Saturday saw an early start on Awaji. Our plans for the day were to cruise down the length of the island, cross across to Shikoku and inspect the whirlpools at Naruto before heading east towards the mountainous Iya Valley. Essentially this is what we did, albeit with several more stops that initially anticipated; for a casette adaptor to play music, then for MY MOUTH IS EXPLODING WITH HAPPINESS sandwiches at Alfee’s Cafe in Sumoto. Oh, and Uniqlo. I’m not exactly sure why we stopped there, but I managed to break some shoes, scare a kid and not purchase anything during our brief stop.

This is the bit where I tell you about how gorgeous Shikoku is. It’s quite a gushing paragraph and reaches its thrilling climax while I talk about driving up the winding switchbacks and passing through tiny villages, with a view down the valley to our left and unspoilt mountain terrain to our right. I neglect to mention that Susanne is frantically trying to put herself to sleep in the back seat so as to avoid carsickness, the seedy old man we meet at the top of the hill, or the fact that construction trucks continually try and take our lives by sweeping around blind corners in the middle of the road. You’ve got to be positive, you know? Johnny Cash would not approve.

The Kazurabashi are the world famous (in that they exist in guidebooks and people like taking pictures of them ala. Wave Rock in WA. Doesn’t mean that anyone you know has ever actually been to see them though) vine bridges of Shikoku. Originally they were made entirely of vines twisted together like ropes and strung across the river. However, people have a habit of seeing a bridge and deciding to see what happens if they run into the middle and jump up and down on it (Carla, this is where you and I are supposed to look guilty) so the modern incarnation is reinforced by steel cables running inside the vines. It’s been months since I’ve had my last “wow, Japan is gorgeous” moment and living in the concrete jungle of Kansai certainly doesn’t help matters. The area around the bridges was south island of New Zealand stylee beautiful. Crystal clear water, forested valleys and air untainted by car exhausts, smog and pollution. It’s easy to see why Alex Kerr went all teary-eyed in Lost Japan.

Kochi is the biggest city in southern Shikoku and was our destination for Saturday night. We pulled off the expressway quite late (although not as late as expected, thanks to Carla’s ability to push her oversized lawnmover to speeds approaching mach 5) and fired into the centre of the city. Thanks to our extensive planning (spend 10 minutes on the Internet) our only resources were a map of the streets around the hostel and a map of the interstate expressways into prefecture. Unfortunately what we don’t have is a clear map that shows the streets within the city. So we head for the central station, hoping to find someone we can ask for directions.

Carla pulls into a bay in front of the station and I jump out with my shitty map in hand to find someone to ask. I spot a middle-aged business man coming towards me, so I ask in Japanese “Excuse me, but…” the dude glances up and then ducks his head and walks straight past me as if I wasn’t even there. I just stand there like a gimboid, totally stunned. I mean, in two years in Japan this has never happened to me before. Every single person I’ve asked for help in Japan has been overwhelmingly friendly and accommodating. So, I write it off as an exception to the rule and continue into the station to look for someone else. Across the carpark I spot a guy who is leaning against the station wall with a cigarette dangling from his hand. He’s waiting for a bus and looking bored. A safe bet for sure. I wander up and put on my best “I’m not going to attack you” smile and ask him if he knows where such and such a place is. He puts one hand up in a “Halt!” gesture and then turns his back on me. What. the. fuck.

Now thoroughly demoralised and quite pissed off, I decide to try my luck in the convenience store. There at least the employee trapped behind the desk will be forced to be polite to me, even if they won’t answer my questions. I grab a drink and head for the checkout. While the girl at the counter is working out my change I ask her the magic question. She freezes for a second and glances up at me, as if sizing me up. In formal, clipped, ultra-polite Japanese she informs me that there is a map in front of the station and perhaps I should, respectfully, look at it and also would I like a bag for the drink. I don’t take her up on the bag but I do find the map, which doesn’t help me much in anything more than pointing us in the right direction. Just for kicks on the way back to the car I ask another person for directions. They ignore me.

Welcome to Kochi-ken, where the warm hospitality and friendly smiles make you feel like you perhaps should have just kept driving.

Half an hour later and a few phonecalls by C in Japanese and we know how to get to the hostel. Finding it is surprisingly easy and the owner is welcoming and friendly. I guess there’s something in the air at the station that makes people behave like dicks. With the bill settled and tomorrow’s breakfast paid for, we dump our bags in the room and head out in search of food. Several minutes are spent wandering up and down the main street trying to find something suitable before we settle on an upstairs Okonomiyaki joint that’s packed with people. The restaurant is in a big, old building and the ceiling is open, letting you look up to the roof above, a welcome change to the claustrophobic feel of most restaurants in this country.

The waitress is unexpectedly bouncy. She’s got an excellent grin and I have a feeling she’s making fun of me every time she says anything. We order our food and she skips off to the kitchen. A few minutes later she emerges with three bowls of uncooked Okonomiyaki, places them on the table and turns to walk away. We’re all staring at each other in horror and Susanne jumps in quickly with a “uhh, what do we do?” to our grinning host. “You make it!” she replies. So we stir our stuff together and whack it on the grill and surprisingly enough it all turned out pretty well, my attempts at flipping notwithstanding. Stomachs full and a full day of travelling behind us, we retire to the hostel where I do battle with one of mankind’s oldest and most terrible enemies: Snauratron.

Updates at 11.

Posted in Japan on Tuesday July 19, 2005.

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