Petit Journal Américain
Volume 2: Matsushima

This is Matsushima Bay, one of the most famous and beautiful places in Japan. It’s said that there are more than 200 islands, some with little villages in their nooks and crannies, pine woods, red bridges, and shinto temples at their summits. There’s a haiku that describes the joy of seeing Matsushima:

Matsushima, ah !
A-ah, Matsushima, ah !
Matsushima, ah !

But now, there’s probably nothing left, nothing but rubble, ruins and corpses. It’s close to Sendai, and to the epicentre of the earthquake which just hit Japan. The whole rugged coast, all the towns, the villages, the little fishing ports, the houses, gardens and temples, all have been destroyed by the tsunami that followed the quake. (Tsunami is a Japanese word, meaning "harbour wave". It’s no more accurate or descriptive than the older English phrase "tidal wave" but somehow it has eclipsed it). We were there in May 1998, stricken, like everyone, by its beauty. In honour of Matsushima and all of Japan, suffering after the quake, this Petit Journal takes a leap back in time to our trip over ten years ago.

It started with a reunion at Narita, Tokyo’s international airport – as usual, we weren’t travelling together. I was going to Japan for two meetings, with Air France, and John came for a long weekend with British Airways. This was long before 9/11, and the painful security procedures which have followed. When I arrived, Air France let me wait in their lounge, airside, for a couple of hours, before sending a hostess to take me to where John’s plane was just unloading. He was one of the first off the plane, we met and kissed in the jetway, just like in the movies.

The train to Sendai was a Shinkansen, the classic Japanese "bullet train". Then we took a local train to Matsushima. We were staying in a traditional–style Japanese hotel, a ryokan, the Taikanso, with a magnificent view over the whole bay. (I don’t know if the hotel has been damaged, but their website is down). Of course John lost no time buying the huge all-Japan railway timetable, which he learned off by heart, or so it seems. In 1998 he hadn’t got round to learning Japanese, but he managed anyway to read the timetable and to make himself understood each time we arrived at a ryokan (or maybe it was just his smile). From our room we could see not only the whole bay, but also the railway line. In the middle of the night I woke up, to see John, wearing only his yukata, sitting cross-legged in front of the window, looking up the destinations of the trains as they passed. I went back to sleep with a smile.

John: I have a fond memory of going to get my train timetable. I walked down to the main street of the little town, half a mile away. There were only tourist shops, the kind you find everywhere in Japanese tourist spots, selling local sake, food and nicknacks, tablecloths… nothing of great interest. Opposite the shops there was the bay, which is to say the sea. Now there can’t be anything left of all those shops, and the old ladies who pass their time waiting for the stream of tourist buses. Finally, I found the little station. Matsushima has two stations, one on the main Tohoku line that, before the Shinkansen, linked Tokyo with the whole northern coast right up to Aomori, the other on a little line that winds – or wound – along the coast as far as Onagawa. There can’t be much left of the little station, nor of the railway line itself. Maybe you’ve seen the video that shows wrecked trains, stations reduced to rubble? Maybe you’ve heard that after the tsunami, four trains had just disappeared. A train is a massive thing, made of cast iron and steel, and yet they just disappeared, swept out to sea.

The train that was bothering me when Isabelle woke up was a bit of a mystery. It didn’t look like it belonged on that line, and I couldn’t find it in the timetable. Now I realise that it was the "Minamisanriku", an express serving the town of the same name, which carried its population of 17,000 to and from Sendai to do their shopping. Today, of those 17,000 people, there are just 7,000 survivors.

The yukatas (traditional Japanese bath robes) that the hotel provided in our room were magnificent: a design in turquoise representing the froth of the waves, and we looked great in them too! I wanted to take them away, but they weren’t on sale. I asked our meeting secretary, a charming young Japanese lady, to help negotiate with the hotel. At first she was surprised, but then got into a long discussion with the hotel, in which, little by little, all the staff were surprised in turn by this strange request from the "gaijin" (foreigners). But it worked, and she even bought one for herself! We still have those yukatas, a little the worse for wear, but somehow I don’t feel like wearing mine any more.

The first meeting was rather formal. It was a kind of international cooperation between the three world regions, Europe, America, and the Far East, which for seven years took me on trips to many wonderful places – although in all honesty it probably didn’t serve much purpose. The Japanese do things in style. They organised a Kaiseki dinner – a traditional formal dinner with many tiny, exquisite dishes – which is one of the best we’ve ever had, mainly of local seafood. As you can see, the three heads of delegation ran things very seriously, and I got to wear my best clothes!

John: While Isabelle was taking care of world solidarity, I travelled into the countryside – by train, of course. With the help of the indispensible JR timetable, I took our little train to Sendai, then a slow two-coach train that stopped at every tiny village station on its way to Yamagata, a town in the mountains – even its name is written with the characters for "mountain shape". It’s a wonderful way to see the Japanese countryside, passing by people’s back gardens, seeing the schoolchildren and the old ladies who get on and off at every station, and I had a great time.

And then we rented a car, our first time in Japan – even with John’s knowledge of the trains, it would be impossible to visit the area without a car. In Matsushima we had amazing views of the islands, with all their different shapes, the famous red bridge, the little wooden houses surrounded by pines, right beside the sea. Everything was charming and magnificent, the little fishing boats like toys on the calm water – and indeed now they’ve been tossed onto the coast just like those same toys.

We drove to the Oshika peninsula, the closest land to the epicentre of the earthquake, to the town of Ayukawa. In the old days this was a whaling port. There were a few large whaling boats (although whaling is forbidden, Japan and Iceland still do a little for "research"), and the whole town was full of references to whales and whaling – fountains, restaurant signs, and even stuffed whale soft toys. John managed to decipher a restaurant menu enough to order lunch – though not whale. We did eventually taste it, years later, at Utoro in Hokkaido. That was on our long drive around the south coast of Hokkaido, another long, exposed coast. We wonder, with a heavy heart, what has become of Erimo Misaki, so vulnerable at the very tip of the long peninsula?

What is left of Ayukawa today? The peninsula is mountainous, maybe the people managed to scramble to safety? The Japanese are very prepared for this kind of natural disaster, at least in theory – but they had just 15 minutes between the earthquake and the tsunami. What can you do in 15 minutes, already shaken up by the quake, to escape a 10-metre wave?

But back then, it was with sheer pleasure that we explored the country backroads. At Furukawa we stopped for the first time ever in a big Japanese supermarket – there aren’t any in the centre of Tokyo. We were astonished, walking round all the aisles, at the dozens of vegetables that we didn’t even recognise, at the numerous gadgets for steaming things in different ways… and that we didn’t see even a single toaster!

We spent the night in a hot spring resort (an "onsen"), Narugo. It must have been one of our first times at an onsen – the almost-unbearably hot bathwater, the dinner of local, seasonal specialties, and the uncomfortable futons. After dinner we went in search of a beer, clattering through the narrow streets in our yukata and geta (traditional Japanese sandals with elevated soles for walking through the mud). It was our first time in the Japanese countryside, away from the bit cities, surprisingly rural. I remember the country gardens with their peonies, roses, irises, salad vegetables. I realised that gardening is something we all have in common, and that life up there must be a lot simpler than in Tokyo.

Finally we came to Yamagata, the place where the most famous cherries in Japan are grown. The most expensive, too, at 50 Euros per kilo. They’re wrapped up like jewels, and taste delicious. To make sure that nothing goes to waste there are even competitions to see who can spit the stones the furthest! The cherry trees are inside huge net cages to protect them from birds (and maybe squirrels too), very surprising to see in the middle of the countryside. This was also the first time we saw wild monkeys, wandering along the side of the road. In Yamagata town we stopped at a sort of school fete, with stalls selling home-grown fruit and vegetables and antiques. There was a guy, nice enough, who tried to start a conversation, with difficulty considering we had no common language.

After that it was back to Sendai, covered in pink azaleas like giant cushions. John flew back to London, and I went to my JTC1 meeting where I found my French colleagues. Sendai was a pretty town, very provincial, with green everywhere, lots of bicycles and students. Foreigners were still quite rare and attracted curious looks. The city isn’t right on the sea, I hope it hasn’t been too badly damaged by the wave. But the airport, right next to the sea, certainly was, as you may have seen on the news. Water rises, slowly but surely. There is no escape.

Voila, our memories of that long-ago trip – now mixed with a lot of sadness. Our friends in Tokyo are safe and sound, as far as we know. But Japan, that is so close to our hearts, has been hit so hard that it still hurts, even from the other side of the great Pacific Ocean.