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.