Setsukeian 2: A Day in the Life

Pictured at right: the guest house where we slept.  Not pictured: coffee.

At 6:30 every morning, we awoke just in time to hit snooze and sleep until 6:55, which left us precisely enough time to throw our futons into the closet and stumble downstairs to report for duty.  We were expected to be ready at 7:00 sharp to undertake our vital morning tasks: while one of us would help Setsu-san in the kitchen and begin the lengthy table-setting ritual, the other would clean the toilet and feed the chickens.

Now, you may mock me for this, gentle reader, but I'm a little afraid of chickens.  I will point out, as I often have, that from the drumstick down they are in fact dinosaurs.  Still, I developed quite a rapport with these two chickens, especially since Kei-san let me use a giant stick to fend them away (to my delight, I found that I had already learned the word for "defense stick," bo, not during my lengthy study of Japanese but in my lengthier study of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles).  The pair looked pretty lonely in their big coop all alone, especially when Kei-san told us of their tumultuous life history that involved their mates being exsanguinated in weasel attacks and injuries sustained during sex, which explained why the rooster and hen were kept in separate pens.

By 7:30, breakfast was ready, and it consisted unvaryingly of toasted white bread, a salad frequently made of the previous night's leftovers, miso soup, and mayonnaise and jellied seaweed (for the bread).  Please note the complete absence of coffee.  We four ate family style in the dining room, Kei-san having arrived from his morning visit to the neighborhood temple just in time to dig in (funny how his luck always held out on that front).  Indeed, we felt very much like family during our two weeks on the farm, right down to lively conversations over meals and frequent scoldings for doing our chores improperly.  These familial feelings only waned when we thought of how we were Setsukeian's 482nd and 483rd WWOOFers respectively; we found ourselves irrationally jealous of our 481 siblings, though we were also comforted with the knowledge that there was no way we could be the most inept WWOOFers they'd ever had.

When breakfast was finished and the dishes were washed, we hurriedly changed into our "working wear" to get ready for our first three-hour shift at 8:30.  Our working wear was no less crummy than our "room wear," you understand, as our glamorous life of bike touring only left us room for three shirts apiece.  Still, Kei-san was adamant, and when he would see us sneaking up to our bedroom for a quick nap in our working wear, he would chastise us heartily, claiming that we would dirty up our room with outside-dirt.

Here Harry is heartily enjoying one of our many break times.

We labored from 8:30 until noon, with a half-hour break for tea and sweets at 10.  Our tasks varied from day to day, but they were always oddly gendered, something for which we were unprepared.  While I was sent to cut the crass, hack bits of wood into smaller bits of wood, whack rice into giant globs of mochi, or do other heavy lifting, Jenn was put to work sorting rice, sorting beans, kneading bread, or even sewing applique.  Being enlightened 21st-century folk, we had figured that every WWOOFer would be put to hard labor; it was difficult being cool with the assumption that I would be stronger and fitter than Jenn purely based on my possession of a certain quantity of testicles (which, frankly, were pretty unhelpful for most tasks).

I did this with my testosterone.

Lunch was eaten outside during good weather, probably to avoid having us change back into our room wear in order to help Setsu-san in the kitchen.  It was always delicious and extremely starchy, usually either udon soup with rice, ramen with rice, or grilled rice balls.  By the time we finished with lunch, we had just enough time to pass out from caffeine withdrawal before getting back to work for the afternoon.  I was put again to the hard stuff: harvesting field greens, building a playground out of wood, planting rice, spitting, etc..  Meanwhile, Jenn was weeding the garden or sorting more rice, all the while thinking of all the books she read as a child that featured 19th-century farm girls doing needlework and longing to be outside with the boys.

Traditionally gendered divisions of labor make Jenn FURIOUS.

From 5 until 6:30, we were allowed to take showers and use the Internet, though not usually at the same time.  Of course, since by this point we were frantically looking for jobs online, our rest time usually was squandered on scouring job boards and other nonsense.  The rest of the evening was spent helping Setsu-san in the kitchen (not that she needed any real help), eating her amazing meals, generally being impressed with her, and then passing the fuck out at 8:30.

This routine was always the same save for special events such as the appearance of a corgi-sized tanooki that bounded down the path and under the house in broad daylight.  One night, the guest house was reserved by customers, visitors who had WWOOFed at Setsukeian years before and had since gotten married and had a baby.  The promise of a change, of visitors coming, filled us with bizarre excitement, and again we felt connected to all of the books we had read about 19th-century American farmsteaders.  We left the farm only once, our holiday, to go into Kyoto to visit the monthly flea market that commemorates the death of Kobo Daishi, a revered figure in Zen Buddhism who apparently had a fondness for good deals and fried food.  Of course, we were free to go out whenever we wanted, but the nightlife of Nantan was a little much for our blood:

"On break/vacation."

The main drag of Nantan City.

Setsukeian: Garden in the Dirt

Two things were counted against us on the morning of April 13th when we were preparing to leave for our first WWOOF experience in the mountains of Kyoto: first, April 12th happens to be a very special gaijin's birthday, and we had spent the evening wiling away the hours with friends, discussing the lesser works of Virgil over brandy and cigars; second, there was an earthquake at 5 a.m. that morning, as unmistakable a sign from the travel gods as ever you will see.  Of course, we hadn't left karaoke the discussion salon until 3:30, so by 5 we were unconscious and not even aware of the earthquake, but it seemed as good an excuse as any to sleep in.  Thus, rather than a breakneck 3-day ride through the city and the mountains to get to our host, we elected to stay in the Big O for a few more days, enjoying the company of good friends and more karaoke, before taking a series of trains and buses to our first organic farm, Setsukeian.

Three days later than we planned to leave, we still managed to miss our train.  This was our first train voyage in awhile, and it was odd to have no recourse when running late except to try to will the trains to move faster with the power of one's mind.  We did pass a few hours staring out the train windows and thinking about how fantastic a bike ride it would have been, though.  We also spent a good deal of time thinking about what life on the farm would be like.  Though both of us are children of the Midwest and avid lovers of corn, wheat, and other boring shit, neither of us had worked on a farm before.  Indeed, we had a perfect track record of killing every plant we had attempted to raise, although we had nurtured several hearty species of fungus on our bath mat.  Also, I'm afraid of bugs, dirt, and hard work in general.  It's a condition.  Indeed, it was something of a modern mystery why we had registered for WWOOF (which, again, stands for WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms, one of the most arbitrary acronyms on Earth).  No matter how we took to this work, we would surely learn something, whether it be how to eke out a living from mud, sticks, and other organic things, or just that we really don't like farm work.

When our bus pulled up to the stop, we were greeted by an extremely healthy-looking bald man, who greeted us with, "おかえり！" (roughly, "welcome back").  He drove us and our bags (which in this case included only the essentials: clothes, a can of macadamia nuts, and our viola and ukulele) up the hill to the farm where we would be staying for the next two weeks.

Later, Kei-san would tell me that this small road that ran past their house had been there for hundreds of years, and could be seen even on ancient maps.  Merchants would carry baskets of fish on their backs from the Sea of Japan through the mountains to Kyoto, then trek back with armfuls of silk.  Made us feel lamer than ever for taking the bus.

Setsukeian is a couple of small houses decked out in wickerware, artwork, and assorted farm implements.  Our host, Kei-san, sat us down at the small outdoor table while his wife, Setsu-san, brought us tea and welcomed us warmly.  While Kei-san shuffled through some preliminary paperwork, we looked at the names of WWOOFers past scrawled on various projects: Matthias had made the wooden pavillion, David the stone oven.

Hidden throughout the house were these images of monks, all made by their middle son, Saboten (which means "cactus," and which I was a little disappointed to find is a pen name).

Kei-san, relieved to discover that we spoke enough Japanese to get by, ran us through our daily schedules (more on this tomorrow) and the rules of the house, which I shall reprint in their entirety:

1. Please be on time for all assigned duties.
2. Men: please pee sitting down.

We would discover, of course, that there were far, far more rules than these.  In general, we were expected to "work" for six hours a day, as is standard for WWOOF, plus we were expected to help with dishes and food prep.  Cooking and washing the dishes, to my amazement, is not "work."  Still, we signed our permits and dropped off our things in our room in the guest house, then were put to work at once.  Jenn was tasked with sorting rice, one grain at a time, into three piles (seeds, broken pieces, and other), while I was sent to the rice field to gather a wild green called "seri."  Kei-san drove me down to the three fields that make up Setsukeian and explained to me, "Everyone else just kills seri with pesticides, they think it's a weed.  But that's me.  Whatever everyone else does, I don't do, and whatever nobody does, I do."

Kei-san handed me two plastic shopping bags and a pair of scissors, brought me to a spot that was dappled with green, then demonstrated how to harvest seri.  When he was convinced that I understood and was unlikely to slice off my own fingers, he left me to my own.  "So first I should do this field, and then the other two, right?" I asked.  He rolled his eyes and nodded, then drove off.  For three hours I squatted in the dirt, never once leaving the same small section of the first field.  Somehow the herbs which seemed so small and scattered multiplied as I began plucking them one by one, gradually filling the shopping bags as I grew tired and mud-covered.

At last it was quitting time; the town PA system began playing "Moon River," and I hiked back up the road to the farm.  My back was aching, my fingers cold and sore.  Clearly, I deserved a medal for such labor, or at least the rest of the day off.  For the first time, I think I might have understood the mind that created country music.  Of course, when I arrived back at the farm, it was time to change into my non-work clothes and help Setsu-san cook dinner.  Just as I had rolled up my sleeves and was ready to show my culinary prowess, Kei-san called me away to teach me the proper way to set the table.

Kei-san surveys his domain.

Setsu-san.  One day I would like to be as badass as a 60-year-old Japanese woman.

There is no flow chart big enough to contain the Setsukeian art of table-setting.  Each floor cushion, you see, must have its zipper oriented in a very particular direction.  When serving, Kei-san must be served first, followed by me (as a man, natch), then Jenn, then Setsu-san last.  There is no room for fucking around on this point.  First, of course, food has to be offered for Buddha, small portions of whatever the family is eating, excepting meat or fish, as Buddha is vegetarian; after we've begun eating, then it's OK to eat Buddha's food (he's the forgiving sort, evidently).  Each dish must be arranged in such a way to make a pleasing geometric pattern at each table setting.

Against my better judgment, I started to rankle at all of this instruction.  I toiled in the field, I helped with dinner.  We barely do dishes more than twice a week at our own home.  What's wrong with just sitting down and eating your damn food?  A few bites of Setsu-san's cooking, though, and all was right with the world again.  We had finished dinner and the dishes by 8, and were asleep in our room by 8:30, conked out even before we could confer about how the day had gone or how we would get through another two weeks.  Which would win out, our gaijin openness to new experiences or our Amurican pig-headed individualism, our Puritan work ethic or our natural hippie laziness?

Return to Shikoku: (More Than One) Day in Photos

The last of the sakura, still blooming on Ommishima.

At the very top of that mountain, children, is the very site to which we pushed our bikes, the place where we weathered a storm and a crow took my goddamn gyoza.

We dined like kings on Ommishima, where the speciality is a kind of fish known in English as "convict grouper."  Bon appetit!

We did not take advantage of the Kaido's many offers of a cup of pee.

Strange omens, indeed.

The sign that graced every one of those bridges.  A pun of sorts.  That anguished boat became a familiar friend by the end of our trip.

Shimanami Kaido 3: If You Travel Far Enough, Sooner Or Later You'll Meet A Kiwi

The tent was full to bursting with the smell of unwashed cyclists.  The only speck of food that hadn’t yet been eaten (by us or by crows) was two packets of spicy mustard and three dozen teabags.  It was time to take our leave of this horrible place.

Also, by this point Harry really was starting to need a shower.

We made it back to sea level in distressingly little time and pried our fingers off the brakes just long enough to eat a massive lunch at a supermarket at the foot of the mountain.  Protip for those of you considering cycling in Japan: conbinis are extremely convenient (hence the name), but they will drain your wallet quickly and fill your stomach with food of questionable nutritional value.  Supermarkets are less plentiful, certainly, and less likely to have WiFi, but their bentos are typically cheaper and fresher than their 7-11 or Lawson equivalent.

Our bellies full, we hurried on, passing over Oshima, Hakatashima, Ommishima.  Each bridge was an exercise in frustration on the way up, with spiraling cycle paths steadily climbing into the troposphere.  Then, on the way down, no matter how tired we were, neither of us could resist saying “Wheeeeeeee.”

Found by the side of the road on Ikuchishima.  Almost assuredly a disused time machine.

Caution: Pumbaa.

We paused only to take photos or meals or breaks.  Before long, we found ourselves at another campsite, this one nestled in a coastal valley, unreachable by car.  There, we met some very rare creatures indeed: fellow cycle tourists.  Davide and Thijs (I dare you to guess which of these names is deemed acceptable by Autocorrect) had already started the party with a box of sake, and we joined in with our beer and instruments.  By the time it had grown dark, we four had a nabe party ending with Davide’s speciality, fire-grilled mochi, dipped in soy sauce and sugar.  We retired to the tent like kings: dead drunk.

The following morning, we rode the final leg of the Kaido, skipping over another island to take a look at mainland Honshu.  Unfortunately, contrary to our understanding of the whole “bicycle route” business, the only way to set foot on Honshu was to take a ferry across the final 50 meter canal.  We shook our fists at such an indignity and promptly turned back towards Shikoku, where we had purchased ferry tickets to take us back to Osaka four days hence.

We have nothing for you but ferocious selfies, Honshu.

On the way back, we passed by our campsite, which was still vigilantly guarded by the fierce Dinosaurus.

More Haps

We interrupt this wildly out-of-date account of our activities to bring you a more timely update:

I type this hundreds of kilometers and dozens of days from the Shimanami Kaido, hiding from the rain in a Lawson conbini somewhere in the mountains of Hyogo prefecture.  Since you've last heard from us, Jenn and I have done the Kaido up and down, caught a ferry back to Osaka, toiled on an organic farm for two weeks, and begun another bike trip.  Also, we've finally run the numbers on the Plan, and have since found a slight flaw in its design: we've run out of money a bit faster than we'd thought we might.  There are reasons for this, naturally, but for the purposes of space and ego, let's just write it off as "witchcraft."

So, rather than working for the summer in Korea to replenish our coffers (we've been informed that the job we'd been planning to return to won't have us back due to visa-related reasons), we've begun the process of applying for any job we can find in East Asia.  We've interviewed with kindergartens in Hong Kong, conversation schools in Vietnam, universities in Korea, and Disney-owned Mandatory English Fun Centers in China.  I think we're getting close to finding something, though, so most likely we'll be working somewhere in Korea from this July or August until the same time next year.  Which means, of course, that you all are in for another batch of teaching-related hijinx and/or escapades.  Hooray?

In short: biking and farming until June, then doing something in Korea, then working from July or August.  More info as it comes in, and blog posts about the farm and job interview process to follow.  A teaser:

Rough day on the farm.

Whoever this guy is, he seems excited about looking for a job.