Jenn and Harry Go to Hell (Again)

We panted, pushing our bikes up and up and up.  Surely we had traveled more vertical miles than horizontal ones by now.  I looked back: the road stretched dizzyingly far behind us.  If I dropped a bowling ball, it could have demolished a city (not that there were many cities around here, anyway).  The bike path had turned on us, transforming from a pacifically flat, perfectly-maintained bikes-only thoroughfare into a crumbling red stain on one edge of a highway, a suggestion to passing cars that there might be some cyclists about.  Our clothes were perpetually drenched with sweat, except when they were dry and crunchy.  Road grit had mixed with sweat and chain lube on our legs, making us look even more comically dirty than usual (imagine a Victorian street urchin crossed with Pig Pen from "Peanuts").  Implausibly, we were walking by what I can only assume was a manure factory: the stench of industrial-strength dung filled the air and poisoned every breath we took, sweat mixing with tears and rolling dirty, salty water down our faces.  Eventually, we passed a sign helpfully informing us that we were crawling up a 13% grade.  This, then, was hell.

Of course, we'd already been to a hell, but this mountain was the Hell.

Also, this Hell was a lot less whimsical than Beppu.  Though it did smell just as bad.

Up ahead, at what couldn't possibly be the top of the hill, two Korean cyclists plunged towards us at mach speed.  One of them whooped in excitement.  They smiled and waved to us, and we somehow mustered the energy for a weak thumbs-up.  If, as I've heard, the most popular activity in heaven is watching the suffering of the damned, then the most barbaric punishment in hell is surely the damned watching the saved watch them.

It was 5:30, already getting to be dark.  Under ideal circumstances, we would have already staked out a camping spot by this time, but as it was, we had no choice but to keep going; each free camping site poses its unique set of dangers, but "sleeping on a 13% grade" was one too far.  We rested, we pushed, we rested some more, at least as much as holding up an enormously heavy bike can be called "resting."  We were too tired to complain, too tired to curse.  We were even too tired, somehow, to talk about "Game of Thrones."

Somehow, the farther we got from the city (and all of the weekend riders whose taxes paid for the trail, no doubt), the more the trail started to fizzle into nothingness, becoming vague signposts and cracked blue lines that carried us onto tiny country roads, steering us past stooped old women working in their rice paddies who stared at us.  "Hey, we're as confused as you are, believe me," I thought at them.  We'd even been directed up another mountain earlier that day, which made this one more impossible.

Of course, with each successful mountain climbed, no matter how difficult the journey, come the twin joys of perseverance and oxygen deprivation. 

That was hours ago, and this mountain, this steep, crumbly, empty, stinky mountain wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.  Much like us.

At last, inevitably, we did make it to the top of the mountain, just as it was getting too dark to push on.  What awaited us there, apart from some very unimpressed-looking sport cyclists in electric-white lycra, was the tiniest of rest areas, a scant few square meters of wooden planks and bolted-down benches.  The prospect of camping on such a tiny spot filled us with apprehension.  Perhaps it would be best to push onward?  The bottom of the mountain might provide some green space, maybe even somewhere we could stake down our tent without being seen by every passing car?

As we considered, I felt an odd nagging feeling.  The dread worsened as I tried to puzzle it out.  Had I forgotten something?  I scratched my back, noticing that it was drier than usual, and then it hit me.

"Shit.  Shit.  Jenn?"

"Yeah?"

"I forgot my uke again."

We sat on the benches and thought it over, trying not to panic.  There would be no hopping on the subway to pick it up in a safely locked apartment.  Neither of us could remember if I had left it at the store where we stopped for instant ramen, on top of the mountain, or at our free campsite that morning.  At the latter two, it would almost assuredly be gone by now, taken by thieves, turned in to the police by well-meaning passersby, or stolen by crows (I wasn't ruling it out).

Then I had an idea.  I checked the photos we'd taken on the last mountaintop:

Why must I insist on wearing a T-shirt under my T-shirt?
Oh, wait, that's my pasty white flesh.

Sure enough, there it was, strapped to my back.  That means it must have been left behind at the strange little general store.  Which was, naturally, back down the mountain a ways.

There was nothing else for it.  There would be no climbing that mountain with all of our stuff again, so I had no choice but to unstrap everything, leave it in Jenn's capable hands, and fly back down the mountain, stuffless.  I tore down the asphalt, passing the sports cyclists who'd scoffed at us going the other way, and before long, I was at the bottom, pedaling madly along the riverside path.

Meanwhile, Jenn took photos of the mountains.

I tore down the gravel-strewn path, screeching to a stop at the odd picket fence that surrounded the store/restaurant/house.  Out of breath, I stumbled up to the door, where the curly-headed ajima who ran the place walked to the screen door, dangling the ukulele by its strap with one finger.  I thanked her profusely, using one of the four words of Korean I happened to know, then grunted back to my bike.  I checked the time: it had taken 10 minutes to retrieve the ukulele, where it had taken over an hour to climb that mountain.  I sighed deeply, trying to ignore the cramps in my calves.

I did make it back to the top, ultimately, just as it was definitely too dark to move on.  We cooked a quick meal of canned fish (for the fourth time in three days) and set up in the far corner of the shelter, hoping that our reflective tent surface wouldn't attract too much attention.  Where there's no grass, we're unable to stake down our tent, making the structure quiver with every toss and turn.  Every now and then a truck blew by, its lights growing brighter, its engine growing louder until it seemed right on top of our heads, then passing perhaps 10 feet by us.  If any of those trucks spotted us, I have no way of knowing, but we were uninterrupted for the night.

And Harry never left his ukulele behind again.  Ever.

In the morning, we had just enough water to make the last of our oatmeal for breakfast.  The steep hillside was covered in wild raspberry bushes, a few of which I harvested for the oatmeal.  We packed up and left just as our need for a bathroom became intolerable, and we barreled down the mountain to the next town just as the rain started to pour down.  There were definitely no camping spots anywhere past where we'd stopped for the night.

Pasar 3: Showtime

The appointed hour had come.  The accordion was found collecting dust at Pasar had been repaired, the cafe had been set up for business, we'd sent off our documents to apply for our work visa, and most importantly, the flag was finished.

Design by Jenn Thomas of Jenn Thomas from Jenn Thomas/Jenn Thomas, featuring Jenn Thomas

Modelled by Jenn Thomas

Under the full moon, Jenn and I set up our instruments on one of the three empty stages.  We'd spent the day rehearsing and dragging wooden furniture back and forth across the yard, finally determining the arrangement best suited to polite appreciation and/or dancing on tables.  By 7:00, nobody had turned up.  We started on the beers that we'd brought to share with our hosts.  By 7:30, the starting time for our concert, we were still alone and on our second beer.

Eventually, our audience arrived: a dozen or so married women from the neighborhood, bearing snacks and bottles of wine.  Fortunately, that didn't stop them from taking advantage of the Pasar Moon kitchen, which turned out curries and one delicious pizza after another.  Jenn and I took the stage for our first duo concert.  Under the circumstances, our old band's name, Raku 3, seemed inappropriate, so we went by Jenn's stage name, Jenny Dreadful.  It felt good to be performing again; after all, we'd carted our instruments around the previous 1,000 miles, so we might as well get some use out of them.

The show, sadly, was lackluster.  This was our first time performing in nearly a year, and though we'd spent the past few months jamming by the roadside, we weren't quite as polished as we would usually like.  The audience was pretty different from our usual crowd of friends appreciative old drunken bachelors, too, having turned up more to hang out with one another than to see us.  Still, we gave it our best go, and the contributions to our nagezen basket (literally, "thrown money") were generous, except for the person who gave us a wedge of cheese.  Despite the protests of Aki, who was oddly absent from this event except while we were playing, we deposited all of our takings right into Pasar's donation box.  He told us about how Pasar is meant to be a space to support artists and musicians, and that the usual policy was to comp all non-WWOOFing artists their room and board.  The money was ours, he insisted, not the venue's.  When he left to get a cigarette, we dropped the cash into the box; after all, we had just found a job, and places like Pasar need support themselves.

When all of the pizza had been eaten and our donations had been counted, Natsu stood before her friends and patrons to explain the bill situation.  From this year, she said, Pasar would not set any prices for its food or drinks, but would instead rely wholly on Love Donations.  Whatever the customer was moved to pay for what they received, that would be what they should pay.  If ever there is a customer who can't afford a dime, then their meal should be eaten with clear conscience.  "Japanese people are very bad at this because they're so shy," she had told us earlier, "but this is important to our idea of Pasar Moon."  They listened patiently, receptively (despite Aki's doubts) as she spoke, and when she finished, they all contributed heartily to the box.  More beer was opened in celebration, and we retired to our room to pack up our instruments.

As I flipped the lightswitch, I caught a glimpse of something dark and thin scuttle out from behind Jenn's pillow.  My heart sank, as I knew instinctively what it was.  I calmly put down the ukulele, told Jenn to step back, and screamed my little heart out: "Mukade!"

Attention, current or future mortal enemies: if you could just skip ahead to the picture of a ducky, that would be great.  See you there!

Centipedes are my greatest fear in the world, and are my persistent theological proof that we are not living in the best of all possible worlds (additional proofs involve the non-existence of a Spider-man or -men).  On the rare occasions in which I've encountered them, I've turned into a squealing, useless bag of slop (more than usual, even).  Fortunately, in this case, Natsu-san heard my cry and ran to the rescue with a cup of hot water and a set of tongs.  She plucked the foot-long, writhing black nightmare up and dropped it into the water, where it danced about in fury before falling into a very convincing faux-death.  As far as I know, it still lives at Pasar, feigning death and waiting for me to return.  She told me then that there had been several mukade spotted that day, one of them having stung Aki on the leg mere hours before.  Perhaps it had something to do with the full moon, she suggested.  Maybe they just didn't like the show.

We took what was left of our beers into the living room, leaving the party to collect our thoughts.  Jenn rubbed my back and reassured me that that was probably the last centipede anywhere in the whole world, and that there was no chance of another one living under my pillow and waiting until we fell asleep to lay eggs in my eyeballs.  Natsu came to find us before too long, and saw me in a daze.

"Are you in shock?" she asked.  I nodded limply, and explained that I would probably be unable to sleep that night or any other night.  She nodded back solemnly. "OK, let's get drunk.  Do you drink tequila?"  

We spent the next hour or so trading recipes for tequila shots and discussing our lives.  What we spoke of I won't reveal here, suffice to say how stricken I was for the first time at the appropriateness of their names ("Natsu" meaning "summer," "Aki" meaning "autumn"; Natsu is in her thirties, Aki in his fifties).  If there were any other mukade that night, I didn't notice; Natsu's home remedy was extremely effective.

Hyogo 2: Move Along

It had only been five days on the road, but we were beginning to get worn down.  We'd gone a wildly unimpressive number of kilometers so far, having met difficulties in the forms of hills, mountains, slopes, climbs, and rain.  Typically, after three days of biking, no matter how short the distance covered, our bodies start to complain more loudly than usual.  After four, important organs start shutting down.  After five, our morale dropped to zombie-like levels.  It was time for a rest.

This stuff will wear you out.

The day before had been particularly hard on us.  The nearest park was still many kilometers ahead over uncertain terrain, and the sun was starting to set.  The rain clouds started to gather above the sleepy town of Tamba, which lessened our resolve even further.  Surely we couldn't pay for a hotel room just four short days into our trip?  How would we afford to continue our travels until a job came through for us in August or September?  Gritting our teeth and trying to ignore the raindrops that fogged up our glasses, we made it to a conbini at the edge of town, a Lawson that offers the blessed tonic that is Free WiFi.  In my e-mail inbox, we discovered an urgent missive from one of the many stinging jellyfish job recruiters (I always get those confused somehow) that we'd gotten to help in our job hunt in Korea.  The e-mail explained that we'd landed a Skype interview with a prestigious academy in Seoul, but the only time it could be conducted was the following morning at 10 a.m..  Which meant that we had three options: we could ask to reschedule the interview for a later date, we could free camp nearby and conduct our interview in a conbini parking lot over a questionable internet connection...or we could pass a restful evening in a local hotel room and be showered and dressed for our interview.  The course seemed clear.  We fired off an enthusiastic confirmation to the jellyfish, then happily turned around and pedaled back into town in search of a hotel.  The Travel Gods seemed to be giving us the go-ahead, paving the way back to downtown Tamba with rainbows.

We paid the shockingly high hotel bill (about $130), then tried to console ourselves by catching up on our Game of Thrones and beer drinking.  The next morning, we were showered, polished, caffeinated, and prepped for our interview.

The shower was probably a good idea.

The recruiter sent us a confirmation early in the morning, and when 10:00 rolled around, we were signed into Skype and ready to kiss some ass.  By 10:30, we had started to grow restless, especially since we were already half an hour late for the hotel's check-out time.  We e-mailed our jellyfish and the school, explaining that we were ready to begin whenever they were.  More coffee cups were filled and emptied.  By 10:45, there was still no answer from anybody.  A few more desperate messages explaining the need for haste.

Harry started to get this expression again.

At 11:10, we could wait no longer, and frantically tore off our work clothes, packed our bags, and fled before we could be charged more money by the hotel.  We cursed the unprofessionalism of all parties involved and wondered how we could have so misinterpreted the universe's premonitions.  By the time we got back to the same fateful Lawson where all this had started, we had received an e-mail from the jellyfish.  He explained that he had set up our interview time without actually getting word from the school that the time he proposed would work for them in any way; he apologized, and asked if we could be ready the next morning at the same time.

This was the spirit that we carried with us as we pushed through the mountains of Hyogo.  Unrested, uneasy (but not unwashed, for a change), we made our way to an athletic park for a long lunch and a nap.

Thoroughly discouraged at how the day had gone, we decided to camp at a campground that Google promised us was just a few kilometers further, a place called 丹波少年自然の家.  We found the place with no problems, and we were ready for a good rest there.  It was a forest that had been converted into a campground and family recreation area, the kind of place where a school might take its students on an overnight trip.  There were rivers, fire pits, cabins, and extremely well-maintained kitchen areas and toilets.  Best of all, it was completely devoid of other customers.  Perhaps we could take a rest day here on the following day, even!

I made a good faith effort to register us at the camp office, but found all of the buildings suspiciously dark.  There did seem to be one office that was in business, with office ladies typing away at something, but considering how closed-looking everything was, I figured it would be best to make as little noise as possible, figuring that it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.  As I hiked back to the tent sites where Jenn was watching our bikes, I watched in horror as a gang of ducks pursued and apparently raped a female duck that was waddling away from them as quick as she could, quacking in terror.  Ominous portents, to be sure, but I tried to pay them no mind.

By the time we had gotten our bags off of the bikes, a light truck pulled up and two Japanese men with clipboards approached us.  We smiled and greeted them even as our stomachs sank.

"Why didn't you come to the office and register?" one of the men asked.

Against my better judgment, my temper flared.  "I did, but nobody was there," I half-lied.

"Not the office right here, the one by the river."

"I did go there, but I didn't see anybody."  My mind flew back to the previous day, when a hotel clerk had fallen all over himself explaining how his hotel really wasn't suitable for us, that the other hotel in town was much better and we'd be much happier there.  I thought of all of the officials who'd just made the "no" sign rather than try speaking to me.  I got my gaijin up, in short.

"You can't camp here," one of them explained.

"What, really?"

"Yes.  We're closed, you can't camp here."

"Why was the gate open?  Why isn't it posted anywhere that you're not open?" I protested.  Jenn urged me to leave it alone, but I persisted, pigheadedly.  "There's all of this space, why can't we just set up here?  We'd pay, of course."

They both shook their heads.  I huffed and puffed, then petulantly asked if they knew of any other campgrounds in the area where our money would be more welcome.  They both pretended to think just long enough for us to give up and start packing up again.

Anger fueled us for another fifteen kilometers.  We railed against the stupidity of spending a fortune converting perfectly good forest into a campground, paying a staff of dozens to maintain it and keep the electricity running, then keeping away paying customers.  We could come up with few explanations other than out-and-out racism, figuring that a young Japanese couple would probably not be turned away so roughly (but then, a young Japanese couple probably wouldn't try it in the first place, nor would they act so belligerent when confronted).  Clearly it was a mistake to try to camp at an officially-sanctioned site in Japan; it was much better to break the law and camp in a city park.  Even if a campsite would lose money by turning us away, a much greater infraction would be asking one of the staff to overlook the rules by allowing us to stay.

We did find another park to camp, one much farther up the road.  It, too, was clearly closed for business, but it seemed much more abandoned than the last, the weeds grown over its benches and gazebos.  We set up in a gravel lot as the sun went down, hoping that the glowing eyes we saw in the woods were not bears but tanooki, and well-fed ones at that.

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.