Hitching Rides with Buddha: A Journey Across Japan

by Ferguson, Will

  The pine trees we passed had been shaped by the wind, forming a forest of gentle curves, and even the sandspit itself, while appearing straight, arced slightly. Framed by the banks on either side, the entire Bridge of Heaven forms a long, languid S shape. It is one of Japan’s “Three Most-Scenic Spots,” as ranked by tradition and tourist board promotions.

  A research team from Meiji University spent several years analyzing the site. The scientists studied infrared images of the landscape, and a newspaper report—without the slightest hint of irony—made the following proclamation: “Using photographic computer analysis, researchers have succeeded in isolating the specific elements of beauty that compose Japan’s most scenic locations … They have discovered that the famous white sands and blue pine trees of the Bridge of Heaven are relatively minor features of the view. A scientific breakdown shows that pine trees compose just 8.2 percent of the overall picture and the sandy beach a mere 0.4 percent. Sky, on the other hand, is more prominent, taking up 31 percent of the scene. Mountains make up 23 percent.” (Who says you can’t put a number on beauty?)

  “There are two Bridges of Heaven,” said Mr. Ito. “One that you ride through and another that you see from above. The two views are completely different.”

  “And you look through your legs,” said Mrs. Ito. “Shall we go?”

  I had heard about this. The proper way to view the Bridge of Heaven was to climb a mountain and then turn around, bend over, and look at it from between your knees. With your head upside down and your senses disoriented, the effect was said to make the bridge seem to float in air. I couldn’t wait to see, first-hand, Japanese tourists striking these ungainly poses.

  The brochure went one better and had a picture of a cute Japanese girl in a miniskirt bent over, smiling to the camera from between her legs. Directly above her derrière were the proud words: One of the Three Natural Wonders of Japan. Another pamphlet urged visitors to “enjoy the beautiful view between your legs,” and the local tourist souvenir is a wooden carving of a very flexible man who appears to be attempting self-inflicted fellatio. He looked more like a novelty act in a burlesque show than a nature lover, but Mrs. Ito bought one for me, insisting that the man was, in fact, “contemplating the Bridge of Heaven.”

  A chairlift took us up to the viewing platforms at Kasamatsu Park and, sure enough, standing on special “looking-between-your-legs” platforms, a group of sightseers filed through, bending over and admiring the view. I did the same and, yes, the bridge did kind of, sort of, almost float, but it wasn’t really worth the embarrassment and dizzying head-rush that followed. I suspect the whole idea was dreamt up by bored locals. “These tourists are so gullible, I bet we could get them to kiss their own ass. I bet we could make them stand in line to kiss their own ass.”

  Having viewed the Bridge of Heaven (which, by my estimation, composed 8.9 percent of the beauty and not 8.2 percent as reported), we drove back around the bay to find an inn. The Itos had adopted me with the paternal instinct and affection that couples often get once their own children have grown up. I think Mrs. Ito liked me because I seemed a little devilish; she liked storms and adventures and bad boys. We dined in the hotel restaurant, overlooking the view and enjoying a meal that must have cost a small fortune, but the Itos waved away my proffered wallet. “You are our guest.” “A friend.” “A very nice boy.” We talked until nightfall, and the lights of the bay glimmered across the water. The Bridge of Heaven was now a silhouette and the Itos were saying goodbye.

  Mrs. Ito sighed and said, “It is a shame our daughter wasn’t here. I’m sure you would have much to say to her.” Later, when I checked out, I discovered that her husband had covered the cost of my room.

  When a child is born in Japan, the umbilical cord is saved and carefully stored, creating a dry, fragile relic—a personal piece of archaeology—that soothsayers and psychics muse over on special occasions. Umbilical cords contain a certain visceral magic in Japan, and as I looked out across the bay from my hotel window, out to the Bridge of Heaven, it hit me in a surge of recognition: I was looking out at the lifeline itself, the connection between god and earth. I was looking at the umbilical cord of Japan.

  6

  I CAUGHT A RIDE into the port city of Maizuru with a man who worked for a furniture-shipping company. Maizuru has a confusing, split personality, with two separate downtowns divided by a peninsula. Above the city, rain clouds were lying heavy on the mountaintops, and when the first raindrops hit, I retreated into a bookstore for a bit of tachiyomi (reading while standing up). This is something of an art form in Japan. Store owners never scowl or say, “This isn’t a library, y’know.” You will see crowds of people—men, women, and school-children—standing in bookstores reading for hours, reading entire magazines, cover to cover, with nary a murmur of protest. It’s great (although some magazine publishers in Japan have recently taken to wrapping their more popular wares in shrink-wrap plastic).

  It was while I was milling about in the language section that I came across a textbook and cassette entitled Porno! Learn English by Yourself! I had heard of this but until now had never seen it first-hand.

  The Japanese fascination with studying English is virtually endless, and Porno English! combined two great passions: English and porn. It was inspired (I kicked myself for not having come up with the idea first), even if it was poorly executed.

  There was, of course, a language tape and a lesson plan, as read by someone using the pseudonym Susie Bright. The content varied wildly from archaic Victorian erotica—“presently he glided my hand lower, to that part, in which nature and pleasure keep their stores in concert”—to the crudely direct—“let’s do tongue-sex!”

  As far as second-language learning goes, it covered new ground, a whole cornucopia of human perversion—everything from golden showers to bondage—all politely presented in standard textbook style, with grammar points, tips on pronunciation, and explanations of correct usage (i.e., when to use screw and when to use amorous liaison). Some of it was, well—let’s just say I’m not sure what kind of response an earnest student of English would get if he ever tried to employ it.

  The pickup lines, for one, were even worse than those used by Izanami and Izanagi. Here are some examples of the cool, sophisticated talk offered through the Porno English! language course:

  You’ve got a good box. Let’s go to bed.

  Or how about:

  I’m an ass-man. Will you love me?

  And the always effective:

  You’re a cheese, darlin’.

  (Calling someone “a cheese,” the text explains, is a sexual compliment.) A few more bon mots from the textbook:

  (a) So, you’re a horny tomato.

  (b) Try and trip around the world.

  (c) You’re actually an oomph girl!

  (d) The dildo! So perfect for tonight.

  All are duly explained in grammatical detail, recited sombrely on the cassettes. And you just know that out there—somewhere—some poor Japanese businessman is sidling up beside a young lady and whispering in her ear: Say, you’re really an oomph girl, aren’t you?

  7

  IT WAS A DARK, overcast day and he was wearing sunglasses. He drove a metallic grey van and his hands were huge. He had cracked, callused knuckles, and he gripped the steering wheel with oversized fists. I don’t remember what he was wearing or whether he was bald, thinning, or decked out in a pompadour; all I remember are those large leather-skinned hands.

  His name was Shigeki Ōishi. It meant “big stone” and it suited him. “Any relation to Ōishi the samurai?” I asked with a forced laugh.

  He turned and levelled his unblinking gaze at me. My laugh turned into a weak chuckle. “I’m the twelfth generation,” he said.

  “Really? The Ōishi?”

  He didn’t deign to respond.

  This was like meeting the twelfth son of Richard the Lionheart. The saga of Ōishi is Japan’s greatest epic. It’s a tale of loyalty, bloodshed, betrayal, and
honour. It began in 1701 with a simple breach of protocol and led, ineluctably, to a midnight assault, a brutal murder, and a mass suicide. In short, it had all the elements that make for great literature in Japan. Even better, it was a true story.

  A quick summary: Lord Asano, a naive young man from the provinces, comes to the Imperial Court as an envoy. It is the duty of Lord Kira, Master of Protocol, to train Asano in the ways of the court. But Lord Kira mocks the young man and refuses to teach him the proper behaviour. Unable to take Kira’s taunts any more, Asano strikes with his sword, slashing Kira’s forehead. It is a fatal breach of etiquette; no weapons are permitted to be drawn within the Imperial Palace. At Kira’s shrill behest, the reigning shōgun orders Asano to commit ritual suicide, and he does, slitting open his belly and then bowing down to be decapitated. Lord Asano’s property is confiscated. His manor is sold, his family evicted. His wealth is taken and his loyal retainers are scattered. They become masterless samurai, rōnin, but they are rōnin in name only, for they continue to serve the memory of their master. In secret, they plot revenge. Led by Kuranosuke Ōishi, forty-seven samurai make a midnight pact and then disperse.

  To deflect suspicions, Ōishi becomes a drunken wreck, brawling in the streets and abandoning his wife and children. Kira grows complacent. Memories fade. And then, on a snowy winter night, the rōnin march on Kira’s manor and launch a devastating attack. They find Kira cowering in a closet and, with one sure blow, they cut off his head. Taking this as a trophy, they make their way to Asano’s grave and present it to the spirit of their late lord. The rōnin do not run or hide or become fugitives. And after a lengthy trial, they are ordered to commit suicide. One by one, they perform the ritual, cutting open their stomachs and then bowing forward for beheading.

  Vengeance, sincerity, loyalty, and an utter lack of fear when facing death: these are the core values of bushidō, the samurai code of ethics that has shaped Japan in one form or another for more than five hundred years. The tale of Ōishi is the epitome of these codes.

  Knowing this, I was now more afraid of my driver than ever. I desperately wanted him to like me. “The teachers at Minamata High School performed the story of the forty-seven rōnin at the school festival,” I bubbled breathlessly. “I played Ōishi’s right-hand man. I got to say, ‘Look! There’s Kira!’”

  Ōishi was not as impressed by this as I had hoped. The fact that I had performed in a high-school production about his esteemed ancestor did not create a sense of kinship between us. How, then, to tell him that the other teachers and I had played it for laughs, that Kira’s head was a pink papier-mâché balloon we lopped off and tossed into the audience. Or that our ritualized suicide was so silly the students were hooting and laughing and calling out, “More suicides! Do it again!” How to tell this samurai descendant, with the broken knuckles and the unblinking eyes? I decided not to.

  “I have studied the martial arts of Japan for many years,” he said. “I have a third ranking in judo and in kendo.” Kendo is Japanese fencing, the model for the light saber fights in Star Wars. That would explain his knuckles, I thought.

  He looked over at my notepad. I had been trying to jot things down surreptitiously. “I used to be a journalist,” he said. “Based in Osaka. I travelled all over Southeast Asia. I hitchhiked as well”—he was not in awe of me and he wanted to make that clear. “I hitchhiked in Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia. You ever hitchhiked there?”

  “Once, in Bali, I—”

  “I travelled to Singapore. I travelled to the Philippines. I travelled to Hong Kong. You ever been to Hong Kong?”

  “No, but once I was—”

  “It’s hot. Very hot. I like the heat. It disciplines the mind. The Philippines were very hot as well, and the people were kind to me. I went there as a student—1974. You probably weren’t even born yet.”

  “Actually, in 1974, I would have been nine or ten years—”

  “The Vietnam War was still going. Tensions were high. The Americans used Japan like an amusement park, like a brothel. They took shore leave in Tokyo or Okinawa.” Suddenly he said, “Look at you! You fear nothing.”

  “Well,” I said, thinking of snakes, “that’s not entirely—”

  “Japanese people study English for three years in junior high, and four years in high school, and another two to four years if they go to college. Ten years of English, and they can’t even tell a foreigner the time if he asks. We Japanese are too timid,” he said. “We need to be fearless. We no longer take chances. Japanese don’t want to make mistakes. They are too proud. They are,” he paused and then carefully enunciated, “too shy.”

  Shyness: in Japan, it’s the universal excuse. If I am ever hauled into a Japanese court, I plan on using it as my defense.

  ME: Awfully sorry about the manslaughter charge, m’lord. But you see, I am very shy.

  JUDGE: And do you feel ashamed about what you’ve done?

  ME: Yes, Your Honour. I feel great shame. Shame and shyness.

  JUDGE: (to bailiff) Release this man at once!

  Don’t knock it. In Japan, an expression of sincere remorse will usually take years off your sentence.

  “Shyness is a form of weakness,” said Ōishi, last of the samurai. Outside the window, rice fields ascended the hillsides in long, low steps. The landscape was cold and damp, with the scent of a coming storm, and static electricity lifted the hairs along my forearms.

  We skirted the edge of narrow bays, where the coast doubled back on itself and the shoreline rippled in folds along the sea. In the small city of Obama, even in the chill and mud, spring was slowly seeping in; brown was transmuting into green.

  “Obama is a little Kyoto,” said Ōishi. “There is history everywhere.” He took me to a few spots, showed me some historic markers, and then—just when I thought he was about to say goodbye—he turned back onto the highway. “I’ll take you just a little farther down the road,” he said.

  Outside of Obama we passed a beautiful old farmhouse that was sinking into a slow, dignified decay, the thatched roof the colour of altar dust. More farmhouses appeared, packed tightly together. The fields came right up to their front doors, and I wondered how it felt to be hemmed in like that, facing thick lush harvests, dusty autumn stubble, wet spring mud. I wondered how that affects your world view.

  They called this side of Honshu the “Back of Japan.” It was the weather-beaten face of Nippon. Old wood, old tiles, old dreams.

  Faint wisps of mist hung in the air. We were running one step ahead of the rain; behind us, clouds had begun to collapse. Caught in the momentum, Ōishi ended up driving me all the way to Tsuruga City, over an hour out of his way. The sky had been threatening rain, but once Ōishi dropped me off and drove back down the road, the darkness receded. Through the clouds shone a clean blue sky. Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, Ōishi had brought the storm with him.

  Later, back in Minamata, one of the teachers I used to work with was disturbed by my meeting with Ōishi. “The children of the original Ōishi were killed by the Shōgun to prevent further vendettas. It was standard practice to wipe out your enemy’s entire family line. I don’t see how the man you met could have possibly been a direct descendant of the Ōishi. He was either pulling your leg—or he was a ghost.”

  “But I have his business card,” I said, brandishing it triumphantly. “How many ghosts carry these?”

  “In Japan,” the teacher assured me, “even ghosts carry business cards.”

  8

  THEY DROVE BY TWICE to check me out. They were laughing each time, and I wasn’t in a good mood.

  Like so many pairs of friends, one was short and talkative and the other was big and good-natured. Ren and Stimpy. Timon and Pumba. “Hey, you! Where you going?” It was the little one. He was calling from the passenger window of a white rent-a-car. I was across a very busy intersection from them.

  “North,” I said curtly. “I’m going north.”

  “North! North? Where north?” They were l
aughing it up at my expense.

  “Just north.”

  They had a quick huddle. “Okay,” they said. “You can come with us, but you have to help us meet girls.”

  Their names were Makoto (Mac) and Tomoyuki (Tom) and they were cruising the backroads of Japan. “We came all the way from Hokkaido,” said Mac, as I lifted my backpack into their trunk. “We’ve been driving the coast. We were going south, but we can take you north. We don’t care. We have no schedule. We’re free!”

  “Free,” echoed Tom, the bigger, quieter one.

  “Look at that!” said Mac, stepping back and pointing as though he had just now noticed it. “Hokkaido licence plates! Take a picture. You can show it to your friends back in Kyushu. They’ll be amazed.”*

  “Tunes,” said Li’l Mac as I climbed into the backseat. “What kind of tunes do you like?”

  They scanned the radio until they found something loud and cacophonous and then plied me with drinks and snacks until they had thoroughly won me over. Tsugaru City dissolved into rice paddies, wet and newly planted, and the rice paddies dissolved into mountains. Somewhere along the way we passed the Statue of Liberty holding a banana.

  Mac had been to America and his English was good, but idiosyncratic. “Florida was hot excellent. They had alligator crossing signs down on the highways. Crazy wild. And in Denver I show up and they have a stock car rally. It was just chance. Luck. I love cars. I drove in the States at one hundred kilometres an hour. Excellent.” He swept back his hair. It was parted down the middle and flipped up in pop-idol waves that kept getting in the way whenever he turned his head.

  The road banked from turn to turn and each vista became more dramatic. But Mac and Tom didn’t want to talk about scenery or even cars. They wanted to talk about girls.

  “What is your technique?” asked Mac. “How do you meet them?”

  I don’t have a technique. So I lied. I told them what my college roommate used to do. He would go to a laundromat and—in plain sight of a lady he liked—he would prepare to pour Mr. Clean floor polish into the washer. The woman would rush over to stop him, and he would act dumb and helpless, saying, “I thought cleaner was cleaner.” She would then scold him in a playful manner and, next thing you know, they’re in bed together.