In the Edo
Period, the Nakasendô (“the way through the mountains”) was one of the main
roads connecting Tokyo – then known as Edo – with the provinces. Traders and
craftsmen as well as local rulers had to travel along these mountain paths.
Near Magome northeast of Nagoya, the mountains and forests are particularly
dense, and civilisation seems to be particularly far away.
(For more Japan photos, click here: 2006, 2006 (Shikoku 88-Temple Pilgrimage), February / March 2009, April 2009, May 2009, June 2009)
Here, time
has stopped. Or else it has been turned back. The houses are built from wood,
and no electric wires and satellite dishes are to be seen. A postman in indigo-dyed
uniform and with a round straw hat, cloth shoes and a wooden box slung over his
shoulder is delivering letters. The steep stone path continues up over the
pass, but the locals don’t go there – nor do they know about bus timetables or accommodation
beyond the mountain pass. It is the neighbouring prefecture and therefore very
distant. In one of the small shops we talk to a wrinkled old woman who gives us
a jar of Fuki-Miso as a present. Fuki, she explains, is a bitter spiky flower
that grows in early spring in the deep forests. She has been out to collect it
herself and mixed it with miso paste to sell to the tourists.
“Hen hao!”
“Zhege ma?” Suddenly a group of Taiwanese tour group is swarming the one narrow
road leading through the village. They fill all the souvenir shops, eat
Goheimochi, the flat rice cakes covered with a delicious sesame-walnut paste, and
constantly bump into each other taking photos with their mobile phones.
Behind
Magome the bus tourists peter out. The path now leads through freshly planted
rice paddies and bamboo groves. Three day hikers from Nagoya point out a
dôsôjin stone, a votive tablet dedicated to the god of journeys. Just before
the post station of Ochiai the old stone pavement has been restored and the winding
trail leads through a shady green forest that feels cool even on a sunny day
like this one. Soon we pass a traditional teahouse. A man with long grey ponytail and several
rounds of Buddhist prayer beads around his neck is adjusting something at the
little Shinto shrine in the garden. “My, isn’t it getting hot,” he opens a
conversation, only to state a few sentences later: “What I like about Japan is
that the religions don’t fight here.” We agree and resume our path.
In the days
when the Nakasendô was one of the major roads connecting the distant provinces
with the capital, the teahouses and inns were divided by rank: Some would only
serve the high-ranking Daimyo and other travelling dignitaries, while others
catered for the common people. Most of
these establishments had to close in the 20th century when a
railroad was built serving the area.
“It is
forbidden to sell drugs or counterfeit money,“ announces a wooden sign high
above our heads, while another one explains the details of payment for the
stable boys. The announcement boards, which were built to symbolize the
government’s high authority, have been re-erected in recent years for the
benefit of tourists eager to discover the Edo Period.
“It is only
in the past 10 or 15 years that people have started to hike the Nakasendô for
entertainment,” explains Ogiso-san. He is 70 and has recently moved back to Ôkute.
His family has owned the house in the small Nakasendô post station for over 300
years. Ogiso-san leads us to the village elder, as we are looking for a place
to pitch our tent for the night. The local elementary school has been closed down
5 years ago, for lack of children, and we get the permission to stay on the
disused athletic field. In the evening Ogiso-san shows up with beer and potato
salad and it turns out he and Isa went to the same university in Tokyo.
The next
morning we take the school bus down into the valley to the train station, where
we board a train for Nagoya and return to present-day Japan.
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