602. With the evergreen forests of giant pine and cedar, the morning chill in the air and ducks swimming in the pond, Sendai feels like a town on the Canadian Pacific Coast. But among trees growing tall and straight are some that are twisted and gnarled and topped, as in Japanese prints.
And at the local temple, devotees’ wishes scribbled on pieces of paper and tied to tree branches resemble winter blossoms. A stone tower, like a chess castle hidden in the woods, and the famous mounted statue of Date, the one-eyed dragon, are reminders of the hilltop’s military origins, but below, the river now twists through a contemporary city of a million people, instead of forest or rice paddies.
Down there among the 20th-century buildings, the Shokeikaku restaurant is a remnant of an earlier Japan that Basho might have recognized. The Date clan’s former summer home is a classic low Japanese structure with tile roofs, cedar beams, woven tatami mats, sliding paper partitions and doors and windows overlooking an outdoor stone garden. The menu is as traditional as the building, presenting local delicacies, excellent Sendai sake, and the area’s fine rice, especially a sticky version called Hitomei Bore, “Love at first sight” rice.
“Sendai people like to eat and drink, and once we start, the party never ends,” a man sitting across the tatami mat assures me, over tiny cups of the local brew.
The distinctive Japanese feast starts with familiar sushi dipped in soy sauce mixed with wasabi (horse radish), but from there everything is new, and mostly unrecognizable. A dozen dishes of all shapes are spread before us on the low table, with pickles, vegetables, including a bright green leaf in batter, some fish products and rice with a fine powder sprinkled over it. It is dried, crushed plum leaf, my lunch companion explains.
Now into our sake cups, we talk about the city’s quirks. “Lord Date was a stylish man, a dandy, so there are many dandies in Sendai,” he boasts. In winter they have a naked festival. “Naked men and half-naked women pay homage to a shrine.”
Japan’s tallest Buddha statue, 30 meters high, a female incarnation (like the Chinese Kwan Yin? I wonder), stands on a hill near the city center. “Inside are 108 small Buddha statues,” my companion says. “She holds a rice wine bottle in her hand, blessing the harvest and the pleasures of alcohol. Kampei (cheers).”
Skiing is a popular winter sport in Northern Japan, and special buses take skiers directly from the city to places such as Zao Mountain, where visitors can rent equipment. But with limited time, I can only see the nearest slopes, the Spring Valley (spring, as in stream) on the outskirts of Sendai. Because it is warmer than other mountains, they use snow-making machines on these runs, but the dryness creates the famous powder snow so beloved by skiers.
However, part way up the hill, icy patches stop the bus from going further without tire chains. So the passengers get out, have a snowball fight, then hurry into a well-equipped, spacious ski lodge for tins of hot coffee from a vending machine and look out at the city spread out just below in the fading afternoon sunlight.
From the mountain, I turn to the sea, to see Matsushima, just 20 kilometers from Sendai and accessible by bus or fast train. The methodical Japanese rate this area that so enthralled Basho as one of the country’s three most beautiful places. On an afternoon trip, I find it both changed, and the sa
me, as the poet saw it. Souvenir shops along the waterfront sell local food delicacies, attractive wooden Kokeshi dolls, lacquerware and postcards and books advertising the “Three noted views of Matsushima.”
It is raining when I arrive, so I slip into a traditional shop with great iron kettles hanging over beds of charcoal for a cup of tea and some fish cake. This is old, unchanged Japan. Back in the street, I happen on a cartoon character statue outside a store: Basho in his trademark straw sandals and turtle-shell shaped hat.
Further on, I encounter more ancient Japan, where a small vermilion bridge leads to Godaido, a traditional Buddhist shrine the size of a summer cottage. It is a classic scene, the natural weathered wood building surrounded by gnarled trees, standing exposed out on the tiny island. Then the sun breaks out of the clouds, illuminating one of Matsushima’s most photographed sites in a pale winter light.
Later, at the entrance to the famous 9th-century Zuiganji Temple that Date rebuilt in 1609, a marker mentions Basho’s visit more than 300 years ago. Now a national treasure, the temple is set in a large park with giant, rough-barked cedars, the tall trees in front of the temples acting as lightening rods.
The temple, made from the same kind of white cedar, shows Chinese influences such as an elegant golden screen with exotic peacocks. Delicate, ornately carved peonies, chrysanthemums and melons grace the enormous door. “These magnificent and glorious images seem to take us to JODO (The Pure Land of Paradise),” a sign says.
Outside, I contemplate the stone garden with its gracefully raked patterns, like the one in Kyoto, until a foreign tourist spoils my revery: “Why do they have the rock like that? It makes it hard to stand there.”
Again, I sample the distinctive local fare. Many famous Japanese temples have restaurants serving the priests’ type of food. In the Zuiganji Temple’s Ungai (Out of the Crowd) Restaurant, the Buddhist meal is all vegetarian except for the squid sushi (the best part) and some oysters baked in their shell. Taro, coconut, seaweed, shredded mushroom, sago (which, they explain, approvingly “is like rubber”) complete the pious repast, along with several small cups of hot sake, the Zen priests’ favorite beverage.
It is an authentic experience, unlike the short, instant tea ceremony that follows, which seems about as real as the Kodak hula show in Honolulu. Outside in the garden, it starts to snow, beautiful fluffy snowflakes swirling around the temple rooftops.
Back at the pier, gaudy, over-embellished boats shaped like dragons, or like peacocks with prows of giant heads and fantails of feathers, wait for tour groups. The contrast with the simple, minimalist Zen temples on the island behind is striking.
Avoiding these kitsch craft, I take a large, modern tour boat, with comfortable swivel seats set before huge windows in the upper deck lounge. Right on time, we pull out of Matsushima harbor trailing a slipstream of gulls for a one hour tour of the unusual archipelago, like a Japan Sea miniature. The sight of these phenomenal, rugged islets eroded into bizarre shapes like some modern sculptures, is marred only by the power station with its gigantic smoke stacks on the far shore.
“Tall islands point to the sky and level ones prostrate themselves before the surges of water,” Basho wrote. “Islands are piled above islands, and islands are joined to islands, so that they look exactly like parents caressing their children or walking with them arm in arm,” he added with imagination run wild. “The pines are of the freshest green, and their branches are curved in exquisite lines, bent by the wind constantly blowing through them.”
Basho was so awed by Matsushima, he did not compose a single haiku to its beauty. He did, however, quote an appropriate work by his companion, Sora:
Clear voiced cuckoo,
Even you will need
The silver wings of a crane
To span the islands of Matsushima.
Or, in our case, the silver hull of a sleek tour boat.
SOUTH KOREA
HONGDO
Seeing in the Rain
September 1994
ALL that gloomy day on Korea’s Hongdo Island in the damp mist and drizzly overcast, I felt sorry for myself. But a young woman on the hydrofoil back to the mainland set me right.
“I came here before, but it was sunny so I did not see it at its best,” she said. “I had to come back to visit in this weather.”
I am baffled.
“We Koreans believe the wet, grey scenery is better,” she explains. “It is closer to Genesis, to true nature.” So I am wrong to let the nasty weather spoil my visit. I am, in fact, lucky after all. It is better to see Hongdo in the rain and fog.
With a few spare days to spend in Korea after a visit to Seoul, I searched for a pastoral excursion. A man of extremes, I have stood on the southernmost tip of Africa (Capetown) and South America (Ushuaia), the western extremity of Europe (in Portugal), the westernmost part of the U.S. (Hawaii) and the easternmost (American Virgin Islands), the western edge of the North American continent (the coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia) and the easternmost (Newfoundland). On a previous visit, I traveled to Korea’s far east -- Ullungdo island.
So from the map, I pick out Hongdo, the farthest southwest piece of the country accessible by public transportation. From the postcard and coffee table book photographs, it looks like a bright, sparkling place.
Considering its remoteness, the island is remarkably easy to reach -- the only sacrifice being waking up at 5am after a night of sampling Seoul’s vaunted hospitality. But the taxi driver taking me to the Seoul train station has never heard of Hongdo, an ominous sign.
“What’s that, an island?” he asks, because of the “do” suffix.
The train, which leaves right on time at 7:05am, provides a leisurely transition from industrial Seoul to the tidy Korean countryside. Further south we pass ancient stone houses and agrarians in traditional costume, the women with baggy pants gathered in at the ankle, and a bright blouse or jacket, in different, mix-and-clash paisley or flowered patterns.
After the hothouse warmth of Seoul, Mokpo (the port for the Hongdo ferry) is cooler and decidedly grey, with the fresh, natural smells of strawberries and seaweed. Hundreds of outdoor tour group types in bright hiking jackets and rucksacks pack the spacious, modern catamaran with its comfortable airline-style seats. A TV set at the front shows a video of sunny Hongdo, which a crew member peddles to the passengers.
The little island, a rocky outcropping 115 kilometers southwest of Mokpo, was designated as a Nature Reserve in 1965 and became part of the Tadohae (Sea of Many Islands) Maritime National Park in 1981. Large groups of Koreans come on organized overnight tours, or even day excursions, but foreign visitors seldom make the trip.
Guidebooks even a few years old say that the only way to reach Hongdo is by a slow ferry, but these modern craft make the crossing several times a day in two-and-a-half hours. So, soon after the second showing of the video of Hongdo sparkling in the bright sunshine, the island looms in the haze ahead like a menacing, jagged piece of granite. Only mountain goats and a few rugged Korean fishermen could survive on this steep, rocky island.
We drop anchor and a small, open motorboat shuttles us ashore. Stepping off on the old pier slippery with moss, I pay 1,200 won national park entry fee at a small booth, and here I am, the only non-Korean on the whole island, where no English is spoken.
There are no hotels on the island, but elderly ladies meet the ferry, offering rooms in their homes. I follow one up a steep, rocky path, through the little town, across to the far side of the island.
We pass some bright, inviting inns, with sparkling, modern toilet facilities, but I discover I have chosen unwisely. The woman’s old house up on the hill is untidy (unusual in Korea), with a grubby bathroom, but it is too late to change, and it is only 10,000 won a night.
There is not much to Hongdo. In the otherwise somber village, huge, brightly colored plastic water-storage drums sit on most buildings, and garden hoses run down the steep streets like squid tentacles.
Aged
women in traditional costumes squat in the doorways, sorting out fishing lines and cutting up sea creatures. Small stores sell the local delicacy, sheets of paper-thin, blackish seaweed, bundled up like small mattresses. Other souvenirs are dried fish and squid, gaudy seashell wall decorations and chandeliers, and videos of Hongdo in the sun.
On a steep path up from the beach, I encounter a bevy of rugged women in shiny black wetsuits, some quite young, others middle aged or as weathered as grizzled sea otters. They are haenyo, women who dive for abalone, crabs, fish and other sea delicacies, which they now carry home on baskets atop their heads. Suddenly, a long, slithery eel wriggles out of a basket, and the diver struggles like a Medusa, fussing with her hair, trying to put it back with one hand, while balancing the basket and giggling at the strange foreign apparition on the path ahead of her.
At the top of the hill, the only English sign on the island, under the title “Natural Monument No. 170 Hongdo-Ri (village),” explains that the island is 6.4 kilometers north to south and 1.6 kilometers east to west, with a total coastline of only 20 kilometers. The 545 kinds of plants in the reserve include big-leaf orchids and white camellia (Camellia japonica), and there are 170 species of animals. Since a Mr. Ko first settled here in 1679, the population has increased to 250 people in 141 households.
All 250 are now at home, and the streets are already deserted, with the only sign of life a small place decorated with bright, Christmas-like lights. Inside, what looks like a bleak karaoke bar is abandoned.
It is cold and blustery now, so I escape into a simple restaurant overlooking the dark sea. The woman proprietor produces a large OB beer, then through sign language I order a basic meal of rice, seaweed soup, kimchi and a plate of tasty little wriggly things that I hope are dried noodles.
The Peace Correspondent Page 3