Shikoku Part III

And so I sat in the back, my hand braced against the side of the car as it twisted, turned, careened, slowed-down and sped up, following the river up into the foothills of Shikoku. I felt cold sweats that took me back to the days of my childhood and all the road trips I'd go on with my family to play soccer--and all the nausea that came with it. A hitchhiker who gets motion sickness. I laughed at myself and kept my eyes as focused ahead on the middle of the road as best I could. The couple in the front seat talked to each other now and then, in such a thick rural dialect that it didn't even seem like Japanese, let alone a language. I heard a couple set-words come out now and then--ones that fit into the second-language puzzle I had put together over the past five years of studying the language--but it was like the red-haired obasan and her partner communicated in a different tongue, a secret code. Although I should confess that I thanked the time out it gave me from having to maintain small talk, as I tried to balance my center of gravity, taking deep breaths to keep the nausea from building.

Although I did my best to focus ahead of me, my eyes followed the river at times, as it came in and out of view. Rivers are the litmus test of a country's attitude regarding their environment, and each time my eyes fall upon a river here in Japan I feel a longing for home rise deep within my chest; the concrete siding, the paved river beds, and the "waffle iron" concrete sprayed onto hillsides then bolted down with a deep metal rod wounds the soul. These gray patches among the green stare out at you like scars, unnatural wounds that never healed properly, nature succumbing to man's will. It is the construction company's battle with landslides and earthquakes they say--but the longer you live here and the more you learn about politics and public works projects, the more that reason doesn't hold up, and the more infuriating it is for the nature lover. For me, it just makes the need to get away from the concrete dominating urban sprawl now and again that much more important.

At last, we twisted around yet another corner and came upon a small village with old buildings built into the mountain side, creaking just a little too close to the valley cliff, which was now on our left. This place couldn't be called a hamlet, for it wasn't comfortable enough. Nor could it be a village as it wasn't big enough. It was like a suburb of the smallest village, an outpost: nothing in particular to take note of; yeah, I'd say it was more of a place to simply pass through, yet it was a place where a place shouldn't be. The grayness of the half-fog-clouds which caressed the trees and tickled the metal-sheet rooftops of the buildings combined with the in-between spring and winter tones which are devoid of any primary colors seemed to speak volumes for this subtle and unbecoming post of houses. Yet, it was here that the driver deemed it time to stop at a Japanese noodle shop for a bite to eat before night completely fell. I looked about and thought "a shop?" I normally wouldn't be surprised, for I have encountered some of the best noodle shops in the middle of nowhere, serving hand-picked vegetables and hand-cut soba. But still, here? It felt like everyone fled this place before the last barbarian raid.

That's when I saw the owner--a sole old women gathering vegetables out back--hunchbacked, and hobbling around, disappearing and reappearing from out behind various rectangular houses and sheds. No one else was to be found up here, dusk drawing, the air crisp giving you the hint that snow was lurking around the corner--everything had the sense that it was still just a little bit "too early". No gift stores were open, the shutters pulled shut and doors jammed closed. No cars in the parking lots, and besides the old lady, just a tad too cold to give any vibrancy of life or movement, like the crisp mountain air had descended upon the area and froze everything the way it had been centuries before. As I peered around I wondered: had I got the timing wrong? The end of March is still winter up in the mountains, even in Shikoku it seemed, and I was to hike alone for three days through the mountains which loomed beyond. I checked my cellphone, two bars stared back at me--I still had reception up here. But, who knew for how much longer. These thoughts got put on the back-burner as we all got out of the car and made our way to the old lady, who upon seeing us, bowed, said some words to the couple topped off with a chuckle. She opened up the store then fired up the gas cooker just for us. She talked with the owner as if they were childhood friends. I wouldn't be surprised if indeed they were, their dialects shining, their questions and responses receiving one another like an invisible jigsaw puzzle. I listened and imagined what the resulting picture looked like after each piece of their conversation fit together.

I then ate like a king. The warm soup, vegetables, rice and other various dishes warming the soul from my toes to my ears. I had to decline yet a third helping from my hosts and now care-takers. I brought out the map and we all hunched over it to check my plotted route. It seemed they had all heard of the trail I was to travel. They were still worried though, it seemed, and wanted me to eat more before my night in the mountains. They also started talking about the bears, and wild boars, and kamoshikas (a dear, quasi-goat animal native to Japan). I had heard all the stories before and had looked into hiking around Shikoku and knew what they said was true, and to be fair, hiking and camping alone in the mountains is a stupid idea. But, like usual, it had been impossible to find anyone else with the same holidays as me--the college I teach at giving unusually long breaks at times different than the English conversation schools. And I was not about to just meander around in the city.

With a full belly and warmed insides, we said our goodbyes, got back in the car and snaked our way up the mountain, that is, until a thing layer of snow began to sprinkle the road. Before the car could make much of a claim for its winter traction, it pulled over. The husband and driver, pulled the e-braked and turned around to peer at me from the front seat.

"It's as far as I can go. We don't have snow tires on the car." He said--or at least that's what my ears translated.

I nodded and understood. I was extremely thankful, and before they let me out, they both gave me their meishi, or name-cards, and told me to phone them if I had any troubles. Again, I was humbled and thanked them for their help. They checked and double-checked that I had a cellphone and I assured them I did. They then asked if I had warm clothes. Did I have tent? Was I prepared to sleep in the snow? How about hiking boots? I nodded and asked them please not to worry. If things got tough I could simply follow the road back down. They nodded, chuckled, said something to themselves and that was that. They did a u-turn and headed back down the mountain, leaving me standing on a paved road on nondescript mountain in a foreign country somewhere hundreds of kilometres from my place of residence up in Sendai. Snow started to fall in light flakes, the kind that reminds you of those white Christmases told only in story books or sung about--the ones with the flakes that flutter down and command a silence and serenity that no other times of the season can rival.

It is in moments like these, so far away from home at an unknown spot on the map while surrounded by the new that I feel the most aware of being in control of my life. When you find yourself in an obscure and utterly unknown place, you have to ask yourself "how did I get here"? This feeling is even more poignant than when you arrive at a famous destination spot, more than when you find yourself surrounded by people in a metropolis such as Tokyo or a cultural tourist hot-spot like Kyoto . When you find yourself on a stretch of mundane concrete, with a mural of trees to your left and right with only a rather vague sense of where you are, do you get hit with a sense of ultimate freedom. No one at this moment knew exactly where I was, indeed, no one had heard of this place on a map and probably no one before has ever pitched a tent on the middle of this section of this road during a time like this. Everything about this moment was half-way, not there yet, in the middle, and on the go. It was a destination in limbo. Which is why hitchhiking is so great: you can't control how far you are going to or how fast; everything becomes "how you get there" versus "where you're going".

As I unpacked my backpack to set up, it was night number two, the second on-route stopover
which was merely a part of the process, the journey. I felt shivers slowly dangle their long fingers along the back of my legs and up my back. I was going to need thermal underwear tonight. I was going to probably need every item of clothes I brought with me, as packing your house on your back including food and water doesn't leave room for much else.

I slept in the fetal position, together with the vague darkness, the obscurity of place, and the absence of people that only nature can claim.