Shimanami Kaido 2: 10% Grade, 99% Sucky

I yawned, the morning sun falling softly through the tent’s little plastic window.  It was warm this morning, and calm.  What a beautiful day today would be, I thought, unzipping the door, a day that GAH AGAIN!

I blinked, rubbed the sleep from my eyes with one hand while trying not to fall and crush my tent (and, uh, wife).

Oh.  It’s just a goat.  I’m still scared, actually.

We made off quickly in the morning, hoping not to disturb our host (whose name neither of us caught, but to be fair, he did talk extremely fast).  We had no idea of knowing if he was still inside the school -- indeed, if the party had even ended yet -- but we went with the age-old children’s wisdom that yes, teachers live at the school.  We left him a thank-you note and packed up our things quietly.

We took off across Oshima, pausing only for breakfast and second breakfast at the conbini just down the road.  Oshima sadly proved to be big vertically as well as by area; the entire island is split by one of several mountains, such that by the time we made it a scant six kilometers from the mysterious cram school, we were already ready for a break.  Fortunately, Mt. Karei Observatory Park was only 2.5 kilometers from the main road, and according to our map, this park had a campsite.  At last, a return to camping at campsites, we thought, setting up on a patch of dirt where we wouldn’t be afraid of offending the owner or being bothered by an axe murderer!

Why, just look at all the fun we're having!

We stocked up on provisions at a supermarket on the main road, the proprietress advising us where we could buy beer nearby, and also that camping was no fun without beer.  Truly, a land of ancient wisdom, Japan.  Ready for a couple of nights of camping, armed with beer, gyoza, and fresh pasta, we started up the road to the park.

Unfortunately, we found that 2.5 kilometers was an inaccurate gauge of the distance to the park, though perhaps it was more a vertical estimate than a horizontal one.  We quickly took to pushing, then to cursing, then to sitting.  After a time I went ahead, leaving Jenn to have a rest so I could come back for her once I’d left my bike at the top.  It didn’t take me too long to get to the park (in geological time, anyway), though it was unfortunate that all of my muscles went on strike before I could get back down to Jenn.  All said, it was a full day of pushing, perhaps 3 hours, before we got to the top.  Really, “Observatory Park” should have tipped us off.

The view was incredible, and the giant mural that played a warbly enka at random intervals fascinating.  Sakura were peppered all over the steep green slopes that look out over the nearby islands and the sweeping white bridges of the Kaido.  There were few visitors to the park that day, even though it was a Sunday, so we had the whole summit to ourselves, virtually.  Giddy with the view (and perhaps altitude sickness), we made ourselves a late lunch, then went to set up our tent on one of the narrow precipices that passed for a campground.  As there was no one manning the park office, we helped ourselves to the flattest green stairstep on the mountainside.  This is one of the greatest parts of camping in Japan: if it’s not in camping season, then the campsite is free!  Inasmuch as there is no one there to make you pay, anyway.  Typical for Japan, really; why would anyone go camping when it wasn’t the proper season for it?

While we set up, we left most of our things by a fire pit at the bottom of the stairs (I know, stairs at a campsite, why?).  By the time the tent was erected, an enormous crow had helped itself to some of our groceries.  “Hey!” I shouted, lurching down the steps, as the crow responded to my threat by doing absolutely nothing.  I got to the fire pit just in time to see the crow grab hold of a bagful of white bread and flap away, thus solving a week-old mystery and depriving us of valuable nutrients.  I couldn’t do much in retaliation but shake my fist and check the rest of our goods.

“Fuck!  That crow took our gyoza!” I shouted to Jenn.  Indeed, a package of premade dumplings the size of an abridged dictionary was utterly gone.  Strange portents, indeed.

The next day we decided to rest, and we passed our time happily on the mountaintop taking photos, writing, singing, and making elaborate meals, some of which were passed on to lower creatures with no hard feelings.  We had eaten nearly all of the groceries we brought up the mountain with us, and drank all the beer as well, but no matter, the grocery store was only an extremely short trip down the mountain, we thought as we went to sleep blissfully.

The following day we awoke to rain.  Like, rain-rain.  Some of the rainiest rain we had encountered, in fact, breaking occasionally only for fog.  We huddled in the tent for the day, trying to make our leftovers last as long as possible -- there was no way we’d be hurtling down a mountainside in this kind of weather.  We knit, tried not to think about food for the day, and played Tale of Tales’ brilliant game “The Path” on our laptop.  In retrospect, spending much of the day playing a spooky, atmospheric game about being lost in the woods wasn’t that bright of an idea whilst alone and trapped in actual spooky, atmospheric woods.  We fell asleep to troubling dreams of being stalked by wolf-sized crows and crow-sized wolves, awakening only to the PA system playing the Go To Sleep music and, much later, the Wake Up music.

Shimanami Kaido: Road to Somewhere

After a leisurely (slow) six days of riding and resting our way across the northern coast of Shikoku, we abruptly realized that our plans might have to undergo yet another change.  Having given ourselves only three weeks to tour the entire coast of the island before getting back to Kansai for birthday parties and WWOOFing, we had a choice to make: either we could attempt to increase our pace, covering at least 80 kilometers a day for the next two weeks with precious few rest days, or we could alter our plans to include taking a bus from Matsuyama to the southern coast of blah blah blah anyway we decided not to do that either.

Just before speeding off in a cloud of dust and cigarette smoke, Jake recommended that we check out the Shimanami Kaido while on Shikoku; the Shimanami Kaido is a series of bridges that connects Shikoku to mainland Honshu via a handful of islands in Japan’s Seto Inland Sea.  Jake told us that the Kaido was the main reason he wanted to revisit this part of the country by bike, and that we really shouldn’t miss it.  We decided to spend a day taking in some of the 76-kilometer route, maybe camp on one of the islands, then return to Shikoku for more stalling a decision about our route.

The ride, as promised, was gorgeous.  By now the sakura were in full bloom, and Shikoku being so rural a place, gorgeous copses of white-pink sakura were surrounded by natural beauty and mountains rather than by passed-out salarymen vomiting in the bushes (to which we had been accustomed after three hanami seasons in Osaka).

After a good day and a half of riding, we found ourselves going up the ramp to the first bridge of the Kaido.  It really is a miracle of engineering, this system of bridges, as well as a miracle of foresight that it’s all extremely bike-friendly.  Physics, unfortunately, remains less bike-friendly, requiring that we pedal up a slight incline for several kilometers before actually finding ourselves atop each bridge.

The superlative of the day is "First Three Consecutive Suspension Bridges in the World."

Having taken a little more time and energy climbing the first bridge than we had hoped, we found ourselves on the first major island, Oshima (literally, “Big Island”) just as the sun was going down.  This chain of volcanic islands tends to be a bit hilly, so we had reached a state of being extremely tuckered out by 5:00.  We could either venture still further into the island, which for all we knew would require climbing spikes and, hopefully, an elevator, or we could look for somewhere to free camp again.  As previously mentioned, we’re slightly less afraid to free camp in Japan due to the culture of hospitality and also not having any guns, but on a mountain road on a rural island, vacant lots and parks are a little hard to come by.

At last we stumbled across a building marked as a “cycle oasis.”  Among its promised amenities were “water,” “air pumps,” and “goats.”  I assumed I must have been hallucinating by this point, but decided it couldn’t hurt to ask the proprietor if there was a nearby park in which we could squat for the night.

Jenn hung back to watch the bikes while I knocked on the door of the bizarrely unfinished-looking wooden building.  I slid open the front door and, as though I had entered a saloon in the Old West, all conversation stopped, and there were twenty pairs of eyes on me.

“Um...are you open?” I asked hesitantly.

“Eh?” asked one of the old guys standing around the table.  It seemed there was some manner of party going on -- children, obachans, and old guys were seated around a grill that was covered with fish and stock pots.  The man approached, and I attempted to explain our situation, finally getting out that we were looking for a nearby park or campground.  The man frowned, shook his head, and explained that there weren’t any campgrounds on the island as far as he knew, but that we could stay right there on his property.

Stunned at this show of generosity (and pretty certain we were misunderstanding something), Jenn and I followed our host around the house, bowing all the while, where we were told we could set up right next to the goats.

Eh.  I've had worse roommates.

Two boys who were hanging around enthusiastically helped us set up our tent, and through them we got some kind of intelligence about where we were, exactly.  It seemed that this old wooden house, covered with barbed-wire spiderwebs and rusted bicycles, was a cram school, of all things.  Also, they reassured us that the goats probably wouldn’t eat our tent, though Daddy Goat seemed pretty determined to try.

On our host’s urging, we came in to join the party for a drink.  We met a whole slew of interesting characters, including a gaggle of middle schoolers, a standard Old Drunk Guy who spent a great deal of time talking about “Tom & Jerry,” and a man who had spent ten years traveling the world with his wife on a tandem bike.  The food was plentiful and delicious: grilled mackerel, pickles, garlic toast, and an immense pot of wild boar stew.  When we asked what the occasion was, someone explained, "We were hungry."  Between bouts of explaining our travel experiences and discussing the foibles of English teaching in Japan, we patted ourselves on the back for how our day had gone, thrilled that once again we had discovered some of the best of Japan off the beaten path.

Things took a bit of a darker turn once Old Drunk Guy started talking about international affairs, however.  I’m still not too clear on all that he said, but I’m sure that he said that he hates North and South Korea equally, that he thinks Japan should go to war with them again, that Latin America is full of disgusting mixed-blood people, and “Tora, tora, tora.”  The room grew quiet.  We’d always heard of this side of Japan, that nationalism lurks in many of this peaceful country’s social corners, though this was the first time we’d encountered it firsthand.  Voice shaking, I managed to get ODG back onto the topic of cartoons, and the room relaxed somewhat.

We retired to our tent long before the party had ended.  This day we had, without a doubt, seen some of the best of Japan and the Japanese, and just a glimpse of the worst as well.

Sanuki to Kannonji: A Day in Photos

We woke up from our night of free camping to look on the peaceful, quiet beauty of the park and take in the AAAAH!

The forests of Kannonji, home to the last of Japan's dwindling fairy population.

The woods around our campsite were alive with entirely alien sounds.  Sometimes it sounded like monkeys, other times like apes.  Turned out it's crane mating season, which means they court each other loudly at all hours by making monkey sounds.

After much cycling indeed, we reached the second of Shikoku's "four kingdoms," Ehime.  This one is known for citrus fruits, much like the last one.

Of all things, we found ourselves in a taqueria somewhere in Ehime.

And then Harry took a photo of Jenn taking a photo of Jake taking a photo of his food, and then the Internet exploded.

And, a NO-LONGER-TIMELY SAKURA REPORT:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaalmost...

Sanuki City, a.k.a. Flatsville

NO-LONGER-TIMELY SAKURA REPORT:

SO.  CLOSE.

After resting up and filing our final report on the sandwich case, we left our haven in Higashikagawa.  We hadn’t made it very far around Shikoku yet -- once again I have been deceived by the relative sizes of land masses, and once again I curse the American educational system that has failed me in geography -- so we really had to haul ass to get to the next campsite that Jake had planned for us, which he assured us was “only” 70 kilometers away.  Doing some quick mental calculations, I was relieved to figure out that 70 kilometers worked out to 2.6 cubic acres or 1.0 standard soccer pitches, and that we could be there by lunchtime (DAMN YOU ONCE AGAIN, AMERICAN EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM).

The road was much the same as it had been the day before: wide-shouldered, relatively well-maintained, and sparsely populated with courteous if confused motorists.  We made good time that day, biking over a few small mountains (or extremely large speed bumps) and stopping for a long lunch at one of Shikoku’s many excellent and very cheap self-serve udon restaurants.  Happily, we pedaled our little hearts out and took photos of some of the local sights.

Goat count: 1.

I'lltakeit!  Whatever it is,  ya sold me!

And: abject horror.

We were confident that we could make it to Kannonji with a few more hours of hard work.  Students of foreshadowing should be well aware by now that I was due for the mother of all flat tires.

Now, before embarking on this grand cycle-venture of ours, Jenn and I took the precaution of taking a bicycle maintenance class at Sunflower Cycles in Lawrence, a fine organization staffed by many competent young men with giant gauges in their ears.  Our instructor demonstrated how to do common repairs such as lubing our chain (which we had only screwed up once) and patching a flat tube.  We had nodded at his sage advice to practice at home on our unladen bikes to familiarize ourselves with the process, but unfortunately had to cancel our plans to follow through on it due to an urgent X-Box-related appointment.  Which explains why we had carried spare tubes of the wrong size and a pump for the wrong tire valve for about 1000 miles afterwards.

By this point in Shikoku, we were seasoned vets: we had repaired flats many times before, by which I mean we had paid others to repair flats for us.  No judging, you.

Fortunately, Jake is an expert in all matters cyclic; a former D.C. bike messenger and frequent bike tourist, he is a kind of Wolverine of the road, though I imagine an adamantium spine and healing factor would be much appreciated to better accommodate his habits of chain smoking and carrying his whole load in a messenger bag.  Anyway, Jake was on hand to instruct me in all of the ins and outs of tube patching, and before long it was successfully patched.  CUE MONTAGE:

Only to find another punk in the tube right behind the first one.  This was slightly less troublesome than the first one, as I had learned much from my first experience patching a hole, and also Jake did this one to save time.  CUE SECOND MONTAGE:

Our celebratory booty-dance was short-lived, as we discovered an additional six punctures, bringing the total to eight, also expressed as function (all of the patches in my patch kit) + 1.  Again, that is eight punctures in one day.

With yet more help from Jake, we were eventually back on the road, just in time to pick up several more patch kits at a nearby Daiso before the sun set and it dipped below freezing once more.  We sought refuge at a city park at Sanuki City’s welcome center/rest stop, which remains the first and only park with a posted, explicitly-worded “no camping” policy.  Too bad we, as gaijin, can’t read Japanese.

Higashikagawa: The Case of the Missing Sandwich

At approximately 11:35 a.m., Jake and I arrived at the scene.  Where before had been a beautiful, handmade sandwich containing expensive imported cheese, there was now a grisly tableau.  The bread and cheese were missing entirely, and in there place the tomatoes, avocado, cucumber, and roasted red pepper were piled in a heap on the typing paper that was serving for a plate.  It didn’t make any sense; what would or could eat just the bread and cheese and leave everything else?  How could it have eaten the top and bottom of the sandwich without spilling the contents on the ground?  Who could do such a thing to such a fantastic sandwich?  Why, when we had left the sandwich unattended for half an hour to collect firewood, was it left alone only to be eaten in our second five-minute trip for kindling?  What, in short, the hell?

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.  Gruesome! 

The two of us could vouch for each other’s whereabouts sure enough; besides, having just eaten our own sandwiches half an hour before, we were unlikely suspects for eating another one (though I might have liked to try).  Equally unlikely was Jenn, who had been knitting in the tent while we were gone.  Though she had not eaten the sandwich yet (the sandwich in question was hers, which I suppose makes her the real victim here), her fondness for tomatoes is legendary -- barring some kind of single-minded, sudden-onset lycanthropy, she was out of the picture.

There were few clues for us in the plastic garbage bag that had been ripped open.  No claw marks, no footprints, no cleverly-worded taunts of our investigative capacity (thus ruling out the Riddler).  Indeed, nothing seemed to have been missing from the garbage at all.  The sandwich’s bread was too big for a bird to have flown away with it or a cat to have eaten it in one go.  With little to go on, we declared it the work of tanooki, the Japanese raccoon dog that Jenn and I had spotted in Wakayama two nights before.  The only thing we knew about tanooki was its oversized testicles and its propensity for magic; with no other clues to speak of, we concluded that they must also possess a ferocious hunger for caraway Colby matched only by an aversion to vegetables.

Closing the book on this case, Jake and I retired to the campground’s office to buy some coffee and do our laundry.  There, we received new, chilling information from the camp hosts: there are no tanooki living on Shikoku.  The two old men suggested crows or perhaps a stray cat, and laughingly advised us to be more careful next time.

Utilizing the Holmes deductive method, the only conclusion I can reasonably come to is that the sandwich was eaten by the camp hosts.  Case closed.

It may also have been Tenty, the lovable town drunk.

Our work done, we celebrated in the traditional fashion of our people (hippies):