takeshi21

A friend recently asked me to tell her about my happiest memories. It was an odd request, if only because I don't often take the time to make lists like this. But I wanted to provide an earnest reply and began writing for myself some of these recollections. Now I'd like to share one of them with you.

Summer, 1986. Kobe, Japan.

I lived nearly two months of that summer in Japan with my grandparents, Tatsuro and Yoshie, known to me as To-san (grampa) and Baba (nana). I spent many days building and painting complex models that my overly generous grandparents bought for me at the local toy store, located only blocks from their home. I delightfully discovered that the Japanese have no compunction about publishing photographs of topless models in Babas fashion magazines or even on the sides of Coca-Cola vending machines. Though I was considered too old, I still captured cicadas in the local parks and kept them in green plastic cages, a summer pastime for young Japanese children.

I hiked with To-san up the side of Futatabi-san, the tall green mountain overlooking Kobe and its bustling port. We began by traversing the narrow city streets that led, mostly in grid-like fashion, to the base of the mountain. Wed pass cafes and restaurants that displayed plasticized renditions of their foods and desserts in their windows, as is common in Japan. Along the way were built a handful of Shinto shrines, small boxes sitting atop three foot high granite pedestals, which presumably contained little statuettes of deities; I could never be certain since I was strictly forbidden from peeking within the small shrine doors.

Up the steep road that led to a childrens park filled with jungle gyms, monkey bars, a pirate ship, and a long, concrete slide that seemed to plummet for hundreds of feet down the mountainside. From there, only dirt paths continued further into the dense forest. I was certain that the surrounding old-growth vegetation was a veritable breeding ground for ghoul and spirit inhabitants, fascinating yet terrifying because they couldnt be categorized by my American mind.

Only a twenty minute hike further up the mountain uncovers an ironic wonder of technology obsessed Japan, a large, centuries-old Shinto shrine built right against the edge of cosmopolitan Kobe. The reveal is impressive; steep, myriad stairs must first be summitted, literally taking your breath away by the time the edifice can be seen. The last several yards visitors pass through the tall, distinctive gateway called torii, constructed of heavy timber and painted a deep orange and black, opening at last to a courtyard, the shrine, and a basin of water.

Rarely, if ever, did I actually see any monks, although evidence of their immense care and handiwork was everywhere. Railings dusted. Leaves raked. Soil groomed. Bushes trimmed. Floors polished. An unattributable serenity pervading everything. And, really, even as a kid of eleven, the peace here was as tangible as the bamboo growth that surrounded me. I could reach out and run my hands through it.

The shrine itself, also painted orange and black, consisted only of three main walls, the facing wall being absent as to provide a view of the inner sanctum, or haiden. It is as easy to describe these shrines to the uninitiated as it would be to paint a picture of a cathedral to a blind person. But this particular one was adorned with gold painted inlays in floral pattern along supporting beams, paper offerings left by devotees, and paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. Although the main room was set in the darkness of the shrine and forest, it was lit by a handful of indeterminable light sources which cast eerie shadows reminiscent of a film noir movie set.

The water basin is a curious fixture, provided for worshippers to wash their hands and mouths before entering the temple proper. It was square in shape, constructed of stone, and shallow. Water could be drawn using a copper cup that had been affixed to the end of a bamboo handle. As an adult, I cant begin to guess the source of the water, where it drained, or how it was recycled, but the mystery is completely in keeping with everything else vastly unknown to me about this holy place.

Pressing still further up the side of Futatabi-san, now at least half an hour hike from its base, the dirt trail eventually spits travelers onto a small plateau that offers a panoramic view of the city. Kobe is home to one of the worlds busiest sea ports, first as an American naval base in the wake of the Second World War, and later a bustling commercial destination for merchants from around the globe. The city is very long but narrow, perhaps less than two miles wide, sandwiched between blue sea and verdant mountains that rise precipitously skywards, the product of Japans volcanic Ring of Fire.

Just off the coast sits the island of Awaji, longtime home to a community of fishermen and the place of Babas birth. It was also from this island that To-san watched American B-29 bombers incinerate the city of Kobe while he recovered from injuries sustained when his transport ship was torpedoed and destroyed, en route to his assignment at a military factory in Java. Today, the worlds longest suspension bridge spans the passage between the island and mainland, a two-and-one-half mile long feat of modern engineering.

From the vantage of this plateau, the mountain trail turns away from the city view and begins to wind its way around to the backside of Futatabi-san. Visitors become more scarce, the trail becomes less maintained, foliage becomes more dense. Its within this in-between place where civilization begins to yield to the wilds of the mountain. On more than one occasion, To-san and I spied a furtive fox leaping into dense undergrowth, a wild predatory cat slinking away hastily, and even wild boar the size of a horse, albeit with much shorter legs, standing directly in the middle of the path, obstructing further progress.

After hiking another fifteen minutes, a small but paved road meets up about thirty feet below the trail, serving as the last link to the outside world for the people who live in this secluded place. By the road stood a few dilapidated houses that seem to have existed there forever, although corrugated tin roofs and concrete sewage fixtures belie such notions. The trail eventually joins the road at its terminal point, a place where a small grouping of houses were built along with a noodle shop that offers rewards of home cooked Japanese meals to those curious enough to traverse into the mountain interior. To-san would take me here to hunt for freshwater kane, crabs that lived in a stream which ran through the little hamlet, tiny creatures not much bigger than the small of your palm. Afterwards, we would trudge up to the noodle shop for lunch were I would be treated to orange Fanta served from a glass bottle and a delicious bowl of soba noodles, a prize for the efforts of the day.

And this was always the final destination of my hikes with To-san. He would chat with the owners of the establishment who responded with the leisurely banter of long-time friends. He would tell me fantastic folk tales about the spirits and creatures that inhabited the depths of these woods. All around us cicadas cried out in a rhythmic meem meem meem meeeeeema Japanese dialect peculiar to these vocal insects. The humid air buzzed with the warmth of summer. This moment of bliss seemed it would never end.