SAKURA, SAKURA E-Book

Carolina Veranen-Phillips

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 408

Beschreibung

It is with an open mind and familiar excitement that Carolina moves to the Land of the Rising Sun, where ancestral culture intermingles tightly with high-tech modernism, and social rules are taken to the extreme. She discovers a country filled with subtle beauty, well-preserved traditions and polite, respectful people. The experience teaches her how important it is to appreciate the simple joys in life, to be accepting of things that cannot be changed - "shoganai" - and to fully respect the power of Mother Nature, who always has the upper hand.

Leseprobe

About the Author

Born into a multi-cultural family and having lived in various countries including Portugal, France, the US, the UK, Germany and Japan, Carolina loves to travel, meet new people, discover new cultures, and… write about it.

Her engaging style and optimistic approach to life makes us want to follow her in her adventures, get lost in her world and immerse ourselves in her way of seeing life.

She is convinced that open-mindedness and tolerance are keys to a better world.

For more information, visit www.carolinaveranen.com

Also by Carolina Veranen-Phillips:

Mint Tea to Maori Tattoo: ISBN 9780755214730

A Stop on the Way: ISBN 9783738608434

To all the people who crossed my path during my time in Rokkasho, who have helped

me and made my stay even more enjoyable.

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank all the people who have helped and supported us during our time in Rokkasho, Japan. You will certainly recognise yourselves.

Thank you also to David Scambler for the proof reading of the book.

Note:

Glossary of Japanese terms: Please refer to the

Glossary of Japanese terms

at the end of the book for the Japanese words in

italics

.

History on Japan: Please refer to the

Brief History on Japan

at the end of the book for more information about any historical dates and periods.

Table of Contents

PART I - E

ND OF

S

UMMER

: A

CQUAINTANCE WITH

J

APAN

Rokkasho-mura

Shrines and summer festivals

The Land of the Rising Sun and the power of nature

In Japan, learning is a path

First impression – a flying start

PART II - A

UTUMN

: G

ETTING

U

SED TO

J

APAN

Japanese food and Aomori specialities

Politeness –

tatemae

and

honne

Is Japan changing?

Traditional Japanese confections

Influences from outside, the Western World and China

Otsukimi

- autumn moon-viewing

Momijigari,

hunting for autumn foliage

Shiriyazaki Lighthouse & Kandachime horses

Salmon Festival - Sangyo Matsuri

Asamushi

Kanji

results

Second impression – acclimatisation

PART III - W

INTER IN

N

ORTH

J

APAN

: E

VERLASTING

H

IBERNATION

First drive in the Japanese snow

Christmas and New Year

Back to Rokkasho winter life

Thoughts about life and a sense of belonging?

More workshops

Sapporo Snow Festival, Hokkaido

Finland and Japan

Aomori experience in winter

Whaling – controversy

Third impression – cravings, the effect of winter?

PART IV - S

PRING

: A

WAKENING OF

N

ATURE

Sakura

An unusual Golden Week

Osore-zan and Hotokega-ura

Accession of the new emperor

Exploring Aomori-ken with the Soccer Kodenji Challenge

About fish(ing) and boys

Kimono

experience

Rokkasho Festival

Fourth impression – perception of the people of Japan

PART V - S

UMMER

A

GAIN

Travels in southwest Japan

Summer festivals

Hagibis

Coronavirus pandemic

The bear

Last impression

T

HE

E

ND

G

LOSSARY

B

RIEF

H

ISTORY OF

J

APAN

PART I - End of Summer: Acquaintance with Japan

“I need a change...” I said.

“What about Japan?” asked my husband.

“Yes, let’s do it!” I answered.

14th August 2018, 18:30. The plane has landed at Narita Airport, Tokyo, Japan. As I get off the plane, the warm, humid air of Tokyo envelops me. I stop for a second, take a deep breath, mentally picturing the oxygen being transported through the blood vessels to reach my cells. I exhale slowly. Here I am. Now. In Japan. Hello Japan!

It is midsummer. The hottest period of the year. I had visited Tokyo a year earlier and knew it would be hot and humid. A picture pops up in my mind, of us walking through the overcrowded markets of Asakusa, in front of Sensō-ji, Tokyo’s oldest Buddhist temple, feeling the sweat drip down the side of my face and looking at my children running around with their bright smiling faces and their soaking wet hair.

It’s getting late. Guy has booked a hotel for the night. We’ll catch the Tohoku Shinkansen tomorrow. This is the bullet train that will take us to our new home. Tonight, we just need to sleep. We are tired because of the jet lag. I guess we won’t be enjoying the onsen at the hotel tonight.

15th August 2018, 10:30. Quick, we have one hour to catch the train. Let’s buy breakfast on the way. I am glad I recognise Ueno station. It is where we went to get our Starbucks Coffee last year during our short stay in Tokyo. The Shinkansen arrives. It will stop for only two or three minutes. We jump on the carriage and quickly find our seats. I love the Shinkansen. It is such a great way to travel. It is spacious, clean, modern and fast. On the train, I am enjoying my soymilk cappuccino very much. I still haven’t realised what is happening.

We left Germany to come to spend a year in Aomori-ken, one of the most isolated and uninhabited regions of Japan, at the northernmost tip of Honshu, Japan’s main island, nine hours away from Tokyo by car or 3h30 on the Shinkansen. At the moment, it feels like a holiday. The joy, excitement and curiosity that comes with the opportunity of discovering a new country and its people. Will it stay that way?

Life has dealt me a new hand. A new country, a new lifestyle, a new language, a new culture, and I have the chance to choose how I want to use it. One step at the time. First, observe my surroundings, learn from my experience, remain flexible, adapt, and enjoy every minute of it. As G. Stanley Hall says “Man is largely a creature of habit, and many of his activities are more or less automatic reflexes from the stimuli of his environment”. In order to happily settle down, I need to step out of my comfort zone and create a new routine, adapted to my new environment. Lulled by the monotonous sound of the Shinkansen, I close my eyes with a smile on my face and fall asleep. I get suddenly woken up by an announcement on the train. They are saying something in Japanese. I don’t understand anything apart from okudasai and arigatō gozaimasu. I look at the screen, where hiragana, katakana and kanji letters are dancing together. I am trying to read the hiragana and katakana that I learnt a few months earlier. I can still remember some of them. But quickly it gives me a headache. I tell myself, “Well, it is going to take some time to be able to read this fluently!”

The person next to me, notices that I’m writing the hiragana and katakana alphabets and some kanji characters. I ask him politely why there are various ways of saying the same kanji letter. He talks about on-yomi and kun-yomi which will only make sense to me later, and finishes by saying that if it is on its own, the kanji will be pronounced one way but if it is coupled to another kanji, the pronunciation will be different. It is just something one has to learn. I already find it very challenging to learn 2000 kanji to be fluent, on top of the hiragana and katakana alphabets. But if on top of that each kanji has different pronunciations, it is going to take some time before I can speak. I laugh.

Since we only booked the tickets the night before, we didn’t get to sit together. Suddenly, Aksel, my youngest son, comes over to swap seats with me for a while. As I return later to swap back, I discover he has already made friends with the man sitting next to him. He is even watching a cartoon on the man’s phone. “How did he manage that?” I wonder. People in this country are so helpful and friendly. Once I return to my seat, the man asks me, where we were going. I answer, “Rokkasho”. “Rokkasho-mura, ahh” repeats the man, looking surprised and maybe even thinking, “Who on earth would be going there?” I add, “It’s for my husband’s work.” He asks, “At the Fusion Energy Research Centre?” “Yes, exactly. At QST,” I replied, smiling. Now I just want to arrive. I want to be there.

Rokkasho-mura

Rokkasho-mura is our final destination. Here, the weather is quite different. Still very humid but far enough north to no longer be subtropical, it’s 10 °C less on average than in the capital. The temperature difference is very noticeable immediately as we step off the Shinkansen into the cooler air.

Map of Japan

Rokkasho-mura. Mura means village. Rokkasho is a village in Aomori-ken, one of the 47 prefectures in Japan. So far north that only the Tsugaru Strait, which connects the Sea of Japan with the Pacific Ocean, separates it from Hokkaido.

I like the name Aomori (Ao or 青, meaning blue, and Mori or 森, meaning forest), the Blue Forest. This mystic name appropriately depicts the region in which I will spend the next year of my life. A region with few people but an abundance of nature, where lakes, mountains and pine forests meet the sea. It is a welcoming place, inviting me to reflect on my life, and connect with my environment.

Aomori Prefecture

Our arrival in Japan coincides with the end of Obon, one of Japan’s three major holiday seasons. Very quickly I will find out how festive Japan is during summer, with its enjoyable matsuri (festivals) and beautiful hanabi (fireworks) dispersed all over the country. Arriving two weeks before the beginning of the school year hopefully gives me the chance to become more familiar with my new surroundings.

The ocean is the first thing in Rokkasho that I want to see. After having spent nearly ten years in Munich, miles away from the ocean, I long to be near a deep blue seemingly infinite body of water. My fascination for the ocean is not new but I still wonder where it comes from, this fascination. Maybe it’s because I was born on the Atlantic coast of Portugal? We live a 15 minute walk from the beach. As I step on the beach for the first time, I instantly fall in love with it. I tell myself, “No matter what happens this year, I will always feel happy, here, by the water.” I feel an instant connection to nature. The children, following their impulse to enjoy themselves, run laughing towards the water. I follow them, also running. I want to touch it. Is it warm like in Indonesia, or cold like in Portugal? I wonder... It is not too cold. Close to the shore, it is warm enough to paddle in. Some moments later, Aksel comes running back to me and hugs me, “Thank you so much, Maman, for finding this beach!” I think the ocean has a similar effect on him as it does on me. He makes me smile on the inside.

This beach is very different to a southern European beach, on the crowded Mediterranean coast. By contrast, it is wild, undomesticated, as if Mother Nature has taken back what belongs to her. Not many people visit. A few surfers during summer when the weather allows it, the occasional person walking their dog after work or fishermen in the water wearing waders to keep themselves dry. When I walk to the beach, alone or with my children, it is as if I’m entering a parallel universe. Birds, including kites, eagles, ravens and seagulls are the masters here. As soon as we step on the sand, the eagles fly over to check us out. Sometimes they feel too close. I remember going for a walk on the beach, while Xavier, my eldest son, was running up and down the dunes, a few metres away from me, when suddenly one of the eagles circled over him. Immediately an image of a huge eagle grabbing a sheep with his claws in the Andes came to mind. I must have seen it on television... The birds of prey here are a lot smaller though, so there was no such danger. Such a thing would be inconceivable at this beach. Nevertheless, I guess this is how a human brain works, always trying to compare today’s reality with images from the past. After a while, the eagle disappeared, leaving us to enjoy the view and the peace alone.

Rokkasho Beach

There is something about this beach that fascinates me, always reminding me of the true power of nature. It feels alive, constantly changing. Each time I come, I wonder what the ocean will have brought to shore this time, what shape the wind will have sculpted in the sand, which bird will be waiting for me, whose footprints will be present? Each day brings a new scenery, sometimes subtly, sometimes more visibly. On one occasion, the shore is filled with flotsam and jetsam, the next with seaweed, sometimes just one species of seashell, perhaps flattened sea urchins or empty scallop shells, some other, transparent jellyfish or orange starfish. Some days the wind sweeps the whole beach, covering everything with a fresh layer of sand, as if to say, “Here’s a fresh canvas, start anew!” And on another yet, the ocean carves the sand into tiny, regular domes of wet sand, some golden, some dark, leaving behind a multitude of trickles of water like a miniature irrigation system along the shore. A scene that lasts until the tide rises and erases it, replacing it with a new scene, another piece of nature’s art. If we walk long enough, we reach the mouth of the Oipe River, where the crystal-clear shallow water encourages the sun’s rays to reflect off the golden sand at the bottom, making them shine and glitter, dancing with the flow of the water. This beach is my connection to nature, helping me find a sense of peace, well-being, and a feeling of pure freedom, mixed with the strange sensation of being only a minute grain of sand in this infinite universe. And still this place regularly shows me that everything has its place. In order to provide a universal balance, each actor, even a grain of sand, has its role to play. Nothing is left aside.

Nature abounds in and around the village. Not only the ocean, but forests, fields, lakes and rivers, too. Before school starts, the children and I explore the village on foot, discovering where the international school, the village pool, the shops and the river are. To my surprise, the streets are empty. Occasionally a car drives by slowly, then someone rides past on a bike. Where are the people of Rokkasho? I read that there were 11,000 residents in Rokkasho-mura, but I don’t see them! Where are they? Maybe on holiday? Japanese school hasn’t started yet and it is summer after all. In fact, this is the first question I ask my Japanese friend, Itsuko-san, “Where are the Rokkasho people?” When hearing the question, Itsuko-san looks at me, puzzled, wondering what I mean. She hesitates before answering, “Well, people are at work... And if they do not work, like the housewives or mothers, they stay at home, go shopping, or are busy with their daily routine. But no, no one wanders around the streets.”

At this point, I realise I’ve missed an important detail. Rokkasho-mura, proclaimed in April 1889, after the start of the Edo period, is in fact an agglomeration of six smaller hamlets. Obuchi, the hamlet where we live, is only one of them. So these 11,000 inhabitants are actually spread over a 252 square kilometre area, almost the same area as Munich which has over a million inhabitants! As soon as I recognise that, it makes sense not to see many people in the village. Coming to Obuchi feels like been transported to another world, where time has suddenly slowed down. My busy European life is momentarily set aside, giving me time to enjoy nature, the sunshine and to discover Japan. The opportunity of a lifetime.

On one of our walks back from the beach during the first week, I experience my first Obuchi encounter. While waiting at the traffic lights, my children and I notice a lady next to us. I politely say, “konnichiwa” to her, smiling, and she replies, “Bonjour,” bowing slightly. She must have heard us speaking French. It is Itsuko-san. I didn’t know at the time, but her husband works with my husband at QST. We are walking in the same direction, so we exchange a few words in English. While talking, we realise that we have a friend in common, Yoshie. I’d met Yoshie when she was living in Munich a couple of years earlier and had visited her the previous year when she and her family had moved to Tsukuba, near Tokyo. Itsuko-san and I decide to exchange phone numbers. Besides buying groceries at the supermarket, she is my first human interaction in the village. Little did I know that Itsuko-san would become my greatest helper throughout my time in Rokkasho. She introduced me to many aspects of Japanese culture, especially the kind you don’t typically see as a tourist. She took time to show me around, taking me to places like the Misawa Aviation Museum, the main Shinto Shrine in Shichinohe and the beach in Noheji.

One thing she helps greatly with is her assistance with my son’s strong gluten intolerance. As soon as Itsuko-san found out about Xavier’s coeliac condition, she went out of her way to help, calling many Japanese food companies to check if their products contained gluten. Something I would not have been able to do alone. She showed me the various gluten-free flours I could use, including rice flour, buckwheat flour, corn and potato starch. She also helped me discover gluten-free (GF) products. I naïvely thought Japan would be an easy country to live in with a gluten intolerant child. But contrary to what people might think, most Japanese food contains gluten. It starts with soy sauce, which contains gluten and is used everywhere. From day one, I immersed myself in learning kanji characters, starting with ko-mugi (meaning wheat). Being able to recognise these kanji made my life a lot easier, allowing me to look through the list of ingredients and decide whether or not packaged foods were suitable for Xavier. To be on the safe side, I avoided packaged food as much as possible, as I previously did in Germany, basing our family diet on fresh food like rice, fruit, vegetables, meat, fish and tofu, as well as dairy products, juices, eggs, nuts and seeds. Eventually I found ice-cream, crisps, popcorn and rice crackers suitable for Xavier. Luckily, our diet range in Japan was still quite broad and generally healthy. By avoiding processed foods like sauces, noodles, and other wheat-based products such as dumplings and gyoza, we were unfortunately going to miss out on some Japanese culinary specialities... Such is life! With time, I started cooking Japanese food with alternative products. Instead of making tempura or gyoza with wheat flour, I make my tempura with rice flour, my gyoza with pre-prepared rice flour pastry and use gluten-free soy sauce for my stir-fries. In the first couple of weeks, I found a company online offering a broad range of rice products including ramen, pasta, bread and doughnuts. Finding products at the supermarket is something that we take for granted when we live in a country in which we can read and speak the language. It’s not so easy in a country where we can’t. My grocery shopping experience during the first month was like going on a research expedition, discovering new territories, new species, new previously undiscovered culinary ideas. Without understanding the lettering, our brain looks for other cues to recognise products. Sometimes it works, while other times, there are surprises. We discovered mirin, when we bought what we thought was a bottle of oil. In fact, this essential condiment in the Japanese cuisine is a lot thinner than oil. It is a bit like sake but with a lower alcohol content and a higher sugar content and is often used in stir-fries. My children love it and now I use it all the time!

Shrines and summer festivals

On a sunny morning in September, Itsuko-san takes me to the Shichinohe shrine festival. She was asked by one of her friends to help during the preparations by dressing the men, with their traditional but complicated costumes. She invited me to show me the backstage activities of the festival.

While driving to Shichinohe, I ask Itsuko-san, “How far is it to the Shichinohe Temple?” She replies, “It’s a bit less than an hour...” before politely adding, “it’s a shrine, ... not a temple.” “Oh” I reply, a bit confused. I’m not really sure what the difference is. She carries on, “A temple is a place of worship for Buddhism, a shrine is for Shintoism.” “Ah!” I say, trying to clarify the difference in my head. Now is as good a time as any to begin to understand religion in Japan. “So, what is the difference between Shintoism and Buddhism?” I ask. I am pleased, because we have an hour’s drive and I’m really interested to find out more. Itsuko-san uses the time to explain the concept of these two main religions in Japan.

Shintoism or kami-no-michi (the path of the gods) is an animist religion deeply rooted in the Japanese people and traditions. The kami, also called Shinto gods, are sacred spirits, which take the form of things important to life such as trees, mountains or rain. After people die, they become kami and are revered by their family as their ancestral kami. In contrast to other religions, Shintoism has no specific way of life. There is no right, no wrong. Nobody is perfect. Shintoism is an optimistic faith. Humans are inherently good, while evil only comes from evil spirits. That is why most of the Shinto rituals are performed to keep evil spirits away through prayer, purification and offerings.

Buddhism, originating in India, arrived in Japan via China and Korea in the 6th century. After some brief conflicts with the Shinto religion, a way to co-exist was found. The Buddhists saw the kami as a revelation from Buddha, and the Shinto followers saw Buddha and other Buddhist deities as kami. The consequence of reconciling the two religions meant that Buddhist temples were attached to local Shinto shrines and devoted to both kami and Buddhas. The two religions never truly fused but remain closely linked.

During the Nara Period (710-1185), the great Buddhist monasteries in the capital Nara gained strong political influence. At the end of the 16th century the two daimyo, or feudal lords, Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, hoping to reunite Japan, fought the militant Buddhist monasteries and practically extinguished Buddhist influence on politics.

In the Meiji Period (1868-1912), Shintoism became a state religion in Japan, forging a national identity with the Emperor at its centre, to emancipate Shintoism from Buddhism. However, after the Second World War, Shintoism was separated again from the state. Nowadays, most of the Japanese people honour both religions for different purposes. Buddhism deals with death and is therefore practised more for funerals. Most households keep a small Buddhist altar, called a butsudan, in order to pay respect to their ancestors, whereas the Shinto religion is practised more for bringing good luck including safe childbirth, good health and success at exams.

Itsuko-san concludes, “We believe in both religions, we even combine them. For example, on New Year’s Day, we go to the Buddhist temple to be purified by ringing a purification bell, then we go to the Shinto shrine to happily celebrate the New Year.”

Coming from a country where we honour none or only one religion at a time, I find it fascinating that the Japanese can so easily believe in two religions at once. It shows open-mindedness and flexibility.

Shinto Torii

As we arrive, Itsuko-san and I take the stairs leading to the shrine, past the wooden torii, or Shinto gate, decorated with two Japanese flags and a thick brown rope which is tied to both extremities of the gate. I will come to discover that this rope, called shimenawa, serves as protection against evil spirits. The gate is also adorned with strips of white paper hanging underneath it. We walk into the building, right next to the shrine, which is warm and lively. Warm, because there is a group of elderly ladies behind huge pots, cooking traditional food for all the volunteers participating in the shrine festival, called matsuri. And lively because everyone seems to be having a good time, talking and laughing. As we leave the kitchen and enter the tatami room, we see a small group of ladies, sorting out the festival outfits, while in the opposite corner, two or three women are busy helping a group of men put on their traditional costumes. Itsuko-san knows where she needs to go and starts helping an elderly man with the first layer of his costume. It takes a long while to dress each man. There are various layers of the kimono to put on, in a precise order, using strings and ropes to hold everything together. I find myself sitting on the tatami in a corner of the room, simply observing all the activity. I would like to take pictures but decide not to, out of respect. After a while, one of the men comes closer to me. He is taller than the others and seems very cheerful. He asks me if I speak Japanese. I wish I could say yes but I just reply, “chotto dake!” (just a little). He makes me understand, by showing me the face of his costume, that in the festival parade, he will be representing tengu, the character with the long nose, literally the heavenly dog. I find the character quite amusing and am curious to find out what its role in the parade is, and what it symbolises. I discover that tengu were depicted as disruptive demons in Buddhism. In Japanese folklore tengu emerged as Shinto gods. Over the centuries, their image gradually became more protective, softening as the spirit of the mountains and forests as they are now seen. They are regularly represented in the Shinto summer festival parades.

Itsuko-san and one of the parade participants

Unfortunately we have to leave the shrine without watching the parade. It’s a weekday and I need to be at home on time for my children.

Festivals are a very important part of Japanese culture, and are used as a way to celebrate each season. Throughout the summer, each shrine organises its own festival, often involving a procession of people through the streets, carrying or pulling all sorts of things, including bamboo poles with lanterns and dragon boat floats, depending on the local culture and tradition. In Aomori prefecture, the largest summer festival, and third largest in the country, is the Nebuta Matsuri in Aomori city. It features floats with gigantic illuminated lanterns, usually depicting gods or mythical figures, measuring up to ten-metres wide and five-metres high, accompanied by teams of taiko drummers, flute and cymbal players, as well as dancers. Festivals are number one on the summer to-do list.

Our first summer festival experience already occurs on our first weekend in Japan. Guy’s colleague, Sakurai-san, is very good at keeping us up to date with all that is happening in the area. We look at his list and decide to go to the Noheji festival. Noheji, a coastal town of less than 14,000 inhabitants, on the Mutsu Bay is only thirty minutes from Obuchi. We park the car by the beach and walk to the centre of town. We are not too sure where the parade will take place, so we just follow the crowd. All of a sudden, we hear music and groups of children appear, wearing colourful yukata. They walk down the middle of the street in front of us, some playing the flute, others holding a rope, and yet others wearing peculiar masks. Next come the decorated floats with traditionally costumed people sitting in them; then a cart shows up with girls sitting inside in a row, beautifully made-up and dressed in their yukata, drumming gracefully in unison.

The float that catches my eye is a two or three-metre-high three-dimensional papier-mâché creation supported on a wire frame. It’s a brightly coloured depiction of a fisherman on the ocean. Later I will realise that the floats are not made of papier-mâché but of painted washi paper (more on page 110). The final float closing the parade is the largest of them all, a gigantic boat decorated with artificial flowers, fish statues, lanterns and buoys. The whole thing is pulled by men wearing their traditional blue festival yukata. The atmosphere is joyful, the streets are crowded with people dressed in festival costumes, wandering around, smiling and eating takoyaki, konnyaku, or mitarashi dango, holding the hands of children, while following the procession.

Girls Drumming at the Noheji Festival

At the same time of year, another festival parade, the Mikoshi Festival Parade takes place in Misawa, a city forty-five minutes south of Obuchi. Misawa is home to a Japanese and American air base, home to 5,550 US military troops (Air Force, Navy and Army), civilian personnel and 900 Japanese employees.

Misawa city also hosts an Aviation Museum where there is a replica of the most famous plane from the area, Miss Veedol. This plane, itself a symbol of Misawa, has a great story to tell. It was the first plane to have been flown non-stop across the Pacific Ocean, crossing it in 1931. At the time, a number of organisations were offering rewards for the first successful non-stop trans-Pacific flight, from the Japanese Imperial Aeronautics Association, who were offering $100,000 to the first Japanese aviator to complete the feat, to a group of US businessmen, who were offering $28,000 to cross in the opposite direction from the US to Japan.

Pilot, Clyde Pangborn and co-pilot, Hugh Herndon had hoped to break the speed record for a round-the-world flight but had had many difficulties at the beginning of their attempt. They abandoned the endeavour, instead searching for another aviation record to break. They settled on the trans-Pacific goal and started preparations. Taking off heavily overloaded from Sabishiro Beach, they ran into their first problems while attempting to release the landing gear a few hours into the flight. Things did not go quite as planned, as some struts remained attached to the plane. Pangborn was forced to climb out onto the wing of the plane to disconnect the remaining struts, during which time Herndon took control.

To make it worse, the engine was starved of fuel, cutting out entirely. Pangborn had to dive from over 4,000 m to air start the engines to be able to continue. Later, Pangborn needed to sleep, so asked Herndon take control until Vancouver. Somehow, Herndon managed to wander off course, missing Vancouver and Seattle. Then bad weather conditions forced the pair further inland to Wenatchee, where they finally managed to land after the 41 hour flight. It was quite an achievement, but after all the trouble, they were ineligible for most of the reward money, receiving only $2,500 from the Asahi newspaper!

As they took off from Sabishiro Beach, they were not alone. A crowd of local villagers had amassed on the beach to support them. The take-off had been very challenging, but it would have been even more, if the local people had not prepared a ramp and a runway for the plane, by covering a hill of sand with wooden planks, to smoothen the departure. Just before Pangborn climbed on the plane, a young child rushed toward him with five apples from his parents’ orchard in his hands as a present. Pangborn felt touched by the gesture. Indeed, the town he came from was also famous for its apples.

Eighty years later, the town of Wenatchee made a replica of the plane and shipped it to Misawa, who put it on display at the Aviation museum for the Misawa community to enjoy. Miss Veedol is one of the emblems of Misawa; pictures of the plane are seen around the town and are also used during the various festivals.

At today’s festival, floats are replaced by mikoshi, or portable shrines, carried by groups of people wearing yukata. Not surprisingly, there is a portable shrine in the shape of Miss Veedol too. I remember this festival because of the wind. Even though it was a bright and sunny summer’s day, there was a cold wind incessantly blowing through the once popular and busy main street of Misawa. But the main reason I remember this festival so vividly is because it’s where I first encountered yosakoi.

A few groups pass in front of us, carrying their mikoshi, sometimes throwing them in the air, while happily shouting repetitive chants. Then a group of ladies, each wearing a pale yellow and bright green traditional outfit, appear. They look beautiful with their hair carefully done and their slightly exaggerated makeup. The leader of the group takes the microphone and introduces the group to the spectators. Then together, all in unison, the dancers bow politely and shout greetings to the crowd, while broadly smiling. They radiate something. Is it joy? No, it is more than that. It is a mixture of togetherness, complicity and connection within the group. I can feel it. It is powerful. These greetings have an impact on me, they touch me to the core. I don’t know why, but I get goose bumps. As the music starts, so too, the magic. The dancers begin to move as a group, slowly at first, as if mimicking a flower blossoming, then regularly widening their moves, until they reach the pinnacle of the choreography. Now they are so energetic with their dance that the crowd is fixated on them, clapping their naruko in rhythm and shouting words to emphasise parts of the song. People, young and old, are attracted like magnets, clapping and cheering them on, while the dancers carry on with their moves, constantly smiling and maintaining eye contact with the crowd. I am mesmerised. I can’t stop taking videos and photos. What is it about this dance that fascinates me? Maybe the sense of harmony and togetherness within the group. The energy that each of them emits? The best way I could describe this dance is by comparing it to what I know, Zumba. It is a Japanese version of Zumba. They look like they are enjoying themselves so much. I say to myself, “I want to learn this!”

Behind the group of dancers walks a man, holding a huge flag. It’s perhaps 3.5 metres high and 4 metres wide and adorned with the colours of Misawa. Using regular and rehearsed moves, he waves the huge flag to the rhythm of the music. Impressive! It is an effort, but it looks so easy for him. He alone, attracts as much attention as the whole group of dancers before him. The combination of both, the dancers and the flag, is stunning, spectacular. The highlight of the parade.

I will only find out later, from some friends of mine, that this dance is called yosakoi. It is a traditional dance of the fishermen, and first started in 1954 in Kochi in the southwest of Japan, as a modern version of a traditional summer dance, awa odori. This new version spread throughout the country, and now yosakoi festivals are regularly held. There is even one held close to Rokkasho, in Towada, every October.

The Land of the Rising Sun and the power of nature

Japan is called the Land of the Rising Sun for a reason. Especially in the summer when the days are longer, the sun rises before 4 am making me want to get up too. Even with thick curtains, the sun comes through. It is just something you have to get used to. The sun plays an important role in Japan, especially in its mythology and religion, as the Emperor is said to be directly descended from the sun goddess, Amaterasu. The name of the country and the design of the flag also reflect its central importance. Nihon (日本) is the name of the country in Japanese. It means sun’s origin and is often translated as Land of the Rising Sun. The name originates from China, referring to Japan’s eastern position relative to China.

Once I get used to the 4 o’clock sunrise, the next challenge is to remain asleep through the 6 o’clock village bells. Not church bells like you may hear in Europe, but classical music blasting out of the town’s loudspeakers, which are distributed all over the village. Six o’clock is time for the English folk song, Green Sleeves; at midday the melody is the same as the chimes of Big Ben; at 5 pm it’s a Japanese children’s song and finally at 8 pm Largo by Antonín Dvořák is played. Daily village life is regimented by these tunes. I am still not entirely sure why or whom this sound system is aimed at, however it seems the main purpose is to regularly check the operation of the speakers on a regular basis, in case the authorities need to suddenly broadcast warning or guidance messages during an emergency. The system is also used for advertising local events and warning people about wild animals that have been seen around the village or bad weather that is approaching. It is just another thing I have to get used to.

Guy’s birthday is approaching. It’s a good opportunity to explore some more. Towada Lake is one of the largest lakes in the region and is only two hours from Rokkasho, so I book a ryokan, a Japanese style hotel, by the lake to celebrate. The main differences between a ryokan and a western style hotel are the beds and the food. In a ryokan, we sleep on a futon, on the tatami floor and we eat Japanese food, including miso soup and fish in the morning. To split the two-hour drive, we stop in Towada city, where there is a nice little Modern Art Centre, filled with charming and strange art. The three pieces that retain my attention are The Standing Woman, a very realistic four metre high statue of an old and unattractive woman created by the Australian artist, Ron Muek; Causes and Effects, a nine-metre-high work of art, made of long chains of hundreds of colourful resin made human like figurines hanging from the 10 metre high ceiling, by the Korean artist, Su Doho; and Tree of Desire, created by Yoko Ono, who is considered one of the most important artists in the post-war art world, in Japan and overseas. Her piece is an apple tree which was planted in 1996 as an interactive peace project. Visitors are invited to write messages and hang them on the tree. Once a year the messages left on the tree are sent to Yoko Ono, who then places them at the Imagine Peace Tower, in Reykjavik, Iceland, a monument to her late husband, John Lennon. The apple tree was chosen not only because of its importance in general to the artist’s work but also because the apple is the emblem of Aomori prefecture.

Driving along the Oirase Mountain River, which will lead us straight to Lake Towada, I think to myself that I am happy to be here, in Japan, surrounded by so much nature and peacefulness. It is exactly what I need at this time in my life. A change, a new challenge. Oirase Gorge is and will remain a magical place in my heart forever, mainly because of its adaptability, constantly changing through the course of the year. Each season is unique and turns the place into something completely new, something different, all the time. Today, as it is coming to the end of the summer, the lush green of the overgrown nature on each side of the stream, dominates the place and contrasts beautifully with the blue green of the powerfully flowing stream.

As we stop at the tourist centre, my children point at the signs warning for bears. These signs put things in perspective. We were in a forest where nature is alive, all around us. Meeting a bear face-to-face is no longer a mysterious hypothesis, but a real possibility. Scary. Before heading to the hotel, we take a walk along the stream, brimming with water because of the recent rains, allowing us to connect, once more, with nature. Here and there, on the face of the steep mountain, waterfalls regularly appear, on both sides of the stream. Some tall and narrow, others wide and powerful. Like a fairy tale. I wonder what it will look like in autumn or even winter.

At the ryokan, the first thing we do is go to the onsen. The onsen is originally a Japanese hot spring, as well as a public bath. Ryokan usually have their own onsen for their guests. I believe that you haven’t experienced Japan, if you haven’t visited an onsen. The whole onsen experience usually takes between one and two hours, and it is a must when visiting Japan.

Wearing only our kimonos, we leave the room, walking through the corridors of the hotel, to the public bath and then go our separate ways. It’s pink for ladies, dark blue for men. As I am the only female in the family, I will enjoy the onsen on my own. I guess if I had a daughter, my experience would be quite different. Tattoos are not permitted, so I discreetly wash myself, like everyone else, sitting down on the mini plastic chair, facing the shower, the mirror, the soap and shampoo, provided by the hotel. I then immerse myself in the hot bath, taking a deep breath on the way in, to help my body deal with the high temperature. Here and there are other women but the onsen is not crowded. The hot water helps my muscles slowly release the tension of the day. I close my eyes and let go. I lose track of time. I let my thoughts wander and start daydreaming. After a while, when it feels too hot, I move to the outdoor onsen. Here, the cool evening breeze sweeping gently past my face welcomes me. I relish the sensation of being immersed in the hot water, with only my head protruding, sensing the cool evening air. I savour every minute of it. I take another few deep breaths, before finally leaving the onsen, taking a cold shower and walking back to the room.

A few minutes after returning to the room, the evening meal is ready. To be served in the room. Tonight’s traditional Japanese food revolves around hotate. Hotate are served in several different styles, for example as sashimi (raw), in a soup or cooked in its shell. I am not surprised because scallops are a local product, which is readily available in the local supermarket. Our region, Aomori, and Hokkaido are the two regions in Japan producing the highest quality scallops. Scallops are, at present, the most popular Japanese seafood in the world, and needless to say we’ve been regularly enjoying them since our arrival here. They are not a delicacy like in France, more an everyday food, a very enjoyable everyday food. For breakfast the next day, instead of toast with butter and jam or a bowl of cereal, we are served more scallops, accompanied by raw fish, roe, rice, pickled vegetables, miso soup and of course the traditional nattō. I am glad I like scallops. My children however, struggle to eat them, especially in the morning. The nattō also remains untouched today. It is becoming popular in the Western world, as a probiotic rich food, contributing to healthy gut flora and thus boosting the immune system. Still, I find it hard to put it in my mouth. I am not sure if it is the smell, the texture or the uncommon and strong taste that I don’t like, but it seems to be an acquired taste. A taste Aksel quickly acquired when he started eating with the Japanese kids at school. Now he wants me to buy nattō for home.

Once a popular tourist resort, Towada-ko (ko means lake in Japanese) seems to have lost some of its business and liveliness over the years, but not its natural charm and beauty. It is the largest crater-lake on Honshū Island, and has a depth of 327 m. It occupies the caldera of an active volcano, whose last eruption occurred in 915 AD. The shape of the lake very is very distinctive due to the double caldera lake formation. It feels like a mystical place, especially in the morning, when the sun is still low in the sky and fog hangs over the water.

When the sun breaks through, dispersing the mist, the view from the boat is spectacular. The steep dark rocky cliffs contrast perfectly with the various shades of green from the vegetation and the light blue of the water close to the shore. Another magical moment for me. With Lake Towada comes a story, the story of the kokanee fish. Long ago, no fish lived in the lake. Sadayuki Wainai, who was working at the Kosaka Mine, quit his job and started breeding fish. In 1884, he released 600 young carp into the lake, and carried on releasing fish regularly, but none of the fish ever returned. On his last attempt, he used kokanee salmon, called kappa, which finally came back, two years later, in 1905. The lake still hosts these fish and they have been registered as a regional collective trademark since 2015.

The main landmark on the lake’s shore is the bronze statue of the Maidens, created by the sculptor Kotaro Takamura. It is said to be modelled after his wife, Chieko. The two women are facing each other, with their hands touching, while their feet, firmly on the ground, symbolise the ability to withstand the harsh conditions in the area, especially in winter.

Nature can be harsh in Japan. Not only during winter, but throughout the year. There are typhoons, earthquakes, tsunamis, landslides... As soon as I set foot in Japan this becomes part of everyday life. I know that Japan is one of the most seismically active areas in the world, and that there are many typhoons in summer, but what does that really mean? How does it affect daily life? I am not entirely aware of it at first, but then I start noticing. First, the earthquakes. Earthquakes occur regularly, but often, I don’t feel them because I’m driving or immersed in an activity. I feel them more when lying in bed at night. Typhoons are second. Already during the first week of our arrival, Japan was hit by the typhoon Cimaron. Fortunately for us, it did not reach Aomori-ken. One week later another, typhoon Jebi, is on course to hit Japan.

4th September, the whole nation follows Jebi’s path. It started as a tropical depression on 26th August near the Marshall Islands and, two days later, worsened to become the 21st typhoon of the 2018 Pacific Typhoon Season. Today at midday, Jebi hits Japan, for the first time in the south, at Tokushima prefecture. At 2 pm, it is in Kobe, moving towards Osaka and Kyoto. 3 pm, it is now in the Sea of Japan. That afternoon, from the loudspeakers distributed through the streets of Rokkasho-mura, the village office sends a clear message that people should leave work at 5 pm and avoid working late at night. Since it is broadcast in Japanese, I do not understand it, but I receive a translated version via text message. Every time something is announced, we receive a translation, which is great because at least we know what is going on. This is when Guy decides to tell me that he has a videoconference with Europe tonight at 7 pm at work. “Really?” I say. I call him and tell him about the message from the village office. I tell him he should be careful and come home early as the Village Office suggests. Am I being too dramatic? I wonder. I am new to this. I am not sure how to react. Guy carries on, “Sakurai-san told me that Jebi will reach the north of Japan at 3 am tomorrow morning, so it’s not a problem... See you tonight!” He then sends me a picture of the typhoon route, showing me that Rokkasho is not in the eye of it. It’s just on its side. I feel slightly reassured and go on with my day forgetting about the typhoon for now.

The children are back from their second day at school and I’ve prepared French pancakes, crêpes, as a good French mother would do, even in Japan. After dinner, I bring Xavier and Aksel to bed and wish them good night. Guy is about to come back from work. This is when I start getting messages from my family and friends in Europe, “Are you okay? Let us know... Here, on the news, they are talking about heavy rains, strong winds and mudslides across Japan. How are you doing?” I bravely reassure everyone, saying that we are fine and that nothing has happened to us. I wish I hadn’t received these messages. The news always seems more dramatic than reality, I think.

At 10:30 pm, when we finally go to bed, Guy instantly falls asleep, while I lie in bed, or more precisely on the futon