Dens Ha

Densha: Memories of a Train Ride Through Kyushu by: Scott Nesbitt

Copyright 2004 Scott Nesbitt

Of the many images of Japan that exist, some of the most striking are those of Japanese trains. And when you think of the words "train" and "Japan,” these words instantly conjure comical images in most minds. The filter of the media shows us sleek, ultra-modern trains travelling at 300 kilometres per hour, and stations packed with endless waves of rush hour commuters. And, of course, the pathetically hilarious video snippets of uniformed, white-gloved "pushers" appearing from nowhere to cram passengers into already jam-packed cars. During the two years I spent in Japan, the trains I rode in all parts of the country not only carried me from destination to destination, but also helped me form opinions of Japan and the Japanese people. Some of those impressions were good, some not so. A trip to Kyushu, Japan's large southern island, gave me a new perspective on not only Japanese trains but on Japan itself. At the time, several Japanese friends asked me "Why do you want to go to Kyushu?" Everyone seemed to be pushing me to go north to Tokyo or Hokkaido. Truth be told, I'd been to both places and had no interest in going back. Kyushu, on the other hand, was last part of Japan I was interested in visiting. This trip gave me the chance to be a wide-eyed tourist and not the blase traveller I'd morphed into. Among my plans were to experience a couple of Kyushu's famous hot springs, to get close to a live volcano, and to make the obligatory pilgrimage to Nagasaki. To do the latter, I crossed the inlet of the Ariake Sea aboard a ferry and landed at town called Shimabara, the starting point for my journey to Nagasaki. I trudged a few hundred metres from the ferry dock to the nearby depot, bought my ticket, and waited at a weather-beaten Japan Railway (JR) station. The train that rolled in wasn't like most that I was used to in Japan. Its cars were a faded white, with a liberal coating of grime just above the wheels. Not yet dilapidated,

just old and growing more and more rickety with each trip. I muttered "Kyushu: the place old JR trains go to die. " The cars came to a groaning stop and I waited for the doors to open with their familiar pneumatic hiss. Seconds passed and nothing happened. I stepped back, thinking there was a problem. When I glanced one car down the track I noticed a man pulling a handle to open his door. "When in Rome ..." I thought and reached out. It was upon taking a seat that I realized how old and well-used this train was. The seats were like that old sofa in your parents' recreation room – faded and threadbare, with that unmistakable sponginess that comes from years of straining springs beyond their limits. The seats weren't uncomfortable. In fact, they were perfect for the long journey ahead. Sitting in that train was like sitting in a Canadian public school classroom in the middle of winter. It was heated to the limits of human endurance. For what seemed like the millionth time, I shook my head at how the Japanese heated and cooled their space. To escape the scorching heat and humidity of summer, air conditioning is cranked up to maximum. Just about every building or rail car you enter feels like a meat locker. To keep the winter cold at bay, heating systems are set at unhealthy levels. It's almost as if the Japanese are trying to create the conditions of summer indoors. The car was so hot that sweat soon began to glaze my forehead and snake its way down my back. As I slipped out of my leather jacket, I tried unsuccessfully to peer out of the heavily misted windows at the passing landscape. An avid rail traveller once told me that every train has a distinct personality. In Europe, this is taken to an extreme where many trains are named like ships. While travelling from Brussels to Dusseldorf, I rode a German train dubbed the Alexander von Humboldt. In Japan, the personality of a train is apparent even to the casual visitor. The famous Shinkansen (bullet trains) exuded an unmistakable sleek, moneyed power. The

inter-city trains and the subways that I rode to and from my teaching job were plain, prompt, and utilitarian. But both projected that certain cold Japanese impersonality that make an outsider feel like an outsider. The old trains in Kyushu, though, had their own unique personalities which reflected the personalities of their riders. After a few station stops, the train was noticeably filling up. Not quite the sushi zume ("packed like sushi") I was used to, but close quarters nonetheless. To my right, I noticed an elderly woman holding a cluster of shopping bags in one hand; the other held a passenger support in a knuckle-whitening death grip. I half rose out of my seat, caught her eye and said Obaasan, seki o yuzurimashoo ("Ma'am, please take my seat"). What struck me is that the woman wasn't surprised that I could speak Japanese. And, unlike the obachan in Osaka and Kobe, she didn't pretend she couldn't understand me or refuse the offer. What she did was sit down and start talking to me. Not the usual questions foreigners living in Japan are bombarded with: "Where are you from? How long have you been in Japan? Can you eat Japanese food?" Instead she began complaining about the weather; heavy April rains had been lashing the area for several days. "I really don't like the damp and cold," she said. "I can feel it in my bones. I nodded in agreement and said "My knee always aches in weather like this." The old woman seemed surprised. "But you're so young. What could be wrong with you?” I told her about the knee surgeries I'd had seven years earlier and some of the minor aches and pains that having no cartilage in the joint caused me. We chatted for another three or four stops, then she got up and thanked me – for the seat or the conversation, I'm still not sure – and got off. The train remained stationary for several minutes. An open door gave me the

twin opportunities of cooling down a bit in the heavy breeze and having a look at the station. Only, it would be a stretch to have called this a station. Beyond the barriers blocking traffic with their flashing lights and annoying klaxon, there were no signs that I associated with a train stop. No ticket machines, no platform, no covered waiting area for passengers. The station house itself was nothing more than a glassed-in shed measuring about 4 metres by 3 metres standing on the topmost edge of a beach. When the train stopped, the uniformed station master and his junior popped out and either exchanged money for tickets or checked a passenger's train pass. I smiled at the rustic simplicity that hadn't yet been subsumed by Japan's lust for modernization. In the microcosm of the Japan I was used to, this place bordered on the absurd. But I could see how this might be a choice posting for a railway employee. Beyond the station was one of the nicest expanses of beach I'd seen in the country. Wide, flat, smooth and empty. The sands looked like they hadn't been trod upon in aeons. The sea rolled with an understated grace and, every so often, waves dynamically assaulted a small breakwater. Several stops down the line, a group of five high school students boarded. Upon seeing their blue uniforms and shaved skulls, my first thought was "Brace yourself, here it comes." They just took up a position in the centre of the car and started animatedly talking about their school's upcoming sports day. For the first time in my two years in Japan, I didn't feel like a thousand eyes were focused on me and my every move. And it was not because of a lack of passengers – the train was relatively crowded for the early afternoon. In Kansai, and in the other parts of Japan I'd visited, I was accustomed to being on the receiving end of stares and of pointing, of the shrieks of gaijin (foreigner) and the comments about my long hair. These were annoying at first, but I learned to ignore them by either burying myself in a book or cranking the volume on my Walkman up a notch or

two. But throughout this trip no one seemed to notice me. No comments or gestures in my direction. And, blessedly, no one sidling up and speaking to me in English – or in many cases what they thought was English. I wasn't drawing any attention whatsoever. Not from the teenagers getting on and off this train, not from the elderly manager of the inn I had stayed at a couple of nights before, not even from young children. Earlier that week in the city of Kumamoto, a local had even asked me for directions! *** The ride from Shimabara to Nagasaki isn't a non-stop trip. You have to change trains at Isahaya. Isahaya station was like the trains I encountered in Kyushu: old and run down, but possessing a certain character that made you look beyond the crumbling masonry and the grimy analog clocks hanging from the ceiling. The Nagasaki-bound train was of a slightly newer vintage than the one I'd just ridden, but it too was showing the signs of age and wear. The cars were just as hot and stuffy, but there were few passengers and I could get a clear view of the landscape in the inexorably encroaching night. Along the way, a long unseen sight grabbed my attention and wouldn't let go. It was trees. A lot of trees. Modern Japan is, in many ways, at war with nature. In his excellent book Lost Japan, Alex Kerr writes: "It is said that of Japan's thirty thousand rivers and streams, only three remain undammed, and even these have had their streambeds and banks encased in concrete." Trees and forest have suffered as well, with centuries-old growth having been levelled in the name of modernization. But if someone tells you that Japan doesn't have any large tracts of trees, they're wrong. While not as impressive as the forests of Ontario, British Columbia, or the Pacific Northwest, there's something almost otherworldly about a stand of trees in Japan. Not that I wasn't used to greenery of the Japanese variety. I lived in town called Yamanomachi, situated in a valley in the mountains surrounding Kobe. Foliage

abounded there, and in spring the scent of cherry blossoms filled my apartment. But no matter where I looked in Yamanomachi, I could always see some evidence of humans. A streetlight, a building, scraps of litter. Here it was different. Occasionally, a light peered out from behind the trees, but the only tangible evidence of civilization was the stretch of track I was on and the stations that interrupted them. I had an uncontrollable urge to open a window and breathe in the smell of the pines and damp earth, to reach out and pull a few leaves off a nearby tree. Unfortunately, I'd been living in Japan too long. Courtesy for my fellow passengers checked my desire to get closer to nature. All-too-soon, the train arrived at Nagasaki station. At that point, I really didn't want to get off. My childish wish was to stay aboard that train, and other trains like it, until the end of my vacation. I wanted nothing more than to see each station stop, stare into the landscape, and chat with the other passengers. Most of all, I didn't want to worry about where I was going and where I'd been. Reluctantly, I hauled myself off the train at Nagasaki. My childish wish at that moment was never to get off that train, to travel around Kyushu and take in the sights and sounds, and to interact with the people who were riding with me. As I walked out of the station to find a place to eat and stay the night, I reflected on the journey up until now. I'd seen facets of Japan that I had never expected to see. And I’d learned more about the Japanese people themselves, much more than I could have if I’d travelled to most other places in the country. The Japan that I thought I’d known had changed. Near the station's entrance, a clock caught my eye. I realized that no matter how old Japanese trains are, no matter how run down their stations are, there was one constant: they're always on time.