If you can read a Japanese date you’ll realise that this photo was taken back in February, when we spent a very enjoyable and appropriately geeky day at the Linear Railway Park – a new railway museum in Nagoya. If you’re visiting this part of Japan and have even a passing interest in trains (heh heh) I definitely recommend paying a visit. At ¥1000 a ticket it isn’t the cheapest day out, but you get plenty of trains for your money. If you’re lucky you might even get to try out the bullet train driving simulator.
Watch out for hardcore train geeks with huge cameras. They have little patience for mere mortals who obstruct the view of their precious trains!
A few weeks ago I went to Osaka to catch up with my friend from Takarazuka, Crazy K.
To save money we looked for a cheap hotel. Because Japan’s urban areas are some of the most densely populated in the world, the main way hoteliers can reduce their costs is to reduce your space. In the case of our particular hotel they reduced it to this:
It was a bizarre mix of high-tech and high school. After checking in at reception we were given keys to our metal lockers where we could stash all of our stuff. We then refreshed ourselves in the communal baths, bought drinks and snacks from the onsite vending machines, watched TV in the 1980s communal lounge, and then retired to our $25 coffins to die sleep.
The capsules were actually surprisingly comfortable, and I would’ve slept quite well if I hadn’t foolishly consumed caffeinated coffee at 11pm, and if drunken salarymen hadn’t entered loudly at 3am triggering a half-asleep and justifiably grumpy capsule occupant to start shouting “Oi”, “Ooi”, “Ooooiiii”. How considerate.
The next morning I witnessed a quintessentially Japanese sight. A crumpled businessman emerged from his capsule, got dressed outside his high-school-style metal locker in a shirt, cufflinks and a fine business suit, and styled his hair for a power meeting, thereby transforming himself from a shrivelled drunk to a successful business professional in just 5 minutes. It was like I was witnessing the accelerated metamorphosis of a caterpillar to a butterfly. Well maybe not a butterfly… perhaps just some kind of ultra-efficient grey moth.
It is exactly one year since the most powerful known earthquake ever to have hit Japan triggered a huge tsunami that claimed around 20,000 lives and left tens of thousands homeless. The world watched in horror as live broadcasts carried high definition video of a churning black waterfall, 10 metres high in places, advancing up to 10 kilometres inland, swallowing whole townships in its wake. The tsunami disabled critical cooling systems at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power station which lead to a serious nuclear incident, explosions and the release of radiation. Japan thus considers the events of March 11 to have been a “triple disaster”, and the Prime Minister at that time declared it to be the largest crisis to face this country since the end of World War Two.
In Nagoya we feel quite removed from what happened on March 11 2011, and what is continuing to unfold in Tohoku – some 500km north-east of here. None of our friends or relatives have been directly affected by the disaster. We have not visited the area, so I cannot provide any information that is first hand. Despite all this I still want to try to convey, however inadequately, something of the suffering that continues to face the people of that region, and the immense challenges yet to face the region and the country as a whole.
March 11 has dominated the TV schedule for the last week. What is clear is that Japan has changed – forever. People who have lived near the sea all of their lives now fear it. Towns and cities scramble to prepare for future tsunamis much taller than have hitherto been forecast. Faith in Japan’s advanced technology has been shaken, and the myth of totally safe nuclear power has been shattered. An incestuous, self-serving relationship between the government nuclear regulator and the nuclear industry has been exposed, one report at a time, compounding what seems to be a loss of trust in government amongst the general public. With the temporary suspension of all nuclear power generation in the country, “Energy Conservation” has become a national religion. People have stopped buying rice and vegetables produced in Tohoku – even from agricultural areas not affected – causing further economic hardship for the region. Fresh produce from China is, for the first time, an appealing alternative. Tourists have stopped coming to Tohoku. Foreign tourists have stopped coming to Japan all together.
The myriad of TV interviews with disaster survivors being broadcast this week echo common themes: Insatiable emptiness. Deep anger. Deep grief. For men who have lost their livelihoods, a general loss of purpose. Regrets. The guilt surviving when your child didn’t. There is anecdotal evidence of families and marriages falling apart; people turning to drink; committing suicide. For thousands who are living in temporary accommodation, either because their homes were destroyed in the tsunami or because of forced evacuation due to radioactive fallout, there is anxiety about when, if ever, they will be able to return to their homes and land. Roots in Japan run deep.
Regarding things physical, reconstruction has barely begun. But it has begun. Debris has been stockpiled but not removed, as prefectural governments squabble over where it should be dumped. Master plans for reconstruction of each town are being formulated. Design guidelines for reinforced concrete buildings have been rewritten in a bid to make these structures tsunami-resistant. In Minamisanriku, a town in Miyagi Prefecture that was mostly wiped out, the government plans to remove the top of a couple of hills and build two new hamlets at a safe altitude. Funding to do this is still in question. It is likely to still be half a decade or more before residents can return.
What is clear is that the disaster of March 2011 didn’t occur in March 2011… That’s just when it began. The impact of the disaster in the tsunami-hit region clearly still has a long way to run. The human aspects, psychological and emotional, are only now coming to the forefront of public consciousness. The catchphrase found on goverment literature, billboards, on signs in schools and on cross-promotional products is “Ganbarou, Tohoku.” Hang in there, Tohoku. Keep persevering. Work hard. But the burden of this exhortation is in fact, contrary to the best of intentions, crushing upon the spirits of the survivors. How can a pain so deep from the loss of a son, the disappearance of a wife, be conquered by mere stoicism alone. Contrarily, I believe people need to hear that it’s OK not to cope. This is, in a strange paradox, the only way they can.
This is not the way the world was meant to be. Yet this is how it is. We all need a Saviour to save us from death.
Many areas of rural and semi-rural Japan have a public address system operated by the town council. Multiple loudspeakers are installed on tall poles that are strategically located to ensure that all houses that fall under the council’s jurisdiction are covered. This is the one nearest our house:
The system serves a number of purposes:
It is used to relay announcements in emergencies – such as during the landfall of Typhoon 15 in September when the system kept us notified of the water level of a major river that runs nearby. Several years ago when I was living in a much more rural part of Japan (in northern Shiga Prefecture) the system was used to warn us when bears had been spotted about the town.
Much less usefully the system is used to play “music” at noon and at 6pm. Town councils are seemingly oblivious to the fact that Japan practically invented the modern electronic wristwatch.
Finally, it is used to broadcast announcements about civil events, often at a very uncivil 6.45am on a Saturday morning. Any hypothetical interest I have in attending a council event on a Saturday would quickly evaporate once I am woken up at 6.45 by a loudspeaker imploring me to do what I have already decided to do, albeit now with an hour less of sleep.
So in order, these three different purposes are: practical, unnecessary and annoying.
Some of my friends who live in more rural areas actually have loudspeakers installed in the kitchens of their homes so that messages can be delivered from the town council directly to their brains. The speakers can’t be switched off, nor can the volume be adjusted. The messages are broadcast anytime the council feels like it. This helps councils to enforce a suitably flamboyant style of mourning with respect to the recent and unfortunate passing of our Dear Leader. Is anyone else reminded of a crazy little country on the other side of the Sea of Japan?