Lost Japan Read Online Free
Author: Alex Kerr
The people working in the fields still wore the woven straw raincoats seen in samurai
movies. Inside the houses, cooking was done over an open hearth sunk into the floor.
New houses had been built alongside the Taisho road, which followed the course of the river. But in order to visit the older houses, it was not unusual to have to hike for an hour or two up from the roadside along narrow mountain paths. Consequently, there was very little contact with the outside world; some old women I met had not descended from their native hamlets for over ten years.
To Iya residents, all outsiders are labeled
shimo no hito
(literally, ‘people from below’). Although, as a foreigner, I was an especially strange
shimo no hito
, Japanese from Tokyo or Osaka are lumped together into this group as well. Because of this, the attitude towards foreigners in Iya is relatively relaxed. However, the reality of my being a foreigner was an inescapable fact, much more so as I was quite possibly the first Westerner to have ever ventured into the heart of the region. One day, tired from a strenuous one-hour hike up a steep mountain path to one of Iya’s hamlets, I sat down to rest on the stone steps of a small shrine. After about ten minutes, an old lady toiled into view on the path below. As she approached the shrine, I stood up to ask her for directions. She took one look at my face, let out a shriek, and ran off down the path. Later, when I asked the villagers about it, they explained that the old lady had thought I was the god of the shrine, come out for a little air. It was a perfectly logical conclusion, since Shinto gods traditionally have long red hair. I recall this incident even now, when I see the gods in Noh and Kabuki performances come out with their flaming manes.
In the Iya houses of twenty years ago mysterious shadows still abounded. The valley’s rocky slopes are completely unsuited to rice paddies, so traditional agriculture consisted of crops such as millet, buckwheat and
mitsumata
(the fibers of which are used to make 10,000-yen notes). But the main crop was tobacco, introduced by the Portuguese into Japan in the early 1600s. Until
recently, when a courtesan in a Kabuki play put a long pipe to her lips and inserted a pinch of pipe tobacco, she used Iya tobacco.
Because of the constantly swirling mists in the valley, the tobacco was dried inside, hung from the rafters over the smoking hearths. So Iya houses are ceilingless, and the roofs soar upwards like the vaults of a Gothic church. The first time I entered a traditional Iya dwelling, I was shocked to find that the interior of the house was pitch black. The floor, pillars and walls were all colored a deep ebony from years of smoke rising from the open hearth. The Japanese call this
kurobikari
(literally, ‘black glistening’). After a little while, my eyes adjusted and I could gradually make out the thatch on the underside of the roof. The thatch too was a shiny black color, almost as though it had been lacquered.
Iya was always desperately poor, and its houses are small in comparison to those of most rural areas in Japan. The houses of Hida-Takayama are many times larger, rising five stories or more, but since each story has a ceiling, one feels little sense of spaciousness upon entering. Iya’s houses, on the other hand, feel extremely roomy inside due to the darkness and the lack of ceilings. Inside, the house is cavelike; outside is a world above the clouds.
Even now, when I travel back to Iya, I feel as though I’ve left the world behind and entered a magical realm. This feeling is stronger now than ever, because whilst the towns and plains below have been completely modernized, Iya remains little changed. Near the entrance to the valley there stands an Edo-period stone monument inscribed at the command of the Lord of Awa, which reads: ‘Iya, Peach Spring of our land of Awa’. The ‘Peach Spring’ is the subject of an old Chinese poem about an otherworldly
movies. Inside the houses, cooking was done over an open hearth sunk into the floor.
New houses had been built alongside the Taisho road, which followed the course of the river. But in order to visit the older houses, it was not unusual to have to hike for an hour or two up from the roadside along narrow mountain paths. Consequently, there was very little contact with the outside world; some old women I met had not descended from their native hamlets for over ten years.
To Iya residents, all outsiders are labeled
shimo no hito
(literally, ‘people from below’). Although, as a foreigner, I was an especially strange
shimo no hito
, Japanese from Tokyo or Osaka are lumped together into this group as well. Because of this, the attitude towards foreigners in Iya is relatively relaxed. However, the reality of my being a foreigner was an inescapable fact, much more so as I was quite possibly the first Westerner to have ever ventured into the heart of the region. One day, tired from a strenuous one-hour hike up a steep mountain path to one of Iya’s hamlets, I sat down to rest on the stone steps of a small shrine. After about ten minutes, an old lady toiled into view on the path below. As she approached the shrine, I stood up to ask her for directions. She took one look at my face, let out a shriek, and ran off down the path. Later, when I asked the villagers about it, they explained that the old lady had thought I was the god of the shrine, come out for a little air. It was a perfectly logical conclusion, since Shinto gods traditionally have long red hair. I recall this incident even now, when I see the gods in Noh and Kabuki performances come out with their flaming manes.
In the Iya houses of twenty years ago mysterious shadows still abounded. The valley’s rocky slopes are completely unsuited to rice paddies, so traditional agriculture consisted of crops such as millet, buckwheat and
mitsumata
(the fibers of which are used to make 10,000-yen notes). But the main crop was tobacco, introduced by the Portuguese into Japan in the early 1600s. Until
recently, when a courtesan in a Kabuki play put a long pipe to her lips and inserted a pinch of pipe tobacco, she used Iya tobacco.
Because of the constantly swirling mists in the valley, the tobacco was dried inside, hung from the rafters over the smoking hearths. So Iya houses are ceilingless, and the roofs soar upwards like the vaults of a Gothic church. The first time I entered a traditional Iya dwelling, I was shocked to find that the interior of the house was pitch black. The floor, pillars and walls were all colored a deep ebony from years of smoke rising from the open hearth. The Japanese call this
kurobikari
(literally, ‘black glistening’). After a little while, my eyes adjusted and I could gradually make out the thatch on the underside of the roof. The thatch too was a shiny black color, almost as though it had been lacquered.
Iya was always desperately poor, and its houses are small in comparison to those of most rural areas in Japan. The houses of Hida-Takayama are many times larger, rising five stories or more, but since each story has a ceiling, one feels little sense of spaciousness upon entering. Iya’s houses, on the other hand, feel extremely roomy inside due to the darkness and the lack of ceilings. Inside, the house is cavelike; outside is a world above the clouds.
Even now, when I travel back to Iya, I feel as though I’ve left the world behind and entered a magical realm. This feeling is stronger now than ever, because whilst the towns and plains below have been completely modernized, Iya remains little changed. Near the entrance to the valley there stands an Edo-period stone monument inscribed at the command of the Lord of Awa, which reads: ‘Iya, Peach Spring of our land of Awa’. The ‘Peach Spring’ is the subject of an old Chinese poem about an otherworldly
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