A Personal Tour

It is my personal belief that all military personnel are programmed to seek the high ground, no matter where they are or what they are doing. Whenever I find myself in an unfamiliar place or setting, my immediate thought is to find the high ground and get a look around. This internal programming has taken me to the top of Tokyo Tower, Sapporo Tower, the mountains near Kyoto, and now the Wakkanai 100 year memorial tower, which is located at the top of a series of large bluffs above the village of Wakkanai.

It is around 0930, and I've got roughly an hour and a half until my ferry leaves for Rebun, one of two small islands that represent the northernmost you can get in Japan without actually being in Russia. This charming proximity to the motherland is evidenced by street signs in Japanese, English, and Russian, as well as a ferry that leaves for Russia every day. I've taken this hike because I woke up too late to catch the early ferry to Rebun, and I've paid too much for this trip to sit around at the ferry terminal for three hours.

That and I like views. This view in particular is spectacular. The rain and snow from last night has disappeared, and I'm left with mostly clear skies and miles of visibility in all directions. Peering off into the distance, I see a faint shape of land, and I wonder if I'm seeing Russia. Sarah Palin's house has nothing on this view, that's for certain.

A quick check of my watch tells me that I need to start heading back if I'm going to catch my ferry. A quick jog down the mountain gets me there in plenty of time.

Japanese people will come up to you and practice their English on you. It can be at times rewarding, frustrating, entertaining and annoying. I would say that nearly all of my experiences have been positive, though draining. Communication is hard. Most people don't realize it until they're forced to communicate over a language and cultural barrier. Every single time the conversation has been carried by the Japanese, whose usually very good command of my language leaves me embarrassed at my pathetic knowledge of theirs. They're patient, curious and incredibly polite. While waiting at the ferry station, one of these conversations evolved into what could be described as one of the most unique events of my life.

While waiting at the ferry terminal, I catch eyes with a Japanese man who appears to be in his early fifties. We lock eyes and nod, I bow my head in the traditional manner and he smiles. He comes over, and I brace myself. "Here we go again."

A short conversation tells him where I'm from, and what I'm doing. I find out he's a Rebun native, and has just come back from the mainland doing something I couldn't translate. After a few minutes, he tells me he has to go, because he is driving his car onto the ferry. We part ways, and I prepare to board the ferry from a pedestrian standpoint.

I love ferries. I can't remember the first time I rode one, though it was probably on a family trip to Whidbey Island from when my dad moved the family to Seattle so he could go to law school. When I returned to Seattle to get my undergraduate, I took every reasonable opportunity to ride a ferry, just because I love them. It's something about the wind on the deck and the thrum of the engine and the smell of the ocean air that I love. A feeling I can't quite place.

Boarding this ferry is similar, but different to ferries in the states. There are no chairs in the interior, and there are first, second, and steerage cabins. The plebeians in steerage, which is actually quite nice, don't get chairs, but rather big carpeted areas to relax on, sleep on, watch the giant tvs on, whatever. I ignore these and explore the ferry, climbing out onto the deck and feeling the vibration of the ship and the howl of the wind.

I am surprised when my companion from earlier appears at my side with two cans of coffee. Wincing internally, for I hate coffee, I accept and wrap my hands around the warm beverage. We sit on the exterior chairs and converse, after a fashion. He uses his iphone to show me pictures of his three daughters, and his granddaughter. The pride and joy in his face when he talks about them transcends cultures and languages. I tell him of my trip, my job, and my family. He is a barber, as far as I can tell one of the only barbers on Rebun – a cornered market.

This leads us to talk of Rebun and Reshi, the two islands we are bound for. I show him my dual tickets to both islands and he asks me in broken English how I plan to get around. I shrug and indicate that I had planned on walking. He narrows his eyes at me.

Our ferry left port at 1150. It is roughly a two hour trip to Rebun, perhaps a half hour to get to Rishi from there. Assuming we arrive at 1400, I will have perhaps an hour to explore Rebun, on foot, and then assuming the ferry leaves when I want it to, a half hour ride to Rishi, where I've got maybe an hour before it gets dark. Oh, and I still have to get back to Wakkanai, and if all goes according to plan, catch a train back to Sapporo. As my companion explains this to me, I realize that I may have made some serious tactical errors. 

He quickly convinces me to ditch Reshi, as the island is really just one large volcano that is best viewed from a distance anyway. Furthermore, he tells me that an hour of walking wouldn't get me anywhere on Rebun and that there were few buses. Apparently a car is necessary to explore the island. I mentally start kicking myself, and then, with a few more words, he offers me salvation.

"I drive you. Take tour."

I'm sorry, it sounds like you just offered to drive me around your home island for a few hours. We just me an hour ago. In any other country I would have flatly refused. Safety, Western ideas about what's polite, and sheer anti-socialism would have kept me from it. But not in Japan. Here it would be rude to refuse, the people are super nice, and besides, I don't think he actually gave me a choice in the matter.

I agree. As we approach Rebun, I can see Rishi, perhaps 20 kilometers away. The volcano rises out of the ocean in truly epic fashion, reminding me of pictures and paintings of Mt. Fuji.  No wonder it's called "The Fuji of the North." Rebun, on the other hand, is a series of low hills covered in grasslands. In the summer months it fills up with meadows full of flowers, and is quite the tourist destination for Hokkaido.

Upon arrival I climb into my companion's car, and we speed off along the only road on the island, a coastal artery that is barely larger than the car itself, with houses and shops squeezed up on one side against the cliff face, and the ocean on the other side. I routinely grab the "oh shit" handle above the window, but do not say anything. Classic rock blasts from my friend's stereos, routed from his iphone. As we drive, he points out landmarks.

A somehow smaller road leads us up the side and to the top of one of the large hills. We park, and jump out, my friend pointing out a small protected cove to the northeast where a small village sits. "My house."

The island feels like it is bracing for winter. The flower topped hills have turned to sea blown grass, and trees are few and far between. Those that appear are twisted and windblown. I ask my companion what winter is like.

"Hard."

I do not doubt this for a second. The people that live on this island must really want to live here.

More driving leads us to the furthest north point on the island. It is a small spit of land, barren and rocky, utterly exposed to the icy north wind. Across maybe three hundred yards of ocean another, tiny island, perhaps a kilometer across hosts a tiny lighthouse.

While I take pictures, my companion grunts and tells me that his great grandfather lived on the island, but that no one lives there now. A glance at my watch tells me that we need to return to the ferry terminal, so that I can catch the last ferry back to Wakkanai.

The drive back is as pleasant and as terrifying as the drive out was, and all too soon we're at the ferry terminal. A shake of hands, bowing, and exchange of emails marks our passing. I feel as though I have under emphasized the language barrier in this writing, but make no mistake, though we bonded, I understood perhaps a tenth of what he said. Every conversation we had was a struggle to make ourselves understood, and still, despite this, it was perhaps one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. This man shared his island with me, a complete stranger.

I have previously spoken of the Japanese people. I forgot to mention one thing: their actions speak much louder than their words, and well to their nature.