28 October to 28 November, 2019

Navigating the Setouchi Triennial for the first time was daunting. The twelve islands in the Seto Inland Sea, that host the three season contemporary art event, were unique in size, had names which were difficult to roll off my tongue e.g. Ogijima, Inujima, Naoshima, and visiting all, or at least most of the sites, required planning.

Transportation and housing options varied, and although the Triennial isn´t well known outside of Asia, it still attracts huge crowds and I was hoping to avoid them.

I looked for a convenient base to begin my explorations and was fortunate to find the exceptional Wakabaya Guesthouse in Takamatsu, one of the two port cities that provides access to the islands. I arrived from Kyoto by train on a rainy day. The kind owner, Takeshi, whose youthful face displayed a perpetual smile, had an abundance of knowledge, an untiring desire to share it, and an endless supply of hot tea.

After choosing a lower bunk in a comfortable, spotless room with eight beds, and returning to Takeshi for more advice, I went in search of a recommended restaurant “where only locals go.” A young woman from Shanghai, also staying at the guesthouse, joined me. She was traveling alone for the first time—and loving it. Her English, which she honed by watching Gossip Girls, was flawless.

The small restaurant on a quiet street, run by a spry woman, decades past middle-aged, doing all the cooking and serving, was far from undiscovered—the majority of diners were tourists—but the fresh seafood was delicious.

The Setouchi Triennale began in 2010, and takes place every three years, as an effort to revitalize the region. People had sought opportunities elsewhere, leaving the islands with a decreasing, aged population (the average resident is around eighty), and many homes and schools vacant. Permanent museums were built and international artists were invited to create work throughout the islands, often in the abandoned structures. The event began attracting thousands of visitors.

Takeshi mapped out a strategy, given my luxury of time, to visit the less popular islands and sites during the Triennale and visit the others with star attractions later on. He recommended I begin with Oshima and Isamu Noguchi’s studio and home.

The following morning I walked to a nearby station and took a train to the port. Commuter trains pass through the streets of Takamatsu frequently and the railroad crossing signals quickly became a familiar sound. The car was crowded with men, and a few women, wearing business attire. I stood out in my casual clothes, and as the only foreigner.

I walked to a 7-Eleven to buy some coffee and warm red bean buns, keeping an eye out for the bicyclists riding on the sidewalks. Takeshi had said it was unlikely that I’d find anything to eat on the island so bought some cooked fish, rice, vegetables, and several bottles of green tea for later.

Freshly prepared food-to-go in Japan is practically an art form. 7-Eleven, Lawson, and Family Mart are ubiquitous convenience stores throughout the cities in Japan and offer a wide choice of tasty meals. However, everything was wrapped in plastic, then put in plastic bags, with plastic wrapped utensils, plastic wrapped napkins, and sometimes another plastic bag. Coming from countries where asking for a plastic bag could result in getting a dirty look and a comment like “Plastic is dead, get over it.” the unchecked use of plastic took some getting used to.

The ferry port was already crowded at 9 a.m., but as I had hoped most of the people were there to visit the main attractions of the Triennale: Naoshima and Teshima islands.

Oshima, one of the smallest islands, did not covet the same attention. I took the short ferry ride with a few tourists, and a large group of co-ed students with matching white caps and shirts, black shorts or skirts, white sneakers, different color school bags, violet ties, clipboards, and yellow umbrellas. The teacher never uttered a sound above a whisper, but the teenagers, like a disciplined orchestra, followed the subtle instructions of their maestra, and demonstrated perfect decorum throughout the journey.

I followed the group to a visitor center where a tour was offered, but the guide spoke little English. He led me to a young woman sitting at a table with the Setouchi Triennale flag. Her English was excellent and her enthusiasm was palpable. She sold me the necessary “passport” for the Triennale, offered some suggestions–the forest walk was not to be missed–and gave me a map. She acknowledged that the island did not attract many visitors, but it was her favorite.

I walked to a row of small buildings which housed installations, then took the requisite forest path–it was lush, quiet, beautiful, and dotted with curious ceramic forms and signs with poetic personal accounts of those who had lived there.  The history of the island unfolded.

It is not a happy one.

Oshima in 1909 became a leprosy colony. Under a new law people afflicted with the disease were forced to live there, separated from their loved ones.  Patients were stripped of their freedom and subjected to hard labor and tragic injustices.  The law was repealed in 1996.

Much of the art paid tribute to the suffering these people endured. The tiny, beautiful island seemed incapable of containing all that sorrow.

Some survivors of this era have stayed on with no where else to go. While I strolled along the well-tended paths near the island’s buildings, a curious and grating tune played continuously from a series of loudspeakers. I was reminded of the 1960’s television show The Prisoner. I learned the music was intended to keep the blind residents safe and guide them from straying too far.

The following morning, after buying my breakfast and lunch, a routine already established, I set off to visit Megijima and Ogijima.

At the ferry terminals, cheerful volunteers distributed maps with the numerous art sites marked out. The atmosphere was festive. My “passport” was stamped at each site. Megijima, larger than Ogijima, but still tiny at 2.5 square miles, had bikes to rent. I opted to visit on foot. Wandering through the narrow lanes gave me a sense of time past.

Picturesque abandoned wooden homes were transformed by the art and infused with life. Sites were unique and captivating. Ogijima’s charming new café/library was an effort to cater to and potentially attract more residents.

Despite taking the first ferry in the morning and returning on the last ferry in the early evening, the hours weren’t enough to explore the islands. I wanted to stay somewhere, but the few accommodations I’d found were either closed or full.

That evening, sitting comfortably at a low table in the guesthouse, sipping a cup of tea, I asked Takeshi for advice. He opened a thick folder filled with names, phone numbers, maps, ferry schedules, and assorted information. After looking through it and asking me some questions he made a phone call that went on for some time. Even though he was speaking Japanese I could tell he tried to bring the call to an end several times. Finally he hung up, told me I could stay a few nights on the small island of Awashima, and added, “The owner likes to talk.” His smile turned wry.

The road from the ferry dock to the Awashima Lodge was steep, curved, and followed the coast. A passing car was an anomaly. As I trudged along, following the map Takeshi had drawn for me, glad I’d left most of my things at his guesthouse, I gazed out at the sea. The lodge was a simple, large, two-story rectangular building a short walk from the main road.

The owner, an elderly man, greeted me upon arrival and brought me to his and his wife’s living area on the ground floor. It was crammed with chairs, tables, boxes, and other things. After a quick introduction, he only spoke Japanese and my vocabulary remained quite limited, I was shown upstairs to a long corridor. A tiny toilet was down the hall, the shower was downstairs.

My room had a sink, a narrow futon with some blankets, a small pillow, tatami mats, and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were no decorations except for a faded calendar hanging from a hook, however windows filled the far wall. I walked across the room and looked out to a small beach, the sky, the sea, and the islands. The only sounds came from the wave’s gentle rise and fall. I needed nothing more.

Later that afternoon I met the wife. She began speaking to me in an endless burst of sound. Despite my best efforts to demonstrate that I did not understand what she was saying, she just kept on speaking. I tried using Google translate, but it was an abject failure. I spoke, then showed her the screen with the words I said now in Japanese, she looked at it and wouldn’t utter a word. As soon as I put the phone down she began speaking again. I tried using hand gestures in the hopes she would do the same, offering me some clues, but she spoke with her arms stubbornly at her side. Fortunately another guest arrived. Sakiya, a lovely young woman from Osaka, spoke some English and offered to translate. She listened to the wife at length and asked “Is dinner at six okay?”

Awashima offered no dining opportunities so breakfast and dinner were included in the price of lodging. A few minutes before 6pm, after removing my shoes at the front door, putting on the downstairs slippers, different from the upstairs and bathroom slippers, then removing them to enter the tatami dining area, I sat on a cushion in front of a place setting at a large low table. Sakiya and Ryo, another guest, a sound engineer from Kobe, were already seated. Several courses of vegetables, sashimi, smoked fish, and fruit were served soon after with hot tea. It was a delicious meal, and served by the husband with pride. Everything was fresh and came from the area.

The wife’s bad knees made the ascending and descending of the high step to the room difficult leaving her free to take a semi-reclining pose and talk non-stop throughout the meal. I tried to be polite and look like I was listening, but when it seemed as if she was never going to run out of air, I excused myself to the quiet of my room upstairs.

Sakiya came by later that evening and asked if I wanted to come outside to look for sea fireflies. I’ve always loved fireflies, but I’d never heard of sea fireflies. I quickly followed her downstairs. Sakiya, Ryo, the husband, and I walked in silence to the water’s edge. The husband was as reserved as his wife was long-winded.

Donning high white rubber boots the husband started stomping by the shore. The enigmatic creatures reacted to the movement. Specks of blue light suddenly appeared and offset the darkness. The sea fireflies’ eerie glow complemented the stars.  We began stomping our feet too, wanting more. The show continued until the chill of the air drew us reluctantly back indoors.

The following morning, while standing on the beach. Ryo recorded Sakiya and me reciting words respectively in Japanese and English. I spontaneously chose sky, air, waves, sun, moon, and sea fireflies/umi-hotaru. It was a way of saying goodbye. They were heading back to their homes and took the first ferry from the island. I decided to stay two more nights and spent the days exploring Awashima, Takamijima, and Honjima.

If I did see the residents, which was not common (I generally encountered tourists or volunteers), they were mostly tending to their gardens or fishing nets, working with the fishing boats, hanging up their laundry, carrying a parcel, or quietly taking a stroll. Life during the Triennale didn’t seem to alter their routines.

They were predominantly women and all of advanced age. I was struck by their indifference to the tourists and the potential for economic gain. In addition to a lack of places to stay, food and drinks were rarely sold, shop hours were short and erratic, and there was nary a souvenir for sale. But the residents were not unfriendly. I shared a lovely moment with a woman as she weeded her garden. She seemed pleased to have the company and I was delighted to understand the word “broccoli” as she spoke.

I returned to Takamatsu for some days of rest and further exploration. I wandered the city’s center of long covered arcades that went on for blocks, packed with shops and restaurants.

And took a train to the mountain/park Yashima where I hiked to the top for a splendid view and visited the impressively designed Shikoku Mura open air museum and gallery. Ancient homes and buildings from the region had been relocated to a strikingly beautiful, lush environment offering visitors a chance to stroll through history and learn about the past. The modern gallery on the same grounds offered a stark but stunning contrast.

With the Triennale officially over, it was time to visit the popular islands, hopefully without the crowds. I managed to find a place to stay on Teshima for four days in the welcoming home of Kureishi. He had been born and raised on the island, left for many years to see the world, returned, and opened his family home to guests. I spent the days exploring the charming island on foot and bicycle, and sharing time with Kureishi and a new found friend, Chika, who is Japanese, but lived in Sweden for many years.

I met Chika working at the Yokoo house, a museum designed by architect Yuko Nagayama, in collaboration with artist Tadanori Yokoo, to showcase the latter’s artwork. It was converted from three traditional homes, redesigned with rooms and garden of various shapes, colors, and forms: reflective red Plexiglas walls lined the entry, koi swam beneath the transparent floor, paintings, some lit from within, hung on the walls, and a faux silo’s interior was completely covered in old postcards. For each step my concept of a “museum” was stretched.

But the Teshima Museum shattered it.

Getting inside the Teshima Museum requires a timed ticket and during the Triennale, reservations were made months in advance. But as hoped, the crowds had left and I was able to get a ticket easily.

I’d rented an electric bike for my stay and was happy to get some assistance on the long steep hills to get there. I parked in the area specifically for bicycles, a popular way of getting around the island, and entered a small building used for welcoming guests and checking-in. The staff directed me to a path that led around the hill, through a small wood, and a bench to stop and enjoy the view, then continued. It was a pleasant walk that took a few minutes. During the Triennale with the long lines it would take much longer, and was probably designed to please as well as placate impatient visitors.

I arrived at a sign and waited, a young woman wearing white and holding a walkie-talkie appeared. She asked me to remove my shoes, place them on a low rack, and to please remain silent. I entered a huge, rounded, cement space with a single entry, like one for a large igloo.

Once inside I tried to take in the extraordinary surroundings. The curved walls, also cement and completely bare, met the floor at a sharp angle. The only light came from the entry and two large, oval openings of different size, spaced a considerable distance apart. The openings let in the elements and offered views of the sky. While orienting myself, an attendant demonstrated that I watch my step. Tiny rivulets of water randomly appeared and traveled along the slanted floor. I began walking around and noticed a small piece of porcelain, there would be more.

Fearing I might break something, my pace slowed. Each step became conscious. I watched the droplets of water emerge and noticed the subtle changes in the light. I listened to the near silence and looked around at the other visitors. One woman sketched. Some chose to sit or lie on the floor with eyes closed. All was calm.

And then some people began speaking and the acoustics of the structure amplified their voices to a near roar. They were oblivious. I was annoyed. Then John Cage’s composition 4’33”(four minutes and thirty-three seconds) came to mind. It is a piece Cage composed for musicians to have, but not play their instruments for the duration. He intended the ambient sounds to provide the “music.” This helped, but I was pleased when the quiet was restored and lingered.

I had the good fortune of returning twice more. I specifically chose different hours of the day and was rewarded with the contrasting light I had hoped for. One day it rained and the raindrops mingled with the drops emerging from the floor. Reflective puddles were formed. Another day the wind picked up and leaves floated in creating swirling patterns in the air.  All was in flux.

On the island of Inujima is a museum converted from a copper refinery. It uses solar, geothermal, and other natural energies, and was designed to minimize environmental impact. As I wandered, hesitantly, down pitch black hallways suddenly encountering visions of the sun, and saw the deconstructed home of Yukio Mishima swaying in the wind my imagination was continuously challenged and my senses were energized. While strolling around the stunning island I discovered quiet village life, the utopian Life Garden project, and fish leaping high from the sea.

Naoshima, the most famous island, has the immensely popular Chichu Museum among other wonderful museums and sites. There was much to enjoy.

Shodoshima’s autumn colors were peaking. Like the other islands it had an abundance of natural beauty, intriguing and impressive art, picturesque hamlets with narrow lanes, and women wearing large bonnets tending their fields, but also a Greek windmill, and a park of roaming Macaque monkeys who visit for feedings.

One day, just before a storm, I found a small café serving lunch and waited until the clouds cleared. Time passed peacefully there.

I’d rented a lovely home for two weeks on the mainland, just outside of Uno, across the sea from Takamatsu. It was an ideal location to explore many of the places I’ve mentioned, catch my breath, visit another onsen, and Kurashiki a picturesque, but touristy town, return to Teshima for a final picnic with Chika, and plan my next destination.

The temperature was dropping, I wasn’t quite ready for the cold, and sought out warmer climes.

I booked a flight to Okinawa.

to be continued…

Dear Readers,

I’ve greatly appreciated your comments, the flurry of entertaining videos, and inspiring words during these difficult times.  I think often to one quote in particular:

“Let’s not count the days. Let the days count.”

I hope this finds you and your loved ones well and safe.

With warmest regards,

Sandra@startsolo

……………

18 October to 28 October, 2019

Staying at hostels in Tokyo meant compromising some comfort and privacy, but it also meant meeting kindred spirits and gaining information on places to go next.

Although I knew the cherry blossoms in Japan attracted hordes of tourists, I didn´t realize the colors of autumn did too. Travelers raved about towns not far from Tokyo with trees ablaze with color, splendid temples, and hot springs, but they also lamented the size of the crowds.

Tokyo was largely spared, but the typhoon left some towns with damaged roads and rail inaccessible. I looked into my options. The most appealing inns, tucked away in forests, were owned and run by the elderly. Unfortunately they were fully booked or, as one owner more or less stated, “We are only two here and we have been working very hard. We are old. We are tired. We are closed.”

And then a couple from France mentioned Magome: one of many ancient “post towns,” that existed along a path connecting Kyoto and Edo (now Tokyo). It fell out of use with the introduction of the railroad, but the old wooden buildings remain. Although the town seemed appealing, hiking the Nakasendo trail which connects Magome with Tsumago, another post town, along the original highway, seemed ideal.

Although far fewer people spoke English than I’d imagined, taking several trains and a bus to Magome was pleasant and relatively easy. Virtually all signs were bilingual and there was always someone willing to assist me.

The Gaku Magome Guesthouse, about a fifteen minute walk uphill from the bus stop and town center, was huge and previously an elementary school. Japan’s markedly decreasing population has left many schools closed or repurposed. The industrial-size kitchen’s sinks, tables, and chairs were barely thigh high. (Despite some awkward posturing, the kitchen was a godsend: all shops and restaurants closed around 4pm.)

Despite the building’s high ceilings and endless hallways, the warmth of the staff, extremely comfortable bunk beds: each enclosed in a private wooden compartment with reading lamp, and welcoming communal areas, the guesthouse felt surprisingly cozy.

I’d been mostly unaffected by the Rugby World Cup fever sweeping across the country. But I happened to be there on a night that the Japanese team was playing. The few guests (the typhoon had deterred many travelers) from Japan, Taiwan, Australia, Spain, Belgium, the staff, and I gathered to watch the game. Many of the travelers were serious sports fan and had come to Japan specifically for the World Cup.

Japan was hoping to once again defeat South Africa (They’d managed to do so in a remarkable upset back in 2015). The team enjoys a faithful following and admiration from locals, and foreigners: they make up for any lack of prowess with their extraordinary gusto. Beer and food were passed around as our small group gathered on couches, chairs, and the floor to watch them play. The staff had made banners for their team and were prominently on display. As cries of elation, frustration, and excitement filled the room, I made an attempt to understand the game, and failed. At least for a time the enthusiasm and passion was contagious and the sense of team spirit lingered. I was sorry to hear of Japan’s defeat the following day.

Baths are an integral part of Japanese culture and onsens (hot springs) are the culmination. Onsens vary in size and ambiance, but the honored traditional etiquette is fixed. An exception is the recent admittance, in some onsens, of people with tattoos–a symbol of the yakuza or Japanese mafia–but the tattoos need to be covered with bandages or tape.

I was familiar with communal bathing (women only) having savored many hours at hammams (steam baths) in the Middle East, Turkey, and Morocco, but onsens were uncharted territory.

The guesthouse made arrangements for me to visit one. Hiroke, another guest, who could have been mistaken for a Sumo wrestler, and I were the only ones interested. I was expecting an ancient wooden structure but we arrived in front of a modern long, white, low-lying building. The lobby looked disappointingly corporate.

A man with a large smile standing behind a counter warmly welcomed me in English and asked for my shoes—it reminded me of going bowling as a kid. In return I received a small towel and numbered bracelet with a tag. Now barefoot, Hiroke and I headed down the wide staircase where he pointed to the woman’s entrance marked in Japanese.

I entered a large room with multiple sinks, vanity tables complete with an assortment of creams, showers with low stools, bottles of soaps, and rows of lockers and benches. The space was nearly empty except for a few women, all Japanese, who were showering, combing their hair, or chatting.

I’d retained an image of extremely modest Japanese women where the exposed nape of a neck was the height of eroticism, so I was surprised to see all the women comfortably naked. (The YMCA locker room back in Brooklyn seemed Victorian in comparison.)

I wandered around the aisles of lockers looking for the one matching the number of the tag on the bracelet. I found it, and tried using the tag as an electronic key. No luck. A woman with short cropped black hair and gentle smile approached me. She knew a little English and seemed delighted to have the opportunity to speak it. She showed me the small key artfully tucked inside the bracelet (there was no end to the clever designs I would see in Japan).

I removed all my clothes and placed them and the towel inside the locker. It was clear that towels were not used for covering oneself and after showering–onsens are not for washing—I was heading directly to the hot springs so there was no point in drying myself off.

I walked through an area with more showers into a spacious room with large windows, bare walls, and a medium size pool: the onsen. I sat down slowly, adjusting to the hot water, and relaxed. The heat made me light-headed.

A woman sat across from me with eyes closed and a folded towel atop her head. Another woman took a towel, placed it under a faucet of cool water, folded it, placed it atop her head, then entered the pool. So that’s what the towels were used for. I regretted having locked my towel away.

Reclining neck deep in was quite pleasant, but I felt like I could have been anywhere, except for the naked part, soaking in some baby pool with hot water (onsens are not for swimming). And then I saw a woman go through a set of glass doors. What was I missing?  The doors led outside. The night was chilly and I was hesitant to follow, but my curiosity prevailed.

High stalks of bamboo and large rocks enclosed a natural pool of steamy water. The ceiling of bright lights was replaced with the night sky and all was silent. I waded into the pool and a light rain started to fall. I sat back enjoying the cool water on my face and the warming water of the onsen. I was transported to another world.

The following morning, after breakfast, I walked from the guesthouse down to Magome where the Nakasendo trail began.

Busloads of Japanese tourists had already arrived in town and the picturesque cobbled main street was packed. They were indulging in red bean sweets, dumplings, matcha and chestnut ice cream, chestnut confections, roasted edibles on wooden skewers that would regretfully remain a mystery, and other freshly made snacks while resting or strolling in and out of the numerous clothing, craft, and frivolous souvenir shops.

The trail began at the town’s end with a steep uphill. I was happy to leave the crowds behind and was soon walking through forests of trees and bamboo, crossing rivers on old bridges, gazing at waterfalls, and passing small communities with traces of daily life but no locals were in sight.

And then there was the ringing of the bells placed along the route to ward off the bears.

About midway, I was welcomed to enter an ancient teahouse by an elderly gentleman pouring cups of teas for the hikers. A group of us from various countries sat on opposite sides of a long wooden table enjoying hot tea, tasty snacks, and conversation before leaving a donation and setting off again.

Returning to the guesthouse late in the afternoon, pleasantly tired and sated from a hearty lunch of the area’s specialty, soba noodles, I considered where I would go next.

I chose Takayama, a small city.  Wooden buildings and narrow lanes of the ancient quarter were stunning, but they too were mobbed with tourists. Fortunately, the beautiful temples and expansive, lush cemetery on the outskirts were nearly empty, except for the birds who seemed as happy as I to be there.

A day trip to Kamikochi in the Japanese Alps was a highlight and revealed autumn’s splendor.

That evening I managed to find a tiny restaurant, where I learned the removing of shoes before entering was a good sign,  serving divine sashimi far from the hubbub.

Next stop Kyoto.

For many people, Kyoto is the ideal Japanese city. I’d spent about a week there decades ago, retained many fond memories, and considered staying for a month.

But the beautiful traditional home I rented was suddenly not available for an extended stay and I reconsidered my plans. After five days of exploring, indulging in local specialties, being the sole spectator at a Butoh dance performance (maximum capacity was ten), getting lost in the backstreets, and finding the city more crowded and bustling than I recalled, I decided to go to the Setouchi Triennale. It was the reason I’d come to Japan after all.