Kozushima

The hydrofoil pulled into port and we disembarked, making our way to the now-familiar island information center located conveniently overlooking the harbor. There, we collected data in the form of maps featuring various resolutions of town plans, hiking trails, and island overviews. Tempted by the prospect of returning home the next day via a small prop-plane costing a reasonable $150, we opted to think about the tradeoffs of ferry travel for the rest of the day.

Prioritizing our need for bicycle rental, Mai persuaded the help desk agent to book us another Minshuku “NakaMuraYa” which promptly fetched us, luggage and all, at the port. The proprietor was a spritely but fatigued woman of about 40 with a trim figure and good skin. ?These minshuku are not the bed and breakfasts of the Cotswolds, with relaxed owners and a diverse staff, but rather combination home-hostels run by families and headed by professional mothers providing prescribed services to the paying. Full of questions as always, I fired them off just as soon as Mai could translate, and we arrived at the minshuku after a short hill climb.

A grandmother showed us to our room, in which we sprawled our belongings and donned our swimming costumes. Determined for a snick-snack, we made our way back down the slope towards the beach sporting sunglasses to combat the super white light which enveloped us, bleaching my canvas shoes in ultra-slow motion, while tanning my brow at a much faster rate. At the nexus of the beach roads, we chose “Tears Blue”, a dive cafe, over the competing ice-cream parlor and Spanish style umbrella-sheltered cafe which flanked it. The cafe proved the optimal decision, with a stunning view of the beach off a deck filled with shirtless holiday-makers. After ordering a black sesame ice cream cone, iced coffee, mango juice, and a plate of fried rice between the two of us, we began photographing.

While leaning off the deck and shooting a landscape that could have been Rio de Janiero or Santa Cruz, Ca, I noticed a lanky shirtless young blonde man with hair in curls as Apollo is often depicted in sculpture. Moments later he appeared on the deck of the cafe as the staff beckoned Mai to help translate whatever unknown language he was attempting to converse in. A thick German accent slowly bubbled from his non-emotive mouth. After translating the entire menu, Mai managed to order him a plate of tomato pasta and an iced coffee. He produced a pack of Mild Seven Ultra Light cigarettes and put them on the table, raising one to his mouth and bumming a light off the neighboring table.

“Where are you from,” we asked.

“Switzerland,” he said.

“Which Part?”

“The German part”

“Zurich?”

“Exactly”

His right bicep featured a large black and white tattoo of a court jester mask, tears streaming down its cheeks. I had a good feeling about him and it immediately became clear that this wasn’t going to be a sterile or brief encounter of two equally foreign travelers exchanging purposeless niceties. Plus, I have a thing for Swiss people.

“Welcome to the Switzerland of Asia,” I announced, mentally preparing a list of rationale for stating the claim should he ask for justification. He didn’t. The fellow ate his meal quickly as we languished in ours, and he moved over to our bench overlooking the beachfront. We learned that for the last two days he had been raving at a “Goa party” on the island. It was a psychedelic trance festival fueled by various sugary alcoholic cocktails and plentiful doses of LSD, which was not an easy chemical to come by in this part of the world, to my knowledge. The party featured DJs from across Japan, and explained why we saw a group of yuppies dressed in neon colors listening to Infected Mushroom while we were waiting for at the pier in Oshima. The experience was no doubt rare, serendipitous, and exiting. His $80 entrance for three days of partying had been partially subsidized by a quick friendship on the ferry over, which he took after 17 days of clubbing and partying in Tokyo after his arrival from a one-way flight from Zurich via Beijing.

The day before, he had missed a flight to Bangkok he had booked, realizing it as a sunk cost and continuing to party on this other-worldy island paradise. He was carrying a 750ml bottle of Suntory whiskey, a pair of black sneakers, and had commandeered a blanket on the boat which he was now using in lieu of lodging arrangements so that he could sleep in the late night and early morning. Commending the man for his passion and resourcefulness, we committed to experiencing this Goa party on the opposite side of the island. After offering the remainder of our fried rice, the three of us were off to rent bicycles and find a beach with turquoise water to clear the mind.

After arranging three of the typical Japanese street bicycles, he led us a kilometer or more to an inlet flanked on either side by semi-tropical bluffs and a new-brutalist hotel with a dirty white façade which had fallen into disrepair. The pool, green with algae, seemed to tempt a family into fishing out treasures. The round-about parking facility on the ground floor was now sheltering a camping tent from the elements.

We furled our our tiny towels and head into the water, Mai screaming in delight as the cold sea overtook us all. The waves were subdued, the water clear, and we frolicked and paddled for a bit until retreating to the beach for more exploration.

After a few more cigarettes for our Swiss friend and some failed attempts at acquiring beverages from empty vending machines, we set our to visit the famous wooden monkey bridges of Kozushima before the sun set. After wheeling along the sparsely populated road which circumnavigates the isle, we negotiated some obstacles and continued on to find black lava rocks ornamented with wooden structures akin to those which would no-doubt be more pervasive had the human-built world been architected by children.

Some were diving with snorkels, spearing fish and sea urchins, catching crabs in their hands. Others were diving from the bridge into the deep azure tide pools below. We lingered as the sun slowly descended to the horizon, cursing the clouds which now curtailed the arid Mediterranean heat.

We retired to a makeshift cafe overseen by a sweet old woman who offered us free tea made from various plants she had come across. It was served as a thick sauce atop huge mugs of shaved ice, then poured with water. She sold us beers at low cost and tried to offer us a lighter without us our paying. “My husband gets them for free,” she explained. We put ¥100 on the counter and sat down to chat.

The Swiss traveler wasn’t going to Thailand, and wasn’t sure where he’d go next, except Tokyo and probably Osaka. He had been exploring fringe clubs of electronic music in Tokyo, most of which I was ashamed for never hearing of, even if they were 30 minutes outside of Shibuya by train. He seemed fit, with little fat on his body, impressive for one who rarely sees the sun and consumes a massive number of whiskey-cokes. He revealed that he worked for a firm which had a select number of clients who outsourced IT hardware and software design and procurement for industrial applications. He wasn’t a programmer or an engineer per se, mentioning that the Job had its benefits and drawbacks. The main benefits included travel to European countries outside of Switzerland in which a client needed something fixed, which never took much time or effort and came with fringe benefits of travel. Being on the move, it seems more and more, is worth much to the human spirit.

We peddled vigorously back to the town an vowed to see each other at the party. Mai and I returned to the Minshuku, showered, changed, and ate a fantastic dinner. We were called into a rice-paper cube with two other couples, each with a set table consisting of grilled fish, fried tempura, delicious white rice, chinese style eggplant, and tuna fresh sashimi. We filled ourselves with these local delicacies, washing them down with a large bottle of Asahi beer and cold herb tea.

After dinner, we retired to our tatami-mat room for digestion, finding some time to read. Then we struck out for the fabled night gathering, pushing our bicycles up a steep incline in the pitch dark. We climbed and climb, meandering through local settlements, finding dead-ends and seemingly endless roads before reaching the summit. Two police cars with whirling lights (but no sirens) passed us, no doubt slowing down to inspect our adventurous faces. We mounted our cycles and began a long and fast descent, breaks squealing. Our feeble self-powered bike lights shown dimly in front of us as the festival music grew louder and louder. Suddenly, we had arrived at the campsite, seeing dozens of people clothed as Hippies, dancing about in front of a psychedelic construct of webs and palm fronds. The entrance was un-guarded and we wandered in to find our Swiss friend in checkered sweatpants and an open-zippered hoodie with a 2 liter bottle of whiskey and water.

(Click Image Below to see video)

He brought us two drinks and we started gyrating about wildly as to not look out of place. As the music drew to a close at the campground the intoxicated love-drunk ravers made their way to the beach, determined to continue the party but thwarted by police which stood in the way. We decided it was time to make our exit, slowly pushing our bicycles up the dark hillside and coasting back home, climbing into our futon at a reasonable hour.

The next morning we were awakened by the 7:30 breakfast wake-up call which brought us down to see grilled salmon, rice, miso soup, a raw egg, and shredded cabbage. We computed that, given the noon ferry to Shimoda, we would have time enough to pack up and make a trip to the Island’s premier beach. The bus schedule welcomed this and we packed up, checked out, returned the bicycles by leaving them parked outside the shop unlocked (as instructed). It was a small island with what seemed like zero crime and little envy. A paradise indeed.

At the harbor, we came across a troop of ravers headed back to Tokyo. The tanned australian was there, as chilled out as ever enjoying his breakfast on the concrete.

“We’re going to catch the ferry to Shimoda”

“Oh and then head to Tokyo by train,” he asked?

“Nah, we’re going to try and hitch-hike”

“Oh, easy, easy man, alright, good luck”

His soul patch and chapped lips said it all. Life is too short to worry.

Then we were off to the next beach, rolling through the jungle on the sputtering bus, passing a marvelous airport and descending again to where the crystal waters meet the alabaster sand. This beach was the after-party beach it seemed, and electronic music blared from a DJ tent as the Japanese hippies in tie-dyed clothing danced about in the sunlight with beverage bottles piled high on a random wooden pallet.

(Click image to view video)

We had mis-read the bus schedule and arranged for a taxi to provide the later-needed transportation. No problem at this point in the journey, which was far and away a great success of logistics and adventure. We changed clothes and dove into the water, swimming around a bit and shrieking in the water.

Then we returned to the sand and read our books, Theroux’s “The Great Railway Bazaar” for me, and Japanese introductory book on economics for Mai that I had gotten her before the trip. We baked in the sun and soon enough, it was time to leave.

The taxi scooped us up after we packed and whisked us over the volcanic island to a market where we purchased provisions for the journey home. At the harbor, we picked up or tickets and boarded the ship which was full of Japanese yuppie-hippies in hemp clothing. Their backpacks were tagged with Thai customs clearance notices and stickers from Ko Samui. T They seemed like a non-sequiter, some even with little children.

We arrived in Shimoda safe and sound, hitching a ride back to Tokyo via Yokohama from some of the party-goers who had driven to the port. The trip had been a raging successes. The deck was indeed, full of aces.

Planning

It was time to embark on an epic bicycle ride across Japan.  I had done day trips outside Tokyo, and wondered what existed beyond the concrete and steel structures that seemed to continue on forever. Callum, my buddy from work, and I, decided to spend two weeks biking from Tokyo to Fukuoka.  The trip would be roughly 1200 KM over 13 days, with a day of rest in Osaka to heal our bodies from the ride. I did some research on different routes we could take, considering this one but ultimately deciding it was too long.  I stumbled across this website,created for Korean riders by a fine fellow and fellow bicycling enthusiast named Sora.  More on him later. Critical about this route was the GPX file that Sora made available, allowing Callum to load the GPS coordinates onto his handlebar mounted navigation unit, allowing us to follow the course and gauge elevation changes.  Conveniently, the track was very simple.  For the first 540km,  the course follows national highway 1.  For the next 540km, it follows national highway 2.  For the next 85km, it’s national highway 3.  Some things make a lot of sense in Japan.  Some make no sense at all.  This is a case of the former.PreparationCallum and I spent a day ensuring that all of our ducks were in a row before setting off on this journey.  We photocopied dozens of pages from a road atlas, as well as lonely planet for each of the cities we planned on visiting.  The course was to be as follows:Tokyo->Hakone -> Shizuoka ->Hammamatsu ->Nagoya->Kameyama->Osaka->Naruto->Okayama->Hiroshima->Tokuyama->Shizuoka->Fukuoka A GPX file is available here of all the stops. We packed as light as possible and brought only necessities.  Energy bars and dextrose goo for the first days, cycling shorts and jersey, pants and shirt for going out at night, camping towels, first aide kit, toiletries, extra innertubes, bicycle pump, combination lock, sunscreen, flip-flops, business cards, cash, sportsdrink mix, iphones and iphone chargers, ipod nano and shuffle, Garmin GPS navigation unit, a notepad, pen, Japanese phrasebook, AsiaWheeling stickers for the hell of it, rain poncho, and lights for the bicycle. We reviewed the course and inventoried our materials over breakfast at Dennys, and prepared to meet at Johnathan’s Restaurant in Gotanda the next morning at 6AM.  The meal marked the first of many high-calorie breakfasts at western Chain restaurants across Japan.  

 DAY ONE

Callum and I both love coffee, so we had a few cups and then took this photo in Gotanda before cycling to Yokohama.

 It was early enough that we were both reverse commuting AND beating whatever traffic there was, which made for a splendid ride ending at the Yokohama train station Starbucks for another espresso.   I wanted to see Toyo Ito’s tower of winds, which is pictured right below in back of me.  At night, it lights up based on the heat and sound caused by the Yokohama subway.

Next, we began the long wheel to Hakone.  We continued past Yokohama in the kind of indescribable mental state one enters when riding a bicycle over long distances.  I began to contemplate and consider Japan in the global socio-culutral-economic context.  I couldn’t help but try to wrap my mind around all the signs, people, vehicles, industries, and business I was riding past.  We took a break at a McDonalds and, famished, indulged in a cinnamon roll.

Breaking Down the Pins and Get Hot Communication While we were eating the cinnamon roll, we saw one of the many signs that caused us to giggle along the way:

We motored on and descended to Enoshima beach, where we took another break, ate some energy bars, and chatted with the locals.

Here we are at the beach

Callum practicing his Japanese.

 We would have been lost without the GPS.

 We continued on, passing town after town.

And we stopped at a delicious Italian style bakery and pasta restaurant for lunch.

Local beer was to be an important consumption habit on this journey.  This brew was both dark and sparkling.

She served us a fresh and delicious caesar salad with reggiano cheese.  Look at her tie!

Mushroom and bacon pizza.

Caramel banana pie and two more espressos!

From there, we continued on to the base of Hakone.  Hakone is a tourist hot-spot and 900 meter high mountain pass 100km from Tokyo.  We were hoping to make it up the mountain the first day, but Callum and I decided to take it easy and assault the summit in the morning.  Plus, there was an excellent Ryokan (Traditional Japanese Inn) and Onsen (Natural Hotspring) at the base of the mountains.We decided to stay in the Ryokan, and this was our view:

 Inside our room:

We let our devices feast on power:

And visited Tenzan onsen.  Below is a photo of the post-bath relaxation room.

Then, we had a drink at the Fujiya Hotel because it had elevators that belonged in a James Bond movie, and visited a garishly decorated yakisoba joint pictured below.  The proprietor looked like Carlos Santana.

Then, we visited a convenience store to drink water, stock up on energy bars, and gawk at large plastic bottles of Japanese Sake.  Then we passed out early in our bedding. 

On day two, we awoke to the sunlight shining through the windows of our Ryokan room and rose to meet a delicious breakfast served at 7:00AM.Today, we were to face the most grueling ascent of the trip, up 900 meters.  To give you a feeling for the climb, here’s an elevation profile (Copyright Sora Suga 2007).  We were at the beginning of the climb, on the Tokyo side.After breakfast, I discovered my tire had gone flat so I filled a new one with air. Then we motored up the mountain, setting waypoints at each train station.  It reminded me a little of Switzerland, a little bit of Canada, and a little bit of Big Sur, California.Halfway up the mountain, we met a fellow riding a city bike with a basket on the front and back.  He had a pump, a baseball cap, and sandals.  The bike he was riding is referred to in Japan as a “Mamachari, or “Mother’s Bicycle”.  After speaking to him for a while about how long the climb was, he revealed that he was a monk named Tsuneo Ogawa, bicycling to Kyoto from Kawasaki (right outside of Tokyo).  He lit up a menthol cigarette and played with google maps on my iPhone to review our shared route.  We exchanged contact information and rode up the mountain.   Here’s a picture with him: We climbed for a total of three hours and finally found ourselves descending onto Lake Ashi, which sits near the top of Hakone pass.  Again, we stumbled across a fantastic Italian restaurant boasting a modern design aesthetic and Ferrari paraphernalia. Here, Callum waits for a table and checks the markets.The wait was well worth it.More Espresso, naturally.We stocked up at a convenie.Then we took some photos of a Japanese thing.And finally reached the absolute crest of the day, entering into Shizuoka prefecture at 900 meters.Then we descended….. And at the bottom saw a vending machine only witnessed in Japan.  Below this image, there were gigantic cartons of Sake.We wheeled past Mishima, towards Fuji, entering an industrial zone of Shizuoka prefecture.  Below is an aluminum recycling plant.Continuing on the road, it grew dark.  We were heading towards fuji, and Shizuoka was 40km away.  We parked our bikes at the Fuji train station and wondered where we could stay in Fuji.  Then, out of the blue, Sora, from e-wadachi.comcalled my phone.  I had contacted him before the trip began to discuss the route and thank him for creating the GPX tracks, and we had discussed possibly meeting up around this time.  He was heading back to Yokohama, and he was free for the night, so we decided to meet up in Shizuoka and stay there for the night. So we hopped on a Shinkansen and sped over to Shizuoka in 12 minutes.  The blurriness of the photo is not actually indicative of how much Japanese bullet trains shake. We checked into a Ryokan, met Sora at the train station, and wandered into an underground bar I had researched called “FreakyShow.”  It was known to have live music, but alas, not on Fridays.  So from there, we went to an Izakaya and ordered a massive dinner. My personal favorite of the evening was the fish pictured in the middle of the table.  I ravaged the fish with my chopsticks, and then Sora ate the rest.  “The skin is most delicious,” he said with expertise.  The monk we met earlier, Ogawa-san, called us and lauged and yelled happily that he was in Mishima, and had descended from Hakone.  Everyone was doing great. Then we found a Japanese style bar in Shizuoka’s thriving and somewhat dodgy nightlife district, and discussed the joys of cycling and life.  Thanks again Sora!From here, Callum and I retired to our beds, saving our strength for the next 100km day of wheeling. 

Day three was pure intensity.  Callum’s friend had gotten into a nasty wreck when they were riding motorcycles together the weekend before, and the hospital had just opened his room up to visitors.  Callum decided to visit him for the day and meet me that evening in Hamamatsu, 120KM from Fuji. We began the day strong but late after McDonalds coffee and delicious pastries from a cafe. Additionally, we had pill time.  Callum introduced fiber supplements into my life, as well as Japanese hangover relief pills that may or may not have any material effect on the bodies processes.  We also took some sort of magnesium supplement. So then, I started off on my own, mounting Callum’s GPS to my handlebars after a short tutorial.  Today I was to go from Fuji to Hamamatsu, about 120km.

With my iPod shuffle bumping some powerful electronic European music, I set out on a the ride.  Wheeling in Japan is very much like wheeling in California in some ways.  The physical geography, coastal landscapes, and enjoyable climate would at times take me back to the parallel universe on the other side of the pacific that I have temporarily left behind.  I remember looking out over the ocean when bicycling the California coast thinking that the next landmass far off into the distance was Japan, and I would soon be there.  Now, I looked across the ocean knowing that California was the next sizable empire.  And that I would eventually return. In the photo above, you can see some of the man made three dimensional crosses, stacked row upon row.  Whether these are to fend of insurgents who may try to storm the beaches or to eliminate erosion, I will never know.  What was different about Japan, was that save for Hakone and a few other areas, Route 1 is like one big city street.  I felt like I was just segueing from town to town, suburb to suburb, prefecture to prefecture. 

Mostly, it looked the same.  It was filled with old people.   Everywhere I went, I felt the country was a kingdom of elderly people.  It felt strikingly different than a place like India, which essentially has demographics with the opposite concentration, or even California, which imports its younger workers from China, India, and Mexico.  

Those aged 60-90 in Japan built the country from scratch after the apocalypse of WWII, and have a special place in society.  Their children were part of a baby boom, but as a developed country, the fertility rate decreased significantly.  This aging population is illustrated below, animated over a time series, with population age on the Y axis and volume on the X.  For numerous political and socio-economic reasons, Japan chooses not to allow large flows of immigration into the country to combat this ever-impending demographic crisis.  I continued to wheel, passing a port and eating a SoyJoy, the only readily available energy bar in convenience stores.  I took a photo of the containers and container chassis for Gab, who values and sells the things (as part of discounted cash flows from operations) sitting in an office in Manhattan.  Thanks to the iPhone, I sent it right over to him.  And then, the unthinkable happened.  I was riding along at about 30km/h on the road, when a casual cyclist swerved onto the street from a parallel sidewalk.  To avoid rear-ending him, I too swerved and put pressure on the breaks, causing me to loose balance and skid on the ground with powerful force.  Dazed, I got up and felt nothing was broken, though I was bleeding from both elbows, one knee, and I had terrible road rash on my calf and thigh.  My bicycle shorts had torn even torn through, and my iPod shuffle was now scuffed to hell with asphalt.  I’ll spare you the pictures. 

An elderly woman on her bicycle paused to make sure I could walk, and then took off like a shot.  Here I was in the middle of Japan bleeding in the street wondering what to do.  I wandered into a convenience store and pointed at my wounds, slightly hysterical but mostly calm.  I pointed at my bleeding extremities to the woman behind the counter, who seemed eerily distant from the moment.  She slowly guided me to a section containing small band aides, handing me the box with nonchalance.    I motioned that I needed bigger bandages, and a crowd had gathered around to jabber at me in Japanese, even after explaining I didn’t speak it and that my wounds were becoming critical.  I was going to die here in a convenience store in Shizuoka prefecture. Worse things have happened to men. 

A fellow with a Keio university t-shirt, god bless him, directed me around the corner to a pharmacy.  In the pharmacy, the clerk pointed toward some much more prodigious looking bandages, gauze, disinfectants, and surgical tapes.  I picked up a handful of supplies and grabbed a 2 liter bottle of water.  I snuck behind the building and sat down on the ground, pouring water on my wounds, ripping gauze with my teeth, and dressing my wounds.  Thank god for my Boy Scout training, which had taught me exactly what to do in this situation from both a technical and emotional standpoint.   

The adrenaline in my veins, which staves off pain, began to subside by the time I had finished administering first aid.  Some wounds were worse than others, but I had no choice but to keep wheeling across this country.  I kept riding for 30 more kilometers and a hunger inside of me for Don Katsu began to develop into a fiery lust.  In exactly the point I had intended to eat, I came across a Don Katsu restaurant.    Inside, I was giggled at repeatedly, and I did my best to strategically conceal my bandages with my helmet so I wouldn’t be thrown out of the restaurant and shown to the hospital.  You’ll never know what these provincial people may do in backwater Don Katsu joints somewhere in the highlands of Shimada.  My fears were unfounded as the waitress continuously brought me additional cabbage and miso soup.  I paid the woman and got back on my bicycle.

My medical emergency had taken a bit of time and slowed me down some, so it was now 3:30 pm and I had 40km left to ride, giving me little room for error or pause.  I zoomed up and down country roads towards Hamamatsu, fatigued from my wounds and pondering life’s big questions, as one does in a state of prolonged physical exertion.  After filling up my water bottles 20km from Hamamatsu, ready for the final push, I was once again set back.A ledge in the sidewalk had shaken my water bottle out of its holder, causing it to fall to the ground and shatter under my tire, breaking the valve off my inner-tube, rendering it useless.  My only choice was to change my tire with the old, slow leaking tube I took out of my bike the previous morning.  Doing this lasted for about a kilometer, as air slowly leaked out of it and I felt inconsistencies in the road more and more.  Finally, as the sun began to set, and I was lost in an array of off-ramps, on-ramps, and country roads, my inner-tube lost all of its resilience.  

After picking strange and incredibly sticky seed pods off my body I had somehow acquired, I wandered into a Daily Yamazaki, hoping that they could call a taxi. Without a grasp of Japanese, I used an old receipt to draw a picture of a phone and an automobile with a light on top of it, signifying taxi.  The sweet clerks at the convenience store called the taxi while I waited outside, shameful of my less-than-pristine bandages.  

The taxi came and told me the bike was too big for his car, and that he would go switch to another.  His vibrations were not ideal.  After 45 minutes, a minivan taxi returned, and the driver was an older man with whom I jived.  We loaded my bike in the back after removing the tires, and I sat in the front seat, trying to conceal the fact that I was bleeding all over the upholstery, and occasionally, the left arm of his white shirt.   I called some hotels and found one with a decent rate that spoke english, to which I had the taxi deliver me.

 I checked into the hotel looking like an insane person, wearing cycling spandex with dried blood and haggard bandages all over my arms and legs.   A woman checking in next to me shot me a nervous smile, probably out of fear and pity.  The clerk, Satoshi, kept asking me in Japanese if I was ok.  ”Daijoubu desu ka?”  ”Daijoubu desu”, I would reply.  He showed me on a map where I could get some food and a drink, and sold me some laundry detergent for ¥50 so I could do a wash.  

Great price, I said.  He added that I had been upgraded, free of charge, from a single to a double room.   I thanked him and headed upstairs.  Removing my bandages, I settled into a warm bath tub, cleaning my wounds with water and washing the day’s journey off my body.  Luckily, I had only brought a long sleeve shirt and pants, which covered my wounds which I dressed again after the bath.  

I wasn’t terribly hungry, so I headed to a bar owned by a Kurdish Turk and his Japanese wife, who served me shish-kebab. I sat at a table, but they directed me to the bar where I could have company, namely a 41 year old Alcoholic English teacher  who had lived in Japan for 18 years and seemingly new everyone in the town.  We wandered around, looking for live Brazilian music, which sadly only began past midnight. 

There’s a significant Brazilian population in Hamamatsu, and many of the public signage is in both Japanese and Brazilian.  They are mostly bi-racial Japanese Brazilians who migrated back from South America, and work in the Suzuki factories based around Hamamatsu.  Below, you can see Softbank, a mobile operator trumpeting its bilingual capabilities.  

I caroused a bit and made it home to my hotel, where I slept like a baby. 

The next day I awoke with a new wheeling fervor.  Slightly disgruntled by the previous day’s setbacks, I was exited to assemble my bicycle once again and ride 100km.   I felt bad for the help at the hotel, which had to endure the confusion and terror of looking at my blood–stained sheets.  I felt the urge to leave a tip, but didn’t as it can be considered patronizing and rude in this culture.  As if I don’t make enough faux-pas every day…I found an excellent cycle shop in the city which resurrected  my bicycle to full heath and mana with deft and speed.

After gawking at top-notch cycling equipment and purchasing a new water bottle and some accessories, I stocked up on energy bars and mixed a re-hydration coctail of Pocari Sweat, fiber supplement, and spring water.I put on my headphones and turned up Body Language 4 mixed by DJ Dixon. Click the link to have a listen. The Japanese countryside rolled by as I edged closer and closer to Nagoya, the day’s target.  I passed numerous abandoned entertainment and pachinko establishments, deserted and seemingly bombed out after Japan’s economic boom.  Below is the Cannon Bowl.  Eerie. Across the street was an upside down house sprinkled in graffiti.  An unlocked bicycle was parked outside, suggesting someone lives there. I continued to ride through Toyohashi the GPS navigation told me to make a rare turn onto a back road.  I followed it, and found myself in the middle of Toyohashi Festival 2008.  What luck! Here, I snacked, preempting lunch for this wonderful occasion.  Fried chicken, chocolate covered bananas, coffee, french fries (with no ketchup to speak of!), and a few other special treats. The festival had a giant blue tarp filled with people sawing wood and building structures and objects.  In Japanese culture, craftsmanship and the ability to make objects of quality is held in special reverence.  This bicycle journey was awakening me to the reality which was reflected in the numerous books and articles I had read about the concept.  The youngsters sawed and pounded away, nurtured into this culture of craftsmanship.  I was brought back to my backyard treehouse days, sawing the same two-by-fours and building all manner of skateboard furniture and miscellaneous artworks. I stocked up on water and headed onward towards Nagoya, witnessing all manner of psychedelic constructs.  After wheeling for 40 more Kilometers, I met up again with Callum in Mikawa Anjo, to where he had taken the Shinkansen.  We ate another snack at a wild west themed restaurant and began entering the urban sprawl of nagoya.After speeding through traffic for a good hour and a half, we arrived downtown. Nagoya is a city I highly recommend.  As Japan’s fourth largest city, the area is unusually wealthy compared with other cities outside of Tokyo.  This is because of Toyota and Honda choosing to headquarter themselves here, creating a gigantic supply chain of vendors also based in the area creating everything from vulcanized rubber to seat upholstery and audio systems.  Nagoya is also known for Miso-Katsu, a special type of Don Katsu fried with miso instead of standard batter.  We got a recommendation from our hotelier and ventured down to eat.  The delicacy and branded glass is pictured below.

Delicious.  We wandered around a bit looking for an Australian pub featuring an ale brewed in Callum’s hometown.  Incredibly, we walked by an office building where dozens of baseball fans had gathered to watch a game. The team they rooted for is owned by the corporation headquartered in this office building.  During games, the company invites fans to sit in the lobby and watch the game on their plasma television.  The crowd cheered and whacked sticks together to make noise and generate excitement.  I’ll never understand spectator sports.  We strolled around Nagoya passing through dodgy districts flush with pachinko parlors and seedy bars.  Circus Circus game and coffee pictured below. After some digging on Wikitravel and local recommendations, we stumbled across a nightclub that seemed to be miraculously hopping this Sunday night.  The DJ quickly befriended Callum and began to play some of the best dance music I have ever heard in my life. We danced around vigorously in sandals with the other Sunday night party-goers and stretched out our muscles from the day’s ride.  The DJ gave Callum a promotional mix CD, and we headed off to the hotel in a Taxi.  Nagoya will forever hold a special place in my heart and musical education.

Callum and I woke up in Nagoya on Day 5, with two days to reach our target Osaka, 200km away.  We didn’t have a set destination for this day, and decided to ride until we felt like relaxing somewhere in the less populated zone before Kansai propper.  I woke up and tried to view our planned route on the GPS, which appeared to be out of batteries.  After switch in in new batteries, we discovered our trusted handlebar mounted robot was on the fritz.  It would power up and then turn off, and turn off when we tried to view a route.  Racking our brains for solutions, we ended up relying on our iPhone GPS functionality to plot the day’s course, praying that the GPS would come back to life.  We recovered our energies with a breakfast at Dennys.  After Wheeling for a bit, we came across a strange looking row of structures, which we assumed were spacecraft from a distance. Upon further inspection, the spacecraft turned out to be a hydroelectric Dam. Callum found some information on it which is pictured below.  So we rode across it and studied its mechanics for a while, after watching an elderly man weave through cones that he had set up, on his rollerblades.   We continued to ride at a steady pace, passing the 400km-from-tokyo marker in the afternoon.  Look closely and you can see I have four fingers outstretched.   

 We continued to ride…into the evening…  

 Into the sunset… Finally, before a sizable hill climb, we found a small town called Kameyama in which we could find lodging and sustenance.   Also, in the parking lot of a convenience store, was parked a single engine propeller plane.  We took this as a good omen. After checking into our hotel room and exploring the doo-dads, devices, and ecoutrements that vary across Japanese hotel rooms, we headed down to the “Relaxation Room and Public Bath.”  The hotel’s public bath was essentially a gigantic Sento, or hot bathing tub.  Also were sit-down shower stalls and soap.  We cleaned ourselves up, and shaved in front of a gigantic mirror with razors provided by the hotel.  I choose a clean shaven look, while my partner in crime Callum shaped his beard, which was growing more attractive and robust as the days wore on. After we had sufficiently dried ourselves, we headed to the relaxation room after a quick visit to the vending machine.  The relaxation room had a massage chair, two foot massaging machines, and a strange vibration platform with elaborate usage instructions.  Each device had a coin slot, where feeding in ¥100 bought you 10 minutes of bliss. Here are some photos. 

 The foot massage machine was warning me I had overly large feet, but the added pressure was a bonus (I’m 31.5 cm while the specified maximum is 30) Amazingly, the magazine rack contained a publication with an article rating pork buns at various convenience stores.  Here I am in Kameyama, sipping a beer, getting a robotic Chinese foot massage, and reading pork bun reviews.   After we had sufficiently drained our pockets of ¥100 coins, we headed to the hotel reception-cum-concierge  and asked for a good Yakiniku restaurant where we could grill our own meat and enjoy a fine meal.  She called a taxi and directed us about 10 minutes away. I let callum peruse the menu and make the ordering decisions, as his experience far outstripped mine. He ordered high quality beef and normal quality beef, one of each, as well as some appetizers and beverages. When the food came, it just kept coming, so we kept grilling.  We thought that it was so cheap to order so much high quality beef out here in the country side.   Callum and I ate until we were very full. And then the food coma began. Note that we hadn’t finished but a third of the total beef.  How could this be? Then the bill came.  Not only had we eaten a third of our beef, but the bill was about four times more expensive than expected.  We quickly consulted with the waitress.  She noted that we had ordered five of each beef plate. Callum corrected her in Japanese that we had ordered ONE of each beef plate.  She corrected him again that no, we had indeed ordered FIVE of each beef plate.And then it hit us.  We had actually ordered five of each, as the Japanese for “Five of each” and “One of each” are very similar.  Callum called a friend to confirm the mistake.  So we felt a little aggrevated that we had so much uneaten food, and that we couldn’t take it home and have it for breakfast because it was thinly sliced RAW beef.  Well, the meal had been spectacular, and we couldn’t be bogged down by such things. So we went home to rest and digest.