There's No Place Like Anywhere But Chûgoku, Finale!

Getting to Miyajima was mercifully swift, a far cry from two days before when we were around these parts. Parking was 1,000 yen, however—and I don't believe I've mentioned this before—I long ago refused to pay for parking in Japan except in a very few cases that are too boring to warrant the space here, so I'll just say we took a really long time at that bank's ATM. From there it's a short ten minute hop across the bay to the island and, boom, we're on the Island of Ravenous Deer. Miyajima, like Nara Park, is one of the places in Japan where deer are allowed to run wild through the streets, but actually they're not nearly as aggressive as their Nara counterparts that will attack you for food so that “ravenous” comment is an embellishment. Sorry.

Having been suckered into visiting Kyoto's over hyped cultural properties and jilted twice I feel jaded towards things in Japan with a UNESCO World Heritage Label attached to it, but Miyajima is the real deal. From the port you have to walk through the obligatory block-sized gift shop street until you reach the shrine where the first thing you'll see is the famous ten meter red torii either floating on mirror-like water or protruding out of a barnacle strewn sludge. We came at low tide. Still, it doesn't take much to imagine the thing in all its grandeur and the shrine buildings themselves were fairly impressive and very very red, as if a gangster massacre had just taken place.

They should hire me to take postcard shots for this place, just as long as I can live on the island.

The main shrine complex was not, however, the star of the show in our opinion—that honor went to Daishoin Temple located a few hundred meters beyond and on the hill overlooking the entire shrine and harbor area. Compared to the crowds that shelled out (I think) 500 yen to enter the main shrine complex this temple was virtually deserted even though it cost only the lint in my pocket to walk through its ornate gates. Looking back on it, I'm wondering if people didn't pass right by it, not see much to draw them in and just keep on strolling as the structures within did blend into their environment in an uncanny way. This struck me as somewhat unusual because Shinto is supposed to be the nature religion and there they are with a sprawling red shrine located conspicuously over the water, whereas this is a Buddhist site. Nothing saying Buddhist architecture can't get all hippy and be one with nature, but still.

To reach the main temple one has to climb maybe the equivalent of four floors and located inside the railing the entire way were sutra wheels to spin. I love this kind of thing—it makes me feel like I'm rolling dice and this is a Candyland game of the gods. There is so much to look at in Daishoin from the get go it's hard to know where to turn. The head careens wildly from side to side taking in the temples and pagodas made from unfinished wood, gardens, statuary, monoliths and water features. There are about a dozen seniors with easels, canvases and various paints laying down their interpretations of it all. We find another stairway with sutra wheels and it takes us to a rock garden and temple lined with amazing carved wooden dragon and lion heads. We pass by some Buddha statues and Maia waterboards one of them. There's a cave filled with placards of some sort and creepy charcoal drawings of old men, both basking in the glow of ultra-low lighting. Within the hour we've seen enough and start turning the sutra wheels in the opposite direction as we descend the steps back towards the port. Within that hour I've taken half the pictures I'm going to take on this entire vacation.

Meditation's for chumps--Maia waterboards Buddha in a vain attempt to gain his sage insights into life and existence. Then, Daishoin's main pagoda blends in well with its surroundings.

On the way back towards the port Maia and I are stoked, but in typical Japan fashion you just can't have the manic sans depressive. While exploring the hill paths, Maia and I came across a tea house sporting a fantastic vista of the shrine and bay and I'm hot and thirsty enough to want to stop in, but as we approach the shopkeeper walks up to us and, in a very hostile tone of broken English, tells us this is his house and we should go. Uh...there are customers enjoying tea right in front of our face and there is a sign in Japanese that we can fucking read that says we are entering a cafe—this is not your house, racist jackass, you just don't want foreigners around, as evidenced by the attitude copped while dealing with not only us but a seemingly kind Indian couple as well. He asks me if I understand him in English, to which I respond in Japanese in a tone that lets him know I think he's a piece of shit.

On our way back towards the ferry port Maia and I take a detour through the town of Miyajima itself, presumably where all the service staff and whatnot live. Now this literally was a deserted part of the island and woe be upon those who miss it because it's a hidden gem. The streets are just lined with some of the most charming guest houses, cafes and craft stores you'll ever see in Japan. In fact, had I known these ryokan and minshuku existed on the island I think we would have forked over the cash to stay here the previous night. Well, coulda, shoulda, woulda, it is my official recommendation should anyone reading this go.

The backstreets of the town of Miyajima. I could see living here for a spell if it means waking up to this every morning.

After crossing the bay to reach the car we were in for a shock when we found it had been towed. Haha, gotcha! That didn't really happen, not in a million years! No, seriously, there are no consequences for this stuff in Japan. Perhaps our punishment for being bad though was a grueling seven hour drive home over the same terrible factory town strewn, boarded-up business littered, Valium-for-eyes path we tread to get here. We tried to stop for a bath at two onsens—one place was actually an entire onsen town—and both times found either nothing there or a series of senior citizen homes. That's it, the final straw. We're two filthy, weary travellers setting course south and not stopping until we cross the Kaimon Straights. Chugoku, you've taken a dump on us for the last time and we've had it. Every road sign indicating the distance back to friendly Kyushu soil was an object worthy of praise and worship to us. Only the familiar Nissin Cup Noodle factory draws my attention on the horizon, but Maia delivers a series of blows to my solar plexus to reel me back in. We cross the straights into Moji and have dinner at our favorite restaurant in Kitakyushu, Bear Fruits.

Life is good again.

--Matt