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.

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.