The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories

THE ISLE OF
SOUTH KAMUI
AND OTHER
STORIES

The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories

THAMES RIVER PRESS
An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited (WPC)
Another imprint of WPC is Anthem Press (
www.anthempress.com
)
First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by
THAMES RIVER PRESS
75–76 Blackfriars Road
London SE1 8HA

www.thamesriverpress.com

Original title:
Minami Kamuito
Copyright © Kyotaro Nishimura 1992
Originally published in Japan by Kodansha, Ltd.
English translation copyright © Ginny Tapley Takemori 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters and events described in this novel are imaginary
and any similarity with real people or events is purely coincidental.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Cover image: Eric Molina 2006

ISBN 978-1-78308-011-3

This title is also available as an eBook.

This book has been selected by the Japanese Literature Publishing Project (JLPP), an initiative of the Agency for Cultural Affairs of Japan.

THE ISLE OF
SOUTH KAMUI
AND OTHER
STORIES

KYOTARO NISHIMURA

Translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori

The Isle of South Kamui

As of olde there be a creed on this isle. Some say it be superstition, but our people have faythe and rejoyce in it. In tyme of sickness or childbirth, when tilling the land or casting our nets, we give offerings unto the oracle and abyde by its divine revelation. Hence peace reigns.

—The Customs of South Kamui

T
he
sun was shining, but there was a strong southwesterly breeze and the sea was choppy and dotted with white surf. The
K Maru
, a small ship under two hundred tons, was unable to land at South Kamui. We were thus compelled to cast anchor off the coast, and a fishing boat from the island came to collect us.

There were just two passengers bound for the island, myself and a middle-aged traveling salesman with an enormous bundle.

A strapping, suntanned youth naked to the waist was at the helm of the fishing boat, which creaked ominously as we rode the waves. Though the island was there before our eyes we did not appear to draw any closer to it. The boat was permeated with the stench of fish and I clung to the side fighting off an urge to throw up, but the salesman looked utterly unperturbed and did his best to strike up a conversation with me.

“This is my third visit to South Kamui, you know. There's nothing here but fresh air and clean sea, and also the women are wonderfully uninhibited. Can't complain about the service. City folks these days talk about free sex and whatnot, but here on this island they've been practicing something of the sort since way back, and they take especially good care of visitors. A veritable ‘isle of women,' you might say.”

His “nudge nudge, wink wink” type of talk struck me as peculiarly insinuating and offensive. I said nothing, so he probed further: “Are you here on vacation? Getting away from it all is all the rage these days.” He was peering at me with his flushed face thrust close to mine. His breath stank of alcohol. I recalled he had been sipping steadily from a whiskey bottle on board the
K Maru
.

“For work,” I answered shortly, clutching my chest. I still felt nauseous, but perhaps I could somehow reach the shore without vomiting.

“Work, huh? No kidding!” The salesman laughed in such a way that could equally imply admiration or contempt.

“I'm a doctor,” I said, attempting to deflect his gaze. I was annoyed at being considered on a par with the likes of a salesman. “It is most inconvenient for the island to be without medical assistance, so I decided to come.”

“You're a doctor? Oh gosh, I
am
sorry.” He made a show of striking his head in contrition. It was the sort of gesture typical of a slick salesman, and I began to dislike him even more. No doubt the products he was peddling were fakes. I scowled disapprovingly, but the salesman continued in his overly familiar and clumsy manner to praise me, “I'm really impressed that a young doctor like you would come to such a far-flung island.”

I gave a wry smile despite myself. Just a few days earlier I had been similarly commended for going to South Kamui, albeit in rather more elegant language. It was on the occasion of the farewell party held in my honor. My aging professor, overcome with emotion, had said, “It is truly splendid that a young doctor like yourself should demonstrate a spirit of self-sacrifice by going to such a remote island.” I listened humbly, but truth be told, my reasons for going to South Kamui were not as lofty as he suggested.

I simply wanted to get away from Tokyo because I had gotten into trouble over a woman. What was more, the woman was associated with some yakuza who had threatened me, so things were getting particularly ugly. My destination, therefore, was not a primary consideration. I would have preferred to go abroad, to somewhere like France or Germany, but I had no money and was not confident of being able to make a living once I got there. It was then that I heard that South Kamui needed a doctor. The salary was good, so I applied. I had vaguely imagined from its name that South Kamui must be an island in the arc of the Kamui Archipelago stretching off the southern coast of Kyushu toward Okinawa. It would not be so bad to live for a while gazing at the blue sea of a coral reef, I thought, but when I looked again at the map after signing the contract, I was shocked. However hard I searched the Kamui Archipelago from north to south, I could not find any island by the name of South Kamui. Nor should I have done. It did actually belong to the archipelago, but was stranded alone in the ocean some two hundred and fifty kilometers to the southeast, as if ostracized by the other islands. Of course there were no flights there, and the ferry from the main island of Kamui apparently took more than ten hours. “Being so isolated and inaccessible, the manners and customs remain little changed from olden times. The living is meager,” read the extremely brief entry in the guidebook. It would probably be a folklorist's dream, but for me it felt like being exiled to a place beyond the reach of civilization. I could hardly back out now having already signed the contract, but I was thinking of finding some pretext to return to Tokyo before the two years of the contract were up.

And quite frankly, rocking in a boat stinking of fish with a red-faced middle-aged salesman jabbering away at me, I was already beginning to regret ever having come to this desolate southern island.

The fishing boat finally drew close to the island.

The “port” was actually a small inlet. The seabed was spread with coral, over which the surface of the water was churned into white foam by the incoming tide. We were splashed by spray, but the water was warm. It was the end of April and the days were still chilly in Tokyo, but here it was already summer.

There was a long, narrow concrete wharf where twenty or so islanders had turned out to welcome me. I saw the uniformed figure of a resident police officer, but there were just four men in all and the rest were women. The women wore white singlets with indigo splash-patterned pantaloons, their faces covered with straw hats and cotton towels to protect them from the strong rays of the sun.

“Some welcome party!” the salesman smirked, looking at me. I didn't answer. The feeling of nausea had not yet dissipated, and besides, the women were so sunburned that I could not tell their ages. I did not find them the remotest bit attractive.

The young man at the helm shouted something loudly at the wharf. His accent was so strong I failed to catch his words, but from the way the women laughed shrilly I thought he must have been teasing them.

Four or five of the women caught the end of the rope he threw them and pulled the fishing boat alongside the wharf. They held the rope steady, but jumping up from the rocking boat to the wharf a step higher was surprisingly difficult. The salesman shouldered his large bundle and leaped nimbly up, but I mistook my timing and ended up stumbling awkwardly on the wharf. Seeing this, the women let out a bright peal of laughter that was nevertheless somehow tinged with cruelty.

The young officer hastily took my hand and helped me to my feet.

The women now started hauling the fishing boat ashore. They seemed to enjoy the task. As they pulled on the ropes, they sang a song. I had heard the rhythmical cries of fisherwomen along the Chiba coast as they hauled in the seines, but compared with their rough voices, the singing of these women was extremely slow and leisurely. I could not understand the words. The one thing I did understand, however, was that every time the women sang “
maguhai—
” the young fisherman chuckled. From this I surmised that in the island dialect the word
maguhai
had something or other to do with sex. I remembered the salesman telling me the women here were uninhibited.

The salesman quickly disappeared off somewhere, but for me there started a long drawn-out speech of welcome. A small elderly man, apparently the mayor, bowed low before me and by way of greeting said extremely politely, “We on this remote island welcome you who have done us the favor of coming from Yamato. We have little here, but we exhort you to please enjoy your stay at your leisure.” I had the feeling that I was listening to someone from the ancient Imperial Court. At first I did not understand what he meant by “Yamato,” but after it had cropped up a few times I realized that it appeared to refer to the Japanese mainland. It seemed that the elderly residents of this island still used this antiquated name to refer to Japan. In Tokyo, time raced by at an insane pace, but here it probably stood still.

The plump headmaster of the island's primary school gave me an equally formal greeting. One of the remaining men, in late middle-age, was the postmaster, and his welcome speech appeared to demean his own island: “We are very grateful to you for coming to such a place.” These three men, four including the police officer, seemed to be the most important, and the fact that all of the island's dignitaries turned out to greet me was evidence of the highest honor. I should perhaps have been thankful to them, but I was fed up with this long drawn out welcome on the wharf. It amounted to a formal ceremony, with the men appearing to vie with each other to give the longest, most courteous speech. It was just the end of April, but it was already unbearably hot. There was no such thing as spring here, and this season was apparently called “young summer,” which might sound very pretty, but the sun was beating down and the sweat poured from my armpits.

After about thirty minutes, their speeches finally came to an end and I was shown around the village. The women had finished hauling up the fishing boat, and now trooped after us chattering among themselves in shrill voices. I could not understand their dialect, but I got the impression they were somehow sizing me up. They frequently raised their voices in laughter. I was beginning to get annoyed. Was I going to provide an endless topic of gossip for them?

Walking around the village, I was struck by its destitute appearance. I had been aware that it was an impoverished island with a population of just three hundred and forty-six, but I had not expected it to be this bad. Even compared to the main island of Kamui, the poverty here seemed in another league altogether. All the houses had old-style straw-thatched roofs, and the dry whitish road sounded hollow underfoot. There were no cars to be seen, but instead oxcarts rolled slowly by. The children went around barefoot. In contrast with the indigence of the settlement, the sky was boundlessly clear, and the greenery was deep and rich with enormous sago palms, papayas, and screw pines. Indeed, I got the impression that the vegetation was so lush that the islanders seemed cowed before it.

I was taken to the infirmary on the edge of the village. The sign reading “South Kamui Clinic” was brand new, but the building itself was a musty old wooden structure. Nevertheless, its roof of galvanized sheet iron seemed to confer upon it an air of modernity that stood out amongst all the thatched dwellings. When I went inside, I realized the medical equipment was far from sufficient. It was even less well-equipped than a small private surgery. The mayor apologized profusely for the lack of budget. I told him that I would manage despite the straightened circumstances, whereupon he finally seemed to relax and his deeply wrinkled face broke into a smile.

The women were still there, lined up outside the window looking in at me. The faces of several small children were also peeping in. I commented with an ironic smile that I felt like a caged animal. Just then, a piercing siren rang out and instantly the row of faces outside the window disappeared.

“What on earth is that?” I demanded in shock.

“Today,” beamed the mayor, “is the one day in the calendar when the ban is lifted.”

“The ban?” I echoed.

This time it was the young officer who explained briskly, “There's a colony here on the island, of a seabird called the Streaked Shearwater. It's a protected species, but on this day alone they are allowed to harvest them. It's quite exciting to watch. Would you like to accompany me? Your welcome party will be held after that.”

The mayor and headmaster both urged me to go as well. There was no entertainment to speak of on the island, and today was a major event for which the entire village turned out. It had even been made a special holiday. What with the heat and the lengthy speeches on the wharf, I was feeling fed up and could not summon any enthusiasm, but when pressed further I grudgingly hauled myself to my feet.

Mount Kamui rose almost two hundred meters above sea level, and the Streaked Shearwaters dug their meter-deep nesting burrows on its southern slope. These were the cause of withered tree roots and landslides, which was why this annual cull was permitted. The birds were unable to rise into the air straight from the ground, and had to waddle down the slope to get the momentum to take off. With much hand gesturing, the officer explained such background details as we climbed the mountain path. When speaking to me, he—and indeed all the islanders—used standard Japanese, but the moment they started talking amongst themselves, they spoke in a dialect that I could not understand. They made such a clear distinction that I was left feeling more bewildered than impressed. I could not tell whether they were trying to put me at ease, or whether they were merely underlining the fact that I was an outsider.

Fan palms and date palms grew luxuriantly on either side of the steep path. I was amused by the wild king banana trees which, contrary to its grandiose name, bore fruit that was no bigger than my pinkie. Apparently it didn't taste of much either.