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Pongo Goes National.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009



It was a short stroll from our $19 hot spring hotel to the town of Sakata where we rented cycles and pedaled our way around sights made famous by the Acadamy Award winning movie Departures. Our tour took us to the two buildings featured in much of the movie and after paying the $2 entry fee for the privilege of walking the same hallways as the actors had, we had seen all there was to see by the time the opening credits from the introductory DVD playing in the lobby had finished. That such an ordinary place in such an ordinary town came to be such a prominent feature of such an acclaimed movie is truly testament to the savvy of its location crew. Had it been me in charge of that important detail, there is every chance Departures would have gone straight to DVD.

We left Sakata for a campground perched on a hill next to Yamagata’s airport where we became reacquainted with cooking for ourselves and living the simple life. Only our simple life was soon complicated by strengthening winds from an incoming typhoon, the first of our season, and the noisy clamberings of a dozen families and an army of their kids all squeezing in one last weekend in the great outdoors before the camping season officially finished the next day. In Japan there is no camping or swimming after August 31. Don’t ask why, it just is. That night as the first of the typhoon winds threatened to whip our tent with us in it off the top of the hill we both figured that the rule might have had something to do with ensuring camper safety. As everyone else knows, typhoon season officially begins from September 1. Their presence from now on would add a new twist to our daily existence.

As August rolled into September, and the beaches and the campgrounds officially closed for another year, we found ourselves walking under the bluest of skies next to inviting surf beaches all completely empty except for the odd scattering of flotsam brought from Korea and China on the Tsushima current. Not a surfer or swimmer was present in what would have been a bustling scene anywhere else. With the change of months came also a change in my level of Japanese. With each day I was learning how descriptive the Japanese language could be, with a seemingly infinite variety of onomatopoeic phrases to match the infinite variety of moods we were experiencing on stilts. As we tokotoko’d (hobbled) our way further south through mushi mushi (humid) days that made us heto heto (exhausted) or peko peko (hungry) or both, we found that our stilts were becoming boro boro (falling apart), our bodies were now gari gari (skinny), our muscles were always kutchi kutchi (tight) and that everyone who drove passed us, judging from their contorted expressions must have thought we were more than a bit kuru kuru (crazy) to be doing such a, well, silly thing. The more phrases I learnt, the more my chances of conversing with the local children improved. Whether the same phrases would work in front of a live radio audience filled me with less confidence however, but it was a theory that would be soon put to the test as we were due to broadcast live on national FM radio from 11 am the next day. Having picked up our story after our Akita broadcast, the national station had now arranged for our interview to air throughout each of the prefectures we would be passing all the way down to Osaka. It was a fantastic opportunity for us to spread Pongo’s message, the only trouble was whether Miki’s phone would have a connection as the mountains of Yamagata’s southern coastline wrapped around us.

Having secured a room in the only ryokan that was still open now that summer had officially finished, we sat by the phone as the seconds ticked closer to the hour, waiting nervously for the call from national FM. I say we, but in reality I was the only one sweating exposing my newfound Japanese to such a large crowd. Miki was the picture of composure that she always is, handling each situation as it comes no matter its size or weight. With two minutes to go before we were to air, the phone rang and a voice, barely audible down the crackle of a bad connection instructed “Ready for a sound check in 3. Count to 20. Ready. Go.” As Miki counted into the phone, I kept an eye on the second hand of the clock wondering whether the sound checker was either really confident in his abilities or really disorganized to have left such a task to the last minute. With the failure of the test and the sudden panic of his reaction, it seemed the latter was true.
“Tell me the number of your hotel and we’ll call you.” No sooner had he hung up than the phone downstairs was brought up by the owner, now intrigued about why such an hysterical voice was calling for her guests upstairs. Precisely at the moment the phone was handed over, the transfer was made to the studio and Miki found herself asking the DJ whether her new connection was OK. Apart from that glitch the rest of the interview went smoothly with the radio crew even encouraging listeners to donate to the cause. It was the first time that any had gone that far to promote that aspect of our challenge and as we continued walking toward the Niigata border, we realized how powerful such help could be. Having had no responses at all since crossing in to Yamagata 9 days earlier, we were suddenly overwhelmed with honks and waves and even the occasional donation as listeners drove past on their way. It was a trend that was to increase as we said our goodbyes to Yamagata and crossed the border into Niigata, and the longest stretch of coast we would encounter.

posted by Mick and Miki Tan @ 7:02 AM, ,




News!!
Friday, November 6, 2009

After 4 days of eating and relaxing at Miki's sister's Osaka apartment, we now find ourselves looking down the barrel of what we hope will be our last run toward our goal at Cape Sata in Kagoshima. From here we walk through the friendly city of Kobe, the castle town of Himeji, Okayama and Hiroshima before taking a new and exciting turn on to a walker's bridge that we have been told will take us to Shikoku. From there a few hundred kilometers along the coast will bring us to the ferry to Kyushu and our final 400kms to the end at Cape Sata.

But the weather is getting colder and the days shorter. With our final run, the challenge will take on a new dimension as we figure out how best to get through the colder days without getting weak or sick or worse, without getting hemmed in by the snows that are waiting for us in the mountains down south.

Our blog has been updated. The photos tab now has all the best photos from Akita, Yamagata, Niigata and some from Toyama - a task that took a total of 15hours on our snail like connection! So if you get the chance, please have a look and make those hours all worthwhile!!

Blogs are on the way! I always say it, but they are coming with lots of tales about trecherous roads in Niigata, horrible tunnels between borders, friendly locals in Toyama, and amazing sights in Ishikawa and Fukui.

Send us your messages! They make our day! Cheer us to the end!

Mick and Miki

posted by Mick and Miki Tan @ 12:42 AM, ,




Yamagata and the ‘eco’ hotel.


Our planning for this challenge had been somewhat compromised by busy schedules and a last minute mad rush to say goodbyes, shop for forgotten items and host one hell of a wine party at our house. As such, we had planned Hokkaido’s leg thoroughly, looked at Aomori closely, thought about Akita deeply and that was where it had stopped, for during that final hour of madness, both of us were plagued by serious doubts about whether we would even make it past the first day. As such, little was known about the prefecture called Yamagata other than its name and the fact that it came somewhere after Akita.

On our fifty seventh day, as we walked under blue skies and the shadow of Mt Chokai, the Mt Fuji of Akita, Yamagata’s border sign appeared out of nowhere like a mirage on the horizon, leaving us scratching our heads and doubting the progress that we were making. Had we really walked this far?

In 1689, Basho Matsuo, perhaps Japan’s most famous Haiku poet, ventured through here on an epic 2400km journey that took him to the remote heart of the north. The beauty he encountered inspired his most famous work, the Oku no Hosomichi or The Narrow Road to the Interior which has since inspired the likes of many to follow in his steps in search of the same beauty that his poems captured so clearly. For us, stumbling upon his route was a significant moment, for the Oku no Hosomichi was a path that had also been walked by the only other person to have travelled as far on a pair of stilts – our mentor Iizuka san. At 73, his 2000km walk had taken him almost 4 years to complete, with the aid of a campervan and his equally gutsy wife who faithfully walked alongside for much of his journey. That we were now following in his steps was strangely comforting, for we knew that the road that lay ahead was not the impossible stretch that it seemed on our photocopied maps.

The kilometers passed by as quickly as the pine trees that lined much of the coast. As we moved in land on our way toward Sakata, the towns began taking on a ghostly appearance, many the victims of ambitious dreams that had suffered with the collapse of Japan’s economy at the end of the bubble. Restaurants lined the roads, their once polished entrance ways now overgrown with weeds. As we walked past, we could see that the tables were still adorned with cutlery and sauces, as if ready for another day of service. The overturned chairs that lay strewn across the floors were the only things that told the real story. It is a strange feeling to walk past so many lifeless shells in what might otherwise have been a very pretty part of the world, but in Japan, it has become a common scene, with many owners preferring to leave their failed businesses to the elements rather than part with the money needed to clear them from the more valuable land on which they stand. For us, it was always a shock to find a town that had obviously been flourishing at the time of our map’s printing, in such a lonely state. To see so many dreams crumbling before our eyes had a powerful influence on our own motivations and as the doubts began to creep in about whether we would be able to make the remaining 10kms to Sakata, we were confronted by a sign before us, so unexpected amongst the decaying surrounds, so unbelievable against the experiences of our last 2 months, that we at first walked past it. But the thought of a double room in a hot spring hotel for 19 measly dollars was too big a chance to miss. After hopping down from our stilts, we returned and as we stood outside the 4 storey, marble tiled front foyer, we scanned the sign for any catches in the fine print. ‘Is it really 19 dollars?’ we asked the groundsman as he walked by. Despite his apparent lack of Japanese, his confused nod was enough for us to pack up our stilts and skip inside to see what lay ahead for the price of two meals.

As we handed over our money to the receptionist, another man who seemed not to grasp the meaning behind some of our other questions, we rushed to throw our bags in to our room and make use of everything before someone realized their mistake. I entered to the bath and immediately noticed how dark everything seemed. The lights were off, but considering the early hour of the day, I guessed they weren’t really needed until later, and had just begun washing myself when I was interrupted by the slam of a door to my right. ‘Is this some sort of a joke?’ cried the only other bather as he emerged from the sauna, clearly upset by the lack of any steam. His blood pressure rose with each button he found to flick, and when each failed to elicit any change from within, he stormed out to confront the manager with only his towel and his frown for company.

After wallowing in the warm bath for what seemed like an hour, I bumped in to Miki in the corridor outside of our room, reading a note that had been posted on the wall.
“You are staying in an environmentally conscious hotel. In order for us to maintain our high environmental standards, we request your cooperation in using all electrical items responsibly. Thank you.”
Having not discovered what had become of the frowning naked man and his earlier pickle, I presumed he too had come across this poster somewhere downstairs or had at least been explained its purpose by the staff at the reception. Maybe they only turned on the sauna’s electricity when it got busier?

As we walked down a long winding hall to our room, we noticed too that all the lights were off, and that the deeper we went, the darker the hotel seemed to get. Once inside our room, both of us fumbled around for the switch to the lights, first on the left side of the door, then on the right. High and low we ran our hands along the walls, starting at first from the door, then expanding in an ever widening circle that covered the whole room. There was not one switch to be found anywhere. In our panic, we retrieved our torches from our bags and lit up our surrounds. It was Miki who first discovered the reason for its absence. Looking up we both received our first taste of what an environmentally friendly night in a Yamagata hotel was to be like. Apart from a tiny, candle sized study lamp tucked away in the desk, the rest of our room it seemed, was without any kind of illumination whatsoever. In their desire to be green, they had neglected to put in any lights in any of the rooms along the entire wing of the hotel. Not only that, but as night fell, each room in the deserted building was a black void, lifeless apart from the soft green flicker from the emergency exit signs above the stairwells. As the only two guests in the place, it was a spooky feeling and apart from a quick bite to eat and two quick dashes to the toilets at the other ends of the floor, we were happy to confine ourselves to our rooms away from whatever may have been lurking outside.

A day later, as we ate noodles in a nearby restaurant, we were able to discover the answer to some of the mystery surrounding our ‘eco’ hotel. The eco tag was nothing more than a ploy to hide the thriftiness of the North Korean owner, the hotel’s fourth in 2 years. As the noodle shop owner remarked, “No he’s not eco. He’s just a tight bastard.” Thanks to that tight bastard however, we were able to enjoy our first stay in a real hot spring hotel, even if we weren’t able to see what most of it actually looked like.

posted by Mick and Miki Tan @ 12:26 AM, ,




LIVE ON RADIO!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Pongo will air on ABC radio Brisbane from 10.30 tomorrow (30/10/09)!! An interview in English, so I am much more likely to be making sense in this one!! Have a listen and call in and say hi!!!

posted by Mick and Miki Tan @ 4:11 PM, ,




From Akita to Yamagata and another deadly bath!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009

On a scale of importance from one to ten, baths rank the highest at ten, with a nice green tent site close behind at nine. Finding one or the other is usually enough to make our day a great one, but finding both, is the thing of dreams. So rarely does such an occurrence happen that it becomes an event that is forever cherished, like a wedding or the birth of your first child. Unfortunately for me however, hitting the jackpot came with a rude reminder of just how closely sweet can often be followed by bitter; the culprit once again, the Japanese bathhouse.

We arrived at Nikaho much earlier than expected and stumbled across one of the nicest parks we had seen. Despite differences in layout and appearance, the parks we had come across up till now could generally be classified into two broad categories; parks plonked down haphazardly in response to an official need to satisfy a town’s requirement for a park, or parks that had obviously been made to enhance the lives of the residents around it, designed with the care and attention that made them such an important part of a town. Luckily for us the park at Nikaho was of the latter kind, situated thoughtfully next to the rolling swells of the ocean and filled with green spaces, play spaces and walk spaces for everyone to enjoy. It was a perfect place to spend a night.

The location had an added bonus. Situated right next door was a hot spring that, we were told, contained water of the blackest ilk, filled with healing minerals perfect for relieving the kinds of aches and pains brought on from days on hard stilts. We had never been in a hot spring with black water before, nor had we been in one whose healing properties were designed specifically to remedy stilt induced aches and pains. As such we wasted no time in gathering our gear and heading over to what would be, at this early hour of the day, a granny free bath.

Entering through rickety sliding glass doors, we were confronted by a bath house that time had forgotten. A small resting area adorned with a brown leather couch of the kind that you always found when visiting grandad’s hairdresser, lay between ourselves and the front desk. Behind it sat the owner, a frail woman who looked as old and as weary as the peeling paint on the walls. With sad droopy eyes surrounded by two big purplish bags, she was the human incarnation of Fred Basset. Our cheerful greeting failed to bring any cheer to her day and as she took our money, she lapsed in to a frightful fit of coughing that looked certain to cut short our stay. As such, we decided to hustle and make the most of the black water’s healing properties before the paramedics arrived to take her away.

As I entered the bathing area, I could still hear her splutters through the ‘bandai’ or viewing window that linked each bath with the front desk. Common in many older style baths, the Bandai was like Foucalt’s panopticon in the way it allowed the owner to see all and fix all from their perch out the front. Now, as she spat the contents of her coughing fit into her handkerchief, I wondered if this bath’s bandai was more for her benefit than ours.

Because of the early hour, the bath was empty leaving me free to try all of its offerings. Having learnt my lesson about the effect of electricity and water in Aomori, I decided to give the electric bath here a miss and decided instead to focus on the other option, ‘the Turbo Jet’ bath. While most hot springs have some form of jet enhanced bath, it was the first time I had seen one advertised with a Turbo and wasted little time jumping in to see just what it could do. Despite the black water, it was possible to make out the shape of an enormous bubbler mounted to the end of the bath and for all I knew, the other side of an F-18 fighter engine. It was obviously from a time before health and safety standards had banished such installments to the ‘too risky’ category. While common sense would normally prevail in such situations, there are times when it is overshadowed by a stronger sense; that childhood sense that teaches boys to press any button within arm’s reach regardless of the consequences. And so it was, with the press of a button, that I discovered what it is like to receive a full frontal blast of water from an F-18 jet engine propelled bubbler. Those few seconds from when I was thrust back against the bath wall to when I edged my way back toward the button, taught me what life might have been like had I come out into this world minus an appendage. As it was, I was still having trouble finding where it had gone when my search was interrupted by a fellow bather who, by the expression on his face, seemed to know exactly what I was going through. As we traded sympathetic nods on my way out, I noticed the water from the black bath still streaming over its edges, pooling on the floor beside him. His ability to turn a blind eye to what was obviously my gaffe was more than could be said for the elderly owner who, having recovered somewhat from her earlier convulsions was now peering in through her window at me with disapproving, but still droopy eyes. I was on another walk of shame that was taking me once again from the suds and bubbles of Japanese hot spring land back to the study table where I might once and for all learn my lesson that nudity and stupidity should never be mixed in public.

posted by Mick and Miki Tan @ 4:36 PM, ,




Akita’s hidden surprises – Part 2

We awoke with the sun, and under blue skies, set off through countryside that was brimming with reminders of an ancient past. More than a millennium ago, Japan’s first people existed here in small organized communities that, while not nomadic, hunted and gathered from fertile surrounds. Their reliance on nature brought with it an understanding of the seasons and of how to survive year after year, for thousands of years often in the same area. Named after the rope patterned earthenware that was always found amongst their settlements, the Jomon were a group that were, by all accounts, ahead of their time. With each prefecture we passed, locals told of Jomon sites that had been uncovered ‘just down the road’, each one unveiling a new chapter in an already long history. The stories had filled our imaginations with adventure and the thought that our every step might be hovering over some yet to be discovered Jomon village made each river or roadside grove an exploration waiting to happen.

Today, our own adventure was about to begin. After stopping in a local petrol station, we got chatting to the owner whose walls were adorned with Jomon artifact after Jomon artifact. The only other place we had seen so many had been in the museum at Aomori’s Sannai Maruyama site, the largest Jomon excavation to date. In front of us however stood a life time’s collection, all of which he informed us, had come not from a museum, but from the river that ran parallel to the next village. It was the most exciting news I had heard since we began and with some vague directions to his site, we were off to find our very own Jomon relics!

As we crossed a bridge spanning a running stream at the bottom of an overgrown gorge, we could almost feel the presence of Jomon hunters chasing their prey below. Somewhere underneath was the stream of my dreams. The only challenge now, was to find out how to get to it. Before us stood a shear drop, 30 metres long with an impenetrable forest guarding its banks. The only way in seemed to be around, a trek of a few kilometers through rice paddies to one of the stream’s branches and our door to the past.

Leaving our stilts and bags on the highway above, we skipped down, well I skipped down in anticipation of what lay ahead, while Miki followed shaking her head at the thought of me crawling through snake infested forest. As we followed a tractor path beside rice fields, we stumbled across a monument stating that this was an area of some significance. To be here, tucked away off the tourist trail, completely unknown to all but the people living beside it made its discovery significant in itself, however, whatever it was on top of that warranted the placement of such a plaque, was lost to me in my search for something more historic, something more exciting. As such, even as I look back over the photos, I have no idea what it was that had made that such a place of importance, for a few metres behind it lay a small, still stream, and the threshold to what I was hoping was the remains of my Jomon village. As Miki stood back, happy to support from the safety of the gravel track, I ventured forth over scraggly rock and through a thick layer of scrub to the stream, eyes alert to anything out of the ordinary. While it wasn’t the stream we had crossed, it was still hidden enough to provide a potential bounty for the trained, or at least enthusiastic speculator.

As I began digging up the bank of the river, my thoughts became lost in the excitement of the moment, and with each hole I made, I disappeared further into the brush and into nature. Now up to my knees in soft sand, and with a small army of angry mosquitoes biting at my exposed parts, my concentration was suddenly broken by the sound of a movement in the grass off to my left. Snakes had been a part of our daily existence on stilts, but from our perches above, posed little threat. Here however, up to my knees in wilderness, the situation was much different. Stories of the deadly ‘mamushi’, a snake more likely to bite first, then sit back and watch its victim die a slow death next, flooded my thoughts as I scanned the ground around for scaly intruders. It was the first time that I noticed where I was. The bush had now become so wild that I was beginning to hope that I wouldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Just as I was about to go back to my search for a little piece of history, Miki’s voice pierced the silence of the stream.
“Snake Mick!!” My legs moved like they hadn’t moved for years. In three leaps, I had escaped the stream, hurdled the thickets and was back on the track faster than Usain Bolt’s legs had carried him to his world record the week before, holding my heart as it threatened to beat out of my chest. As I turned to ask how big it had been, there was Miki, doubled over in fits of laughter in front of me. It never helps to have a wife whose sense of humour has developed around your own insecurities. The laughter continued as we returned to our bags, my hope of finding my Jomon stash, dashed along with my nerve at the bottom of the stream.

posted by Mick and Miki Tan @ 5:45 AM, ,




Akita’s hidden surprises – Part 1

As we travelled further south, we realized again, that the time had come to embark on a search for a new set of tires. All previous contributions from enthusiastic bike shop owners happy to be rid their rubbish had ended disastrously. The ‘big boys’ we had received in Hokkaido, while certainly fulfilling their moniker in appearance (they were the tread from a wheelbarrow), lacked the stuff that would take us the distance, usually disintegrating after the second day. Our next offerings from Aomori, ‘the red duds as we referred to them, were even worse, disappearing literally before our disbelieving eyes. They had carried us this far, but after changing them as often as we changed our underwear, enough was enough, and we were now after some more, and desperately as we were on our last pair.

We came across a grocery store owner, who informed us that there had been a bicycle store in the town once, but that the owner had died some years ago, leaving his wife to close up what was left of it. She was sure however, that if we went and asked, there might be some old tires leftover somewhere in the garage. While harassing old widows for their husband’s older tires has never been one of our favourite things to do, the condition of our rubber had left us no choice and so, reluctantly, we went and wrapped on the door of what we were hoping was the right house.

After a few minutes, a kindly looking older woman emerged from behind a sliding screen door, looking over us a little suspiciously. Who would blame her? We were sweaty and dirty from a day on the stilts and more than likely, a little too desperate looking considering she was our only hope in a town with nothing much else. As always, Miki’s tender manner convinced her of our intentions, however to no avail. Having discarded all the old tires after her husband’s death, we were out of luck. With no tires now to cover the base of our bamboo footings, our challenge had come to an abrupt halt, in the middle of nowhere, and our faces seemed to show the gravity of our predicament.

“Well, there might be some somewhere out the back,” she offered having seen our expressions drop.
As we stood expectantly outside her front door, she embarked on a tour of her garden, acting on a hunch that there may be some buried under her tomato bushes out the back. Sure enough, ten minutes later, she returned victorious, a smile covering her face, holding aloft a tire covered in dirt. While its age and state probably placed it somewhere below our red duds in the durability department, we didn’t want to risk dashing the smile from her face and so we graciously accepted, knowing full well we’d be on another search in a few days time.

The Michi no Eki, or driver rest stop, was an oasis in an otherwise barren coastline, complete with its own beachside restaurant (which we made full use of), and one of the most accommodating managers we had found. Having seen us on the news, he took a keen interest in our stilts and our plans for the evening, which we tried hard to keep from him on account of the fact that they involved a plan to camp out the back of his establishment. However, there was a reason he was the manager of a place frequented by travelers stowing away in his building’s recesses. He knew precisely the type of person likely to do so. As such he had cottoned on to our intentions even before they had left our mouths, but it didn’t seem to matter. He had taken a liking to us and to our challenge and from that moment on, made it his responsibility to ensure our stay there was as comfortable as he could make it. After storing all of our gear in his office, he showed us where we could rest and then, once it closed, where we would be safe to sleep. Under his capable charge, we were able to relax as well as we had done all trip, enjoying all that the rest stop had to offer.

posted by Mick and Miki Tan @ 5:29 AM, ,