Man Down in Miyazaki

November 13, 2019

“So, say you’re an omnipotent superhero,” he started, “and Country A and Country B launch nukes at each other. You throw those nukes into orbit so they don’t hit anything, but you can still use them. How would you punish Country A and Country B?”

“Well, why do they hate each other?” I said.

“Does it matter? They just do.”

“Well, yeah, it does. If it’s based on race or religion, I’d make it so people in Country A and Country B couldn’t tell someone’s race or religion,” I said.

“Look,” he said, the way people do when you tell them you’d save the bulk of a hypothetical $10 million lottery win, as if that’s not a completely reasonable answer, “I know you’re a good person, but you have to punish these people.”

“Mmm,” I said, around a mouthful of fries, “okay.”

He looked at me, waiting for a response.

“I’m thinking,” I said, to buy some more time to absorb my incredulity at being described as a good person. Like someone caught red-handed trying to pass off the suspicious conduct as casual and definitely not what it actually is, I feigned deep thought as I mentally tucked away the answer to the question of how fast I would have sold him out earlier in the day, had we gotten in trouble.

That particular conversation had taken place in a McDonald’s in Miyazaki after well-laid travel plans had unraveled into another misadventure. Our initial itinerary had us out of the hotel in Kumamoto by 8 a.m. and at Takachiho Gorge by 9 a.m., where the boat rentals started at 8:30. We’d then planned to covertly fly Jwizzle’s drone through the gorge before driving down to Hyuga to see the Sea-Cross, Ryugo Udo Shrine, and Umagase.

We’d arrived just past 8:30 a.m., which meant that we had to park in a second parking lot farther away from the gorge. From that parking lot, there’s a 10-minute scenic walk through the gorge which was largely empty when we wandered through. Despite arriving at the boat dock around 8:45 a.m., there was already a 60-meter long line for the boats. We were able to get a reservation with an hour-long wait. As we browsed the gift shop in the meantime, the lady behind the counter told us that the boat rentals had been closed all summer due to heavy rain. The timing of our visit was apparently fortuitous.

An hour later, we were on a rowboat with a thirty-minute time limit. We struggle-rowed through the relatively narrow gorge as I quickly discovered that actually rowing a boat is not nearly as easy as operating a rowing machine. With approximately twelve boats in the water at once, there was a lot of gentle bumping and jostling in the water, all of us awkwardly yet politely trying to navigate towards a good spot for a unique photograph. As we neared the waterfall, I contorted myself into different positions to take the kind of pictures that are the métier of unappreciated boyfriends of Instagram-famous women. I hit the shutter button as a ray of sunlight lit the base of the waterfall and felt a surge of validation and pride. It was met with a tepid response.

View from the bridge at Takachiho Gorge.

Approximately 500 pictures later, we hustled back to shore, returned our life vests and climbed back towards the road overlooking the gorge. There, we found a brief stretch of asphalt where Jwizzle could discreetly launch his drone; as he manipulated the console, I stood by casually, shielding eyes from what we were actually doing and stealing glances at his phone screen.

And then we dropped the drone.

Jwizzle’s phone screen suddenly went blank and a brief second later, his drone had decided to descend onto a rock approximately 20 meters away from the waterfall. In a panic, he shoved his dead phone at me and took off running. I lost him at a fork in the road and accidentally headed towards the parking lot. 15 minutes later, finding an empty car, I weaved my way back through an increasingly dense crowd of Chinese tourists and found him agitated yet slightly relieved. The drone wasn’t in the water, but we’d have to get on a boat to get it back. I was sweating profusely.

man down in miyazaki - takachiko gorge 6.jpg

By the time we signed up for another boat, it was already late morning and there was a 2.5 hour wait time. We killed time by losing each other again, necessitating yet another trip through the gorge to the parking lot and back. I offered to claim ownership of the drone and ask the boat operators to recover it, but that was quickly rejected. We waited near the boat dock, anxious, when a boat operator suddenly took off through the gorge on a motor boat. He came back a few minutes later with the damp drone, which we finally claimed before hauling ass out of the area.

With a key member of our team drying (and possibly, dying) in the back seat, we headed east towards Hyuga. Our first stop was the Ryugo Udo Shrine which required getting lost (again) through a winding, wooded path that climbed up before descending down towards the shore. As we neared the mouth of the cave where Ryugo Udo Shrine is located, a sign loudly cautioned us that the path would be steep. We confirmed the veracity of that statement upon arriving at the last ten steps to the cave, which consisted of a pile of wet rocks that vaguely resembled stairs.

Still, we managed to make it down to a gorgeous view. They say you can see a dragon rising if you look out towards the mouth of the cave from the shrine. I apparently lacked the imagination to see that particular beast, but it definitely paralleled my mental image of the empty sack that was my shrunken stomach.

Having foolishly decided that this was the day to break my addiction to Coke, I’d subsisted on water and mints for the past 6 hours. After the delay due a dropped drone, we were in a rush to get to Hyuga before the sun set. We scrambled out of the cave where Ryugo Udo Shrine is located and a short drive took us to the Sea Cross, a cross-shaped coastal inlet. It’s a naturally occurring seascape that’s impressive on its own, but someone clever in the tourism industry apparently also noticed that the inlet can look like the Japanese character for 叶う, which means when something, like a wish or desire, has been granted. To add to the hyped romanticism of the locale, there’s a large bell that’s been installed where one – or more probably, couples – can make their wishes. Jwizzle clanged it loudly and unceremoniously and my plea for chicken nuggets apparently went unheard.

At this point, I had no idea where we were headed next. We were on the eastern edge of Miyazaki, traveling along wooded roads devoid of convenience stores or any other source of nourishment. A short drive from the Sea Cross took us to Umagase, where we could see the vertical rock formations of the cliffs reach out towards the sea. We followed the signs to two viewpoints, the last which took us down to a point overlooking the shore where we peered over the edge and watched the waves crash against the rocks. The view was incredible. I thought of meringue and Mallomars.

A couple hours later, I learned there was a god as Jwizzle pulled into a McDonald’s and we ordered and inhaled 2,000 yen worth of food. I would regret it later as we watched South Africa beat Japan in the Rugby World Cup and the McDonald’s burps would plague me until, exhausted, we pulled into a service area to sleep for a few hours before finally making it back to the hotel. Once horizontal, I had a second to muse over the fact that Jwizzle somehow believed screwing with two entire country’s worth of people’s psychology wasn’t a punishment, and fell fast asleep.

TL;DR – I Just Want Travel Tips Section

- Get to Takachiho early. We arrived at 8:45 and still had to wait an hour; by late morning the boat rentals were done for the day and there was a 3+ hour wait. You can check the status of boat rentals here. If there’s been a stretch of heavy rain or bad weather, the boat rentals may not be available when you visit.

man down in miyazaki - takachiho boat sign.jpg

- Cape Hyuga (where the Sea Cross, Umagase, and Ryugo Udo Shrine are located) was relatively deserted when we went, but they’re worth a visit. You’ll want to rent a car to get to these spots.

Mt. Fuji is No Basic Bitch, or, How I Didn't Pee for 15 Hours

October 9, 2019

It is 3 a.m. and I am on a 45-degree slope that has lasted approximately five hours and won’t end. My thighs are wrung out and heavy. I have miraculously not yet lost my shit. Nor have I peed in the last five hours. I eventually will hold it in for a further ten.

That morning, the plan had been to climb Mt. Fuji via the Gotemba trial on the southeast side of the mountain. It’s the longest route to the top, with the trailhead located at 1400 meters above sea level, and it’s also the least popular. The ascent has been described as a “gentle” slope, which seemed more reassuring given that we would be climbing in the off-season, when the mountain and all the huts along the way are officially closed. With an unseasonably warm weekend coming up, it was our last chance to climb to the summit this year. Suddenly I was packing a bag with borrowed gear and pulling out my base layers. Because, how bad could it really be?

According to my parents, I was going to die. “Rocks will come flying at you,” my mother said. I wasn’t sure what that meant. “Bring your bike helmet,” she insisted.

This contradicted what I’d heard of Mt. Fuji: essentially, that it’s the basic bitch of mountains. Mt. Fuji is accessible enough from Tokyo to have become a tourist attraction; a heavily Instagram-ed, bucket list item that appears to be easily conquered by the “reasonably fit.” Online, the climb is described as a boring, non-technical ascent, almost like it could be done with a bottle of water and yoga pants.

That characterization is misleading. Temperatures at the summit can fall to below freezing, which is a terrifying concept if you’re the type of person who considers anything below 24C, “cold.” I layered almost every cold-weather item I had from commuting to law school on a bike through Boston winters, and borrowed an Arc’teryx coat from my mother. I looked like I was prepared to climb Everest. Come what may, I was at least dressed to survive.

Unfortunately, although I had realized that I could freeze to death, I failed to take into account several factors, such as the route being largely unmarked, the length of the trail, and the large elevation gain. We started our climb from the Gotemba fifth station at around 10:30 p.m., two hours later than planned, but figured we’d make good time on the trail.

“It better not be like this all the way up,” Jwizzle joked within the first half hour. I’d laughed in response. We would eat those words.

With one headlight between us and no trail markers, we would later learn that we’d veered off the trail onto a path for whatever tanks they use to climb the side of mountains. After an hour, we were climbing a 45-degree slope. After another three hours, the soft, volcanic sand had sucked the strength out of my legs. On a much-needed break, I sat back and stared at the stars, which speckled the sky in varying degrees of brightness, like how I imagine my skin looks if examined under those skin analysis machines that show you exactly how shitty your complexion is. I kinda needed to pee.

The thing is, we were essentially in Mordor. There is no cover on Mt Fuji. It’s a barren landscape of volcanic ash and the occasional rock that is no bigger than a medium-sized dog. Ascended in the dark, every marker pole becomes a promise of some sort of turning point, before reality sets in and it breaks your soul. And then there’s the dust. Frodo may have been traveling with an anorexic suffering from a personality disorder, but at least he didn’t have volcanic ash blowing into his face the entire way.

By the time I started questioning whether I was going to get black lung, turning back wasn’t an option. We were still battling towards the 8th station when the sun came up, stretching its rays across the lakes below. The light gave me a little boost of hope and optimism. It lasted about five minutes before my legs were back to screaming and I was deliriously chanting the chorus to Joe Dassin’s “Les Champs-Elysees” in my head.

Luckily, whatever path we were on intersected the real trail near the 8th station. The landscape changed from Mordor to Mars, the soft sand turning into large volcanic rocks and puddles of pebbles, the trail now a sadistic scribble of switchbacks. I heaved myself over unstable rocks, running on fumes and determination. That French chorus quickly became my only companion as I started to seriously lag behind. Every few switchbacks, I could see Jwizzle waiting for me to catch up.

“You don’t have to wait,” I gasped unconvincingly, “I’ll be fine.”

It only dawned on me later that he was most likely waiting because he didn’t want a dead body – or the responsibility of being associated with one found on the side of a mountain – impeding his descent. At this point, although there were large enough rocks to sneak behind to pee, we started to see other hikers, both above and below us. This was enough of a deterrent; the last thing I wanted to do was to subject several Japanese mountain climbers to the sight of my bare butt. It was also cold. Cold enough that I didn’t know if I’d be able to warm up again if I exposed more than my face to the elements. I checked in with my bladder and reassessed my priorities. Peeing could wait.

We reached the summit a long, hard five hours after arriving at the 8th station. Near the rim of that volcanic crater, we ate a snack and I curled up against my backpack. I closed my eyes ready to jump into unconsciousness, fully aware that this is most likely how people die of exposure and/or freeze to death. I wondered where the helicopter would land to pick up my dead body.

I felt a small pang in my gut and I opened my eyes. I was okay with the embarrassment of dying on the side of a mountain, but the idea of being found dead in a puddle of my own urine roused me from any chance of sleep/death. Because if I had to go, I’d strongly prefer it wasn’t with a full bladder. I drummed my fists against my dead thighs and prepared to get off the mountain.

Since we had wandered down the scenic route, it had taken us a total of twelve hours to climb to the top. It would take us a laughably easy three to descent. Once we scrambled down the web of switchbacks, the rest of the route is made of deep, soft volcanic sand that’s referred to as “the sand slide.” We were able to almost jog down, the sand cushioning the impact you’d usually feel on the walk down a mountainside. Back at the trailhead, I made a beeline for a bathroom that smelled like a damp corner of Paris in the summer. It was probably worse than the alternative, but at least I didn’t have to worry about volcanic sand getting into my underwear.

A couple hours later, I emptied about four tablespoons of ash and small rocks from my shoes into a hotel trashcan. After a shower I only got out of so I could lie down, I dozed off to Japan stunning the world by beating Ireland in the Rugby World Cup, and dreamed of toilets.

[Some of the photographs in this post were taken with an expired disposable film camera.]

Unplugging at the Sanja Festival

May 23, 2017

I probably spend what would be defined as an unhealthy amount of time on the Internet for someone who is not a tween. With most of my friends living outside Japan, a career as a freelance writer with clients in the U.S., and a preference for reading the news in English, I am always well connected.

It’s not a bad thing in itself, but spend enough time on the Internet and you’ll eventually find some appalling stuff. Recently, a few curious clicks led me to a widely read forum for foreigners for Tokyo and their relationship advice. Of course, this was going to be bad, but given that I consciously choose to spend my time watching true crime shows, I am, by nature, morbidly curious. I kept reading.

There’s a strange fetishization of white male foreigners here in Japan, which places them in somewhat high demand, regardless of physical attractiveness or the ability to be interesting. As a non-white, foreign, male co-worker once described it, certain women seem to want to live out a fantasy of having a white, "exotic," boyfriend, based on information and stereotypes gleaned from Hollywood chick flicks, and white foreign men seem only too happy to oblige. So it wasn’t that much of a surprise to read a poster saying:

“…[W]hat she really wants is this funny athletic white guys attention and love for a day or maybe the weekend or more. And if she doesn’t, who cares, theres ten more out there that do…” [All typos and spelling errors from the original.]

I know. I shouldn’t be surprised. The last time I made the mistake of hooking up with a guy here, he mentioned my “great English,” which was almost as offensive as his attempts at sex which bordered on the truly horrendous. The reminder of how disposable women seem to the English-speaking guys here was the final straw in a shitty week that was at least entertaining when Trump was involved, but not so much when you realize that your potential dating pool is full of dicks.

As if sensing the impending doom and gloom, my sister texted me last Saturday about checking out the Sanja Matsuri in Asakusa. It’s a huge festival that features neighborhood mikoshis – large, portable altars – hoisted along the main road of Asakusa Shrine. It’s a three-day event, with the purification ceremony taking place on Saturday. Mikoshi were transported to the shrine, raised up as it was purified, then carried back to its neighborhood. It may sound zen, except that it’s built a reputation as an event at which yakuza show off their tattoos with pride.

We were, admittedly, looking for yakuza, but found out later that the tattoo-baring took place on Sunday. Despite the fact that we missed out on the tattoos, the event is like a textile designer’s dream. Every neighborhood has its own unique happi, a short-sleeved garment worn at festivals, which boasts its own crest, design, and colors.

The energy of the event was palpable as the heavy mikoshi swayed one way, then another. Each neighborhood team set up a human wall to control the lurching, as those carrying the mikoshi shouted out a rhythm. A predominantly working-class neighborhood, the men were bigger and burlier than most you’d see in Tokyo and the strength and energy required to transport the mikoshi – one usually requires forty people to lift it up – are impressive.

The irony of escaping from the disgust from reading a forum for foreigners at a Japanese traditional festival isn’t lost on me. As a third culture kid, I live in a space where everything seems a bit off and strange, where nothing quite fits. Where you’re stuck looking one way but identifying as another. Where you end up living online because you can’t begin to relate to most of the people around you. And where, apparently, when one culture disappoints, you end up seeking some sort of cleansing effect in another.

Yesterday, walking home from the gym, thinking about living in Japan, a rap song from long ago, made for a yakuza movie, began to play in my head. Along with lyrics about violence and social ostracization, there were two lines in particular that I had always liked, that had always replayed in my head.

“tteyuuka,” he sang, “yononaka naseba naru.”

It’s a Japanese proverb that translates literally to “if you take action, it will become.” And while I may not be making best friends here any time soon, or plunging back into the dismal dating pool that is Tokyo, or feeling less like an alien, maybe, having a good day here – unplugged – isn’t all that impossible.

Instagram's #MyStory Event

December 14, 2016

Instagram Japan was kind enough to include me in their #MyStory event, which focuses on stories by female Instagram community members. Fifteen Japanese women were featured, and Instagram Japan threw one awesome reception party last night.

Thank you, Instagram Japan, for letting me participate in this event! It was awesome to see my work on display!

mean girls

May 23, 2013

I once briefly dated a guy who was too concerned about being perceived as nice to actually be interesting. “I’m not going to encourage that,” he’d say to a snarky but harmless joke. “Encourage what?” I was always tempted to ask, “having a sense of humor?” Thankfully, it didn't last long, but essentially being called heartless bothered me a little.

I took this as a sign that I actually have a heart, despite the fact that friends have never quite called me nice. "You're one of the most loyal friends I have," my best friend once said, but "nice" was outside the bounds of my charming, pitbull-like attributes. I like to tell myself that biting sarcasm and an inability to hold my tongue make me interesting [or at least not boring]. That feeling that I should be nice[r], though, has a tendency to harsh my asshole vibe.
Being a [M]asshole was fine while living in Boston, but this feeling that I am ignorant of the fundamental concept of how to be nice returned once I moved back to Japan. I had finally found gainful employment, and one of the first things I did was nearly crush a secretary between the elevator doors. With about three other people watching. In the extremely awkward minute that followed, I got hosed down with shocked looks, before the three remaning secretaries arrived at their floor. They all made it a point to cringe a little on their way out, as if I'd pushed the "close doors" button on purpose and was eagerly waiting for the opportunity to do it again.

Which really didn't seem fair, because if I wanted to kill a secretary, I wouldn't use anything as ineffecient and unreliable as an elevator door. Please. Even a pedal wrench would be more effective than that.
This is probably where you expect me to say that the bike has made me this way. Fortunate enough to have been appropriately hazed by boyfriends who rode better, it would be easy to say that getting gears and getting dropped had a Black Swan effect to my ordinarily nice [that word again!] and delightful personality. If I'm honest, I suspect the opposite to be true. It's not what initially attracted me, but I keep coming back to the bike because I believe it sometimes ~~requires~~ allows me to be mean. And any sport that encourages stabbing the part of me that wants to be spinelessly polite while snarling, "it's my turn, now" has my full, undivided commitment.

The hitch is that - with a few exceptions - most cyclists I've met are noticebly nicer than I am. Maybe it's not so much that cycling requires a mean streak as it is that it requires the resolve to never shrink back from the things that are thrown your way. When you're already gagging on social demands to be less abrasive, that almost-aggressive [Bouhanni-like] assertiveness can bleed into the rest of your life, like tan lines in December.

So it wasn't the hazing boyfriends, but the bikes I'm blaming for having to re-learn docile submission of the Japanese variety. And as I found out the hard way, company elevators are no place to be belligerent or bold.
These days, I'm well-versed in the dance that I refer to as the "Elevator Fight." I race any other women present to push the "open doors" button before we even arrive at the ground floor and insist, quietly and politely, that everyone leave before me. The attorneys don't mind, but the secretaries can put up a bit of a fight. Sometimes they win, other times, I stubbornly insist on my subordinate status and make them exit the elevator before I do. It's still a learning process.

Last night, at the end of my shift, I slipped into an empty elevator and crossed my fingers that the car would slide smoothly and without stopping, all the way to the first floor. It did and I walked out, shoulders hunched forward like I always do on the bike, but with a confident step. The secretaries might have escaped any unfortunate elevator accidents that day, but my mean streak was already giggling gleefully at the thought of tomorrow morning's intervals.

weekend in pictures: jan. 21-22

January 23, 2012

Sadly no cycling this past weekend as but there was a visit to Fujiyoshida, near Mt. Fuji. There was coffee, snow, mountaineers, Mt. Fuji-themed cookies and rice balls, Blueberry Cheesecake Kit Kats, and funky trains.

Hope you guys had a great weekend!

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