Stop & Go: a 3-day journey to Japan’s Northeast (part I)

“The best, like water, benefit all and do not compete.” — Laozi

“Flow with whatever may happen, and let your mind be free: stay centered by accepting whatever you are doing. This is the ultimate.” ― Zhuangzi

Sometimes there’s no point in resisting.

The message came out of the blue on Linkedin, right after I had published an update on the massive oil spill triggered by a Japanese-owned ship off Mauritius.

“I was thinking... if you were feeling like getting out of Tokyo for fresh air, you are more than welcome to come visit Towada, Aomori, for tree bathing, lake canoeing, onsen and some arts (I’m a board member at Towada Art Centre). I can show you around the area.”

Fresh air is exactly what I needed.

It had been 5 months since my last trip out of Tokyo, to visit my parents in Geneva and help them prepare for the coming lockdown. 5 months of relentless writing on the pandemic’s impact on Japan, the government’s incoherent response, the eerily low infection numbers—and most recently, the entry ban against non-Japanese residents.

So with the flow I went, and after a bit of back-and-forth to make sure I wouldn’t be abusing my host’s kindness, I opted to hop on the night bus to Towada, 700 kilometers north of Tokyo, rather than waste half a day getting there by train.

Are you Sirius?

Monday, Aug.17, 20:20 / Ikebukuro Station, Tokyo, 21:46 — I’m clambering down the stairs of the Saikyo Line, careful to spare my recently injured right ankle. I have 14 minutes to get to East Exit bus station No 9.

Unable to buy a ticket online—waiting until the last minute for prices to drop only resulted in a screen that read “no longer available”—I decided to give it a go anyway. I had to pack in a hurry, water the plants and drag them to a less unforgiving portion of the balcony, and kiss my fish goodbye, with a prayer that they would survive 3 more days in the unbearable heat.

32 degrees Celsius, read the aquarium’s thermometer at 21:00. It doesn’t help that this year, I’ve challenged myself not to use air conditioning at all, as a way of “walking the talk” on climate change. I wish I could convey to Hugo—my cute freshwater puffer—and his cardinal tetra mates that their slow simmering is an unintended consequence of my inner struggles with coherence.

Near the bus stop, a group of youngsters, probably ushers from a deserted club or izakaya, are pounding the pavement in search of customers willing to brave the “Three Cs” so frowned upon by the Metropolitan Authority in the time of corona—close contact, closed spaces, crowded areas.

21:56. Like a Swiss clock, a large highway bus approaches, pauses at the red light, and slows down to a full stop. “シリウス号 - Highway Bus SIRIUS” reads a sign on the flank of the behemoth. This is it. The door opens with a powerful pneumatic hiss.

“Where are you going?” asks the conductor from the top of the stairs. The words come as he exhales, with what almost sounds like a tinge of disappointment.

“Towada” I reply. “It’s the, what was it again... Hotel.”

“Fujiya?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Would you like to put your bags in the trunk?”

“I guess it depends on how many people are onboard.”

“Today, It’s going to be just you.”

Not only is the Sirius seriously empty, but it turns out that starting tomorrow, service will be suspended “for the time being as part of efforts to stem the spread of the coronavirus”. That’s the universe signaling to me that it was indeed now or never—at least as far as this trip is concerned.

I buy my ticket and pick the 3A window seat. 3B, a mere 30 centimeters to the right on the aisle, will cradle my backpack. 9,800 yen (about $90) for the one-way fare. That’s 6,000 cheaper than the bullet train, and I’ll arrive at 8AM with the entire day ahead of me.

As the 10-hour journey begins, I finally get it. The pair of drivers, who had departed from Tokyo Station, probably thought they would be making the return trip home by themselves. Until this bearded backpacker showed up at the last stop before the highway.

I feel for them, but even more for their company, Towada Kanko. My fare probably doesn’t cover even half the cost of diesel fuel to get to my destination, let alone the highway tolls and the crew’s salary.

Yet here I am, trying to find the right angle for my frame on a reclining seat probably designed in the 1990s, for passengers 15 centimeters shorter on average than myself. I can only imagine the discomfort of having an immediate neighbor, particularly in these troubled times, masks and all.

Outside the window, the dark, monotonous landscape of the Tohoku Expressway slips by at 80 kilometers per hour. My conscience starts drifting away.

Every two hours, the bus will make a stop at a “Service Area”, as highway rest areas are called in Japan. One of the drivers will walk out, hammer in hand, to tap the tires. Then he’ll crawl into the resting compartment, next to the baggage hold, to recharge his batteries while the conductor takes over.

Stop & go / Switch drivers / Repeat.

The pulse of my 700-kilometer journey north of Tokyo.

[Jump to part II]