Chibaraki is feeling the pinch of the economic malaise bothering Japan, and is keeping overhead low by finding nearby escapes from the hypercity. There are great get aways all over Kanto, but most of them are freezing cold. Yearning for somewhere warmer, but not having the cash to go to Hawaii or Thailand, I retreated to a near-tropical island hideaway a mere 45 minutes journey by plane from Tokyo.
より大きな地図で Hachijojima を表示
The destination - Hachijojima in the Izu Seven Islands chain. If you look at the weather forecast for Tokyo in the papers on the the ‘Net, you’ll see that Hachijo Island is nearly always a few degrees warmer than Tokyo proper. This is because Hachijo and the Izu Islands catch the Kuroshio, the warm current that comes up from the South Pacific. The administrative quirk is Hachijo, like the Izu Seven and the Ogasawara Islands way off to the east are still part of the Tokyo Metropolitan area, even though you can’t see Tokyo from there on a good day. You can’t see anything but the Pacfic from Ogasawara…
I thought that, with school out and many foreigners taking Christmas holidays, there would be visitors there. But before the travel rush of お正月 Oshogatsu, Japanese New Year, the streets of Hachijo are empty and the pension I stayed at on the west side of the island had three guests for the five days I was there, including me.
December 24th
I arrived in the afternoon, dropped off my bags and walked from one side of the island to the other. The island is shaped like a 瓢箪 hyotan, or calabash gourd, with two volcanic peaks (extint, I was assured by locals) one to the north, ”Fuji”, and the other 三原山 Miharazan roughly south, with a little valley between. It was easy enough to make my way east to 底土港 Sokodo Port. I even had time to walk down to the beach on the 樫立 Kashitate side, and watched the surf crash on the rocky beach there. At sunset above the rocks, I felt so relaxed, so peaceful. And then I heard what I thought was a man shouting, then a woman laughing. There weren’t any cars around, and certainly nobody passed me on the way down to the shore. There are no houses, the fishing boats were all tied up at the berths and dark. I wondered if there were some divers coming back late, but who would stay out diving at 
dusk? A couple making out on the rocks? Whatever.
Coming back in the dark, I missed some of the landmarks (a newspaper billboard, a peculiar grouping of rocks) and got lost for 30 minutes in the dark in palm tree plantations until friendly neighbours redirected me back about 20 meters to the unmarked road.
I was welcomed by an elegant seasonal dinner on Christmas Eve of all local fish, tempura including 明日葉 ashitaba, a vegetable unique to the island, 
home made pickled radish, and しゃぶしゃぶ shabu-shabu, the hot pot dish on the right, into which I swished mushrooms and the rose of fish filets on the right.
A hot bath before bed, and the warm breeze off the water made it pleasant enough to leave the window open and fall asleep to the sound of surf so close by.
I like the people here. They’re genuine, talkative and laid back. Sure the tatemae is there, but it’s subtle and feels less dense than that of most Kanto folks. I like how people here show their feelings by getting quiet and hanging back. You know when an islander disagrees, or is seriously considering something you said. I find that they can balance harmony and honesty like I remember west Shikoku people, like the Japan I first met when I arrived 10 years ago.
December 25th
I made a long, slow slog on a rented bicycle through 中之郷 Nakanogou village high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific in search of onsen and 裏ヶ滝 Uragataki Waterfall.
In the gorge below is a wild, free onsen which I had all to myself. Rules are shoes off at the top of the steps, no soap or shampoo, bathing suits required. I improvised with boy shorts & tank top.
I pushed the bike up the hill 
and noticed a sign propped up against the rock 
wall - 古民家喫茶 Yominka Tea House. A wide bare wooden floor with sunken irori fire pit, kotatsu tables, jazz playing softly behind the screen. The young hostess presented the menu , exquisite hand made paper and curvy katakana, indicating she serves tea, coffee and a Monty Pythonesque list of toast. I had a cup of coffee and tuna mushroom toast. The hostess, from Kanagawa, told me the 150 year old tea house belonged to her grandmother.
As I was plodding back up the steep hillside, a flash of tan fur on a garden wall caught my eye – a weasel. It wasn’t shy and it started to work its way down the wall to have a closer look at me but a truck came by and it scrabbled into a hedge.
I turned south at the top of the bluff in Nakanogou and headed towards the reservoir marked on the map, and found a little hollow overhung by palm trees and ferns. Beyond the hill, I saw a cemetery where a road crew was working on the water main, and above that, a sign that indicated a betsuin temple. I walked the bike up the hill, and in the shadow of a hedgerow, found a fish head in the middle of the road. It looked like it had been cut properly with a cleaver, nice and clean, and had no flies, or bite marks from an animal. And nobody was around…At the top of a flight of steps, a small, austere concrete building was all the temple I found, and a plaque that described the Nichiren connection. My reading isn’t that great, but I found the Nichiren breakaway group motto, 不受不施, fujufuse, which means no give and take, an exhortation to cut all contact with other Buddhist sects. I took a few minutes to soak in the atmosphere, and meditate on the concept. On the way back to the main road, the fish head was gone. I never heard or saw anyone on the road…
Back along the road to the bluff, I saw the wide view of the Pacific to the west and a Shinto shrine on the rock cliff above. A member the Minemoto clan visiting the island saw there were no womenfolk and resolved to change that, bringing in brides. At one time, the island was a prison colony, some local people told me, lowlifes and mentally ill people exiled from Edo. The round stone walls, called 玉石, tamaishi, were built by the prison laborers, each rock pulled from the beach, carried up to the bluffs and built into walls.
December 26th
It rained throughout the night, and I dodged drops on the bicycle to the museum to se the exhibit of local cloth and the looms it is made on. But no word on where the workshop is. The other product of the island, tsubaki oil, is credited for the island women’s legendary long hair.
The rain eased up and Pop from the pension drove me up to the mountainside farm to greet the cows, all named. Kinoko is the honey-colored gal. A cow pasture in metropolitan Tokyo? Who knew?
The clouds cleared, and the drive on the new mountain road led to the Aloe Garden, lighthouse, and view of Hachijokojima (site for Battle Royale, uninhabited after govt paid people to leave as part of national park system, now home to a few stubborn goats yet to be eliminated). Below was a diving spot with water clear as a spring. Pop dropped me off and I biked clockwise around the volcano back to the ferry port. The only offee shop I could find was Kokomoon for sweets and a cup of Joe.
In the evening, I went to the Anchor Pub at the Sokodoko ferry landing, where perhaps 15 people were celebrating the 5th anniversary of the opening of the pub. What an interesting group of people. A local mulitilingual gas jockey greeted me in Italian, then switched to French. He’s a city guy who escaped the rat race to the slow pave of Hachijo 7 years ago. An Englishman and his Japanese wife from Saitama were visiting the Aussie barman and his family. At the other end of the bar was a friendly island lady who left her kids and man at home to come out for a drink, talked my ear off about the bioluminescent mushrooms the island is famous for, the pace of life, and some history. When I told her about the voices at the rocks, and then the little temple on the hillside above Nakanogou, and the fishhead in the road, she bugged her eyes out. Didn’t I know the whole island is full of ghosts? She was surprised I’d been all the places I have by myself, and was really shocked that I survived the Betsuin temple which has a scary ghost.
December 27th
Pop from the pension drove me up to the 7th station of the mountain. Pop 
said, if we see a goat, be sure to grab it and wring its neck. They’re the scourge of Hachijo and Kojima. Mum knows how to serve them, he says. On the way we picked up the M and T, the couple I had met in the pub, we hiked the stairs, and T and I went around the crater. This is the view from the rim looking way, way down. We took in the gorgeous views and had a good girl talk! We cracked up laughing on returning to the trail – M was scared for our safety on the ridge where it looked very trecherous, but didn’t panic because he could hear our voices clearly even on the far side! He asked her who that cranky foreign friend was that we’d talked about….Oh, dear, the acoustics of the crater and the wind carried our voices. Maybe that is what accounts for the sounds I heard on the beach. But not the freaky fish head incident.
I stopped at the cow pasture for a bit, and then made my way down the old footpath to the airport, which took me through dense woods and along an old cart road. Some flapping of wings and screeches reminded me that this mountain forest is a protected wildlife habitat, and near the bottom, I heard an eerie sound, like a groaning. A goat? The bush seemed too dense for a goat to get around, and I never saw one.
I was greeted by an old lady in an apron at the trail entrance who chatted my ear off about the island people while we made our way down to the main road. She’s a transplant from Saitama and speaks standard Japanese, and filled me in on the island dialect, an Edo Period curiosity. Instead of いらっしゃいませ, irasshaimase, welcome to the shop, people say おじゃれやれ, ojareyare. This is only one example of the different dialect. One cab driver totally baffled me. His variety of island language bears a vague resemblance to Tokyo Japanese, and I really struggled to understand him.
December 28th
I took it slow after another delicious breakfast and walked to the museum and caught the bus to Nakanogou for another try at figuring out where the treasures are. This time I walked down to the oceanside footbath above the fishing pier, then Yasuragi Onsen for a proper soak. On the way back up, I stopped at Yominka kissaten for tea and cinammon toast.
The buses are infrequent, so I just wandered along the road, minding where the bus stops are. I wondered where the famous 黄八丈 kihachijo workshop was, and finally spotted the sign board, which was behind a hedge. I was a bit shy to go in, as the building looked like a house, but past the noren curtain in the door, I could hear the clack-clack of looms. Three women were working golden silk fabric at the looms, and the fruit of the labours, neckties, purses, kimono accessories, filled the display cabinets ranged around the workshop. I picked out some post cards and an elegant coin purse.
At dusk the wind picked up and rattled me a bit, and I still had 20 minutes until the next bus, so I looked for the nearest shrine or temple where I thought I might hide under the eaves. Beyond the bus stop, I found not the Benten temple marked on the map, but Mishima Shrine. The wind was whipping the pine trees, and beyond a red torii gate in a clearing was a little grotto with a tiny wooden shrine building and no shelter. The roots of the pine trees surrounding the shrine were white and exposed from the wind and sand. The moon was rising between the clouds shredded by the wind. I placed my few yens in offering on the lintel of the shrine, and went to hide out at the bus stop shelter.
December 29th
Pop drove me back up to Nakanogou, and on the way to the tunnel, I pointed out the whole in the mountainside near the tunnel, but overgrown with palm trees. This is one of the wartime tunnels, shelters for locals, and hiding places for the Japanese soldiers I had heard about, and he told me there are nearly a hundred through the mountains. He says Okinawa was a mess because the US army airforce saw it as strategic and big enough for airfields. Hachijojima is too small for a major military base, so it was spared, and if it hadn’t been so, he would never have been born to his island parents. This is the third time people have opened up about war and peace. A retired Yokohama couple got telling me about the horror of wartime Tokyo firebombing. The old lady said, if we just come together, reall learn to know each other as human beings, we can’t make war. I told her about the historical enemy sides of my family, and that I came here to learn first hand about Japan, to make a connection with people. I thanked them for taking the time to talk to me.
Pop took me to the site of an antique house where the local taiko players and dancers put on a show wearing kihachijo fabric kimonos. A little old lady with a haunting voice sang rousing songs three centuries old while the other four members danced and echoed and answered her verses. This was followed by two women singing as they began the taiko performance, and then shouting to punctuate movements of the drum song.
In a dusty display I spotted a cabinet a collection of cutlasses, katanas, tantos and various other weapons, each with shomeisho, a government registration, taped to them. I asked at the counter if there is someone minding them, and the lady said no, and there is no one who knows enough about kenjutsu on the island. She said, if I come back could I please help out!
In front of the antique house were two kadomatsu decorations, pine, and bamboo decorated with straw musubi knots, symbols of protection for the coming new year.
I hope to go back to Hachijo Island in 2010 to feed and care for some swords, ignore some more ghosts, and get away from Neo Tokyo to this gentler, slower old Tokyo. Happy new year, all!
chibaraki
