Ghost Train to the Eastern Star (66 page)

"No. That's another difference. There's less snow. One third the amount we used to have. It's the weather. Back then, minus-fifteen was normal.
Now it's always much warmer than that. We get to minus-ten maybe three times a month."

"Global warming," Miss Ishii said parenthetically. She was still translating.

"Global warming is a real thing in Japan. I've seen it, growing up here. It's easy for us to see it because of the seasons and the snow. Before, the weather was colder in the winter. The snow was deeper."

I said, "I remember deep snow, over at the place where they had the winter Olympics."

"It's like this. We used to have four distinct seasons, but now they're confused. We have warm winters and cold summers. Sometimes just a little snow in the winter and a lot in the spring. It's really strange. You were here in 1973. It was different weather then."

We skied together for a while as the day grew darker. I was also thinking: Back then I would not have found two friendly Japanese to ski with. Mr. Miyamoto had a camera around his neck. He boasted that it was old-fashioned—"Not digital!" Miss Ishii said that in 1986 she had spent an academic year teaching in Tanzania, at Morogoro. She could still say
jambo
and
habari gani
and
mzuri sana.
She was in her early forties, tall and rather angular, with the long, egg-like face of the elegant women in Utamaro prints.

Back at the ski lodge, I asked them about the Japanese who returned after living for generations in Brazil (São Paulo has the largest Japanese community outside Japan). I once read that they found it hard to fit in. One of the Japanese Brazilians, quoted in a newspaper, said, "We don't work and we make noise. People here don't like that."

Miss Ishii said, "In the nineteenth century we were a poor country. The emperor told people to go and find work elsewhere. They went to Peru, to Brazil, to the United States. And some came back."

"And what happened?"

"Nothing good."

***

MY LAST VISIT IN
Sapporo was to a bronze bust on a plinth on the grounds of Hokkaido University. It depicted William S. Clark, an American who had helped found the agricultural college that later became the university. A Japanese student had brought me here long ago to tell me that this American had taught the Japanese modern farming methods—
techniques that were successful because Hokkaido and his native Massachusetts had similar climates.

"Look, Mister Crack!" the student had said.

Clark had stayed for less than a year, from July 1876 to April 1877, but he was still remembered, and the rousing speech he delivered to students on his departure was part of the university's mission statement.

"Boys, be ambitious!" he'd said. "Be ambitious not for money, not for selfish aggrandizement, not for the evanescent thing which men call fame. Be ambitious for the attainment of all that a man ought to be."

I had mocked that a little, but the man deserved credit. In less than a year he had helped create the first modern academic institution in Japan, and after a number of name changes, from Sapporo Agricultural College through Tohoku Imperial University, it became Hokkaido U. A hundred and twenty years after Clark's arrival, Japanese tourists still posed for pictures in front of his bust. I asked some of them why.

"He was a great man. He helped us."

Now I looked closer at the bust. It was respectful and dignified, but it did not seem very old. I found a university pamphlet that explained its newness: "The present statue erected in 1948 was modeled on the original which was melted down during World War Two."

So the old bronze bust of the inspirational ("Boys, be ambitious!") American William Clark had been turned by the Japanese into a projectile that had thundered down on U.S. soldiers. I recalled an E. E. Cummings war poem, how a man, though he was repeatedly told so, would not believe that war is hell. Then the Japanese bought scrap iron from the New York elevated railway, which they used for bombs, and

...it took
a nipponized bit of
the old sixth

avenue
el; in the top of his head: to tell

him

ON LITTLE TRAINS
, as in the simplest noodle shop, a greeting similar to the most formal one in the culture, called
kangei-kai,
was performed for every traveler, no matter how lowly: a deep bow, multiple thank-yous, the ceremonial welcome of
irassahi mase.
Such pacifying rituals of politeness and gratitude, so profuse an awarding of honorifics, seemed archaic in the overfamiliar and insistently casual world of today. But highly structured manners have held Japan together, allowed the mass of Japanese to live at close quarters; in this culture of anonymity and order, they were an acknowledgment that you existed. Such politeness had helped prevent them from killing each other.

So it was on the Sarobetsu Express, shuttling to the far northern coast on tracks that ran at the frozen edge of the immense Sarobetsu Marsh of Hokkaido. It was like a commuter train, only four cars, no locomotive, just an upright driver in a uniform and peaked cap, visible at the front in his glass booth; and the conductor, the guard, and the ticket punchers all troubled themselves to utter the formulas of welcome and to make low bows to the passengers.

Honjitsu wa gojosha itadaki arigatou gozaimasu.
"Thank you for boarding the train today," Murakami had translated for me.

Wakkanai was boring, Murakami had said, and even the guidebook warned that there was nothing to see there. I imagined a windswept little port town on a snowy coast. It was that, and more, the landscape of my dreams, the true hinterland of Japan. And the trip through the snowstorm in this modest train was one of the most pleasant I'd ever taken.
Halfway to Wakkanai the train was almost empty—only four of us in this first car. And we few continued into the great snow-covered emptiness of northern Hokkaido, following the course of a dark narrow river for most of the way.

We went by small snowbound stations, like Takikawa, where village streets were filled with packed-down snow, forests and farmland blurred with snowdrifts, icicles hung from house eaves. Some bungalows were up to their roofs in snow.

People lived better here, it seemed. They had more space, with gardens and yards, even in the small city of Asahikawa, which was about a third of the way to Wakkanai. The train wound slowly through the forest, where snowy pine boughs drooped, and at the village of Shibetsu there were farmhouses and barns and silos. What roads I could see were narrow and looked unplowed, no cars on them. On this windless winter day the falling snow built up and bandaged the trees, the pine forests, and the birch groves. When the clouds parted and the storm briefly abated, the drifted snow went pink as the sun caught the clouds and slipped into the river valley.

In the miniature towns and villages of rural Hokkaido the people lived in dollhouses, as in Otoineppu, where the late afternoon gloom seemed to bring the snowstorm back. And Teshio-Nakagama, about an hour south of Wakkanai, was the snowiest place I'd seen in the whole of Japan, the dollhouses buried amid rounded drifts, the streets like culverts of snow and some of them snowy tunnels of the sort you'd see in a dumped-on village in northern Maine.

It all seemed blissful until I struck up a conversation with the man sitting a few seats in front of me in the almost empty car. His name was Ohashi. He was born near here. He said that this part of Hokkaido was losing population, going gray—aging faster than the rest of Japan—and that there was no industry anymore and even the farms were failing.

"My family has sixty cows. That's not enough," he explained. "We had too bad competition from the big dairies."

Ohashi had found a personal solution. He had faced the fact that he was nearer Russia than Tokyo. He had decided to go to Sakhalin, a short ferry ride from Wakkanai, to learn Russian, and later he studied economics at a college in Kamchatka. The remotest parts of Russia—the farthest from Moscow—were easily accessible from Japan.

"I wanted to leave my family's farm," he said, "to live on my own. After my studies, I saw there was no work in Hokkaido for me."

He got a job in Tokyo with a Russo-Japanese company. Half the workers were Russian, but from the far eastern part of Russia, those same places, Sakhalin and Kamchatka.

"I'm going home for a few days to visit my family," he said. "Then back to Tokyo."

So once again I was reduced to being a romantic voyeur. Where I saw pines and snowdrifts and ski trails and dollhouses, Ohashi saw only failure, a declining rural economy, and old people.

Across the high Hokkaido moorland, the sun disengaged from a puffy storm cloud and suddenly brightened, changed color, going hotter, the dazzling orange of hot lava, then became a low yellow dome near the frosty hills on the horizon. I watched the diminishing dome: it slid finally into the snow, leaving a glow in the storm cloud, a pinkness, a blush above the ridge of the hills, until it became just a smear of pink, going gray.

After that, the bare black trees were like exposed nerves in the ashy whiteness of the bleak landscape of snowfields at dusk. In this rounded, softened, and heavily upholstered world of deep snow, the pine tops changed from ragged lace to bottle brushes to saw blades as the train turned on the meandering river and the angle of the light altered.

Five and a half hours after leaving Sapporo, the train drew into the tiny station of the topmost town in Japan.

It seemed a magical arrival—the little station, the snowy streets, the deep drifts sparkling in the lamplight, frost crystals in the air and a strong odor of the sea. After the passengers vanished I saw no other people. Most of the shops were shuttered, though a few bars were open, and down some alleys I saw winking signs:
Happy Room
and
Fun Parlor
and a blue neon sign above a door on a second-floor balcony,
Love Doll.

I walked down the snowy street to my hotel and was welcomed with another bow. Over the next few days, headed out to look around, or find a drink, I usually ended up in the neighborhood of winking signs, and the one that always caught my eye was
Love Doll.
The words seemed to promise everything: innocence, sweetness, simplicity, comfort, pleasure, warmth. You couldn't find a better pair of words for passive sexual reassurance, and they tugged at my heart as I stood in the snow, looking up
at the balcony and the door. I never saw anyone go in or out of Love Doll. That was another enticement. But I kept walking.

Wakkanai was a seaport, after all. Its fishermen sailed their trawlers into the Sea of Japan, and Russians went back and forth to Sakhalin, which was visible on a clear day across the Soya Strait. Russians shopped here. Many of the supermarkets and little stores displayed signs in Russian, carefully lettered Cyrillic. It seemed that I was the only gaijin in Wakkanai—I did not see another—but it was obvious that Russians came here for clothes or hardware or fishing gear or sex. One or two casinos with bright lights stood on the main road. But they were empty. Probably it was the weather—snow and strong winds. No boats left Wakkanai harbor while I was there.

Even the bars were empty. The coziest ones, with oak tables and the owner grilling fish on a hibachi, lined the snowy side streets. I never saw more than a few men in each of them, usually old-timers getting drunk on sake and eating sushi.

Hospitality in Wakkanai was almost a burden. In the early evening, sitting in the warmth of a bar, aiming to write up the day's notes, I was always welcomed, offered a drink—at one bar a man presented me with a freshly grilled sardine—and for the next hour or so we'd have the sort of hopeless conversation that a Japanese stranger would have on a winter night in a bar in Eastport, Maine—which Wakkanai much resembled. Alcohol doesn't overcome the language barrier, but it makes it bearable.

"You America!"

"Me America."

"America very nice!"

We toasted, we drank, we ate sushi; against my better judgment I got drunk and did no writing; and we were soon good friends. This happened in three little snowed-in bars. At the end of the railway line, Wakkanai was a town without an Internet café or a movie house. I didn't mind. The weather was dramatic, the people were friendly, and Wakkanai had its own hot springs.

***

WHEN THE WIND DROPPED
and the sun came out, walking in icy Wakkanai, in the crusty snow and across the plowed-aside heaps that lay like white piping, was like traipsing up and down a wedding cake.

Japan's chewed-looking coastline and angular islands give it a look like no other country on earth, and its lizardy and nibbled shape, more like a set of carvings than a pattern of islands, suggests its cultural complexity. It seems in places as imperial as its past pretensions, a castle set in the sea, an oceanic fortress. Its boast was that it had never been invaded—it was saved from the Mongols by the Divine Wind (
Kamikaze
) that repelled advancing ships in the thirteenth century. That was another reason the American bombing in World War II had been so traumatic, moving the otherwise imperturbable Haruki Murakami to tremulous indignation at its violation.

A monument to volcanism, Japan sits on a seam of molten lava and superheated water. It is an archipelago of volcanic cones, and its national symbol, Fujiyama, perhaps the most recognizable volcano on earth, is still regarded as a sacred mountain. Because of these cracks and cones, there is hardly a place in Japan that does not froth with hot springs.

A geothermal shaft of such heat ran under Wakkanai that one recreation in the frozen town was the community
onsen,
or hot spring. The water was not just scalding hot but laden with beneficial salts and minerals.

For the experience, and because I ached from all the travel, I caught a bus and took the fifteen-minute ride to the spa at the Onsen Dome, on the snowy shore just west of town. It was a Sunday. I discovered that poaching in the
onsen
was the main weekend activity in winter Wakkanai. And like so much in Japan—mealtime, playtime, hospitality, gift giving—it was formalized in a sequence of rituals: the changing room, the shower, the bathhouse, the spa, the hot springs—the progression from pool to pool—and at last the unwinding in lounge chairs afterwards. For some, this post-hot-spring activity involved drinking beer and smoking.