Fish. This place reeks of dead fish. The air is thick with the stench of this morning’s catch -- or so they say -- and dirty water. It is about 7:30 a.m. and it is already hot, humid and oppressive. It is only the beginning of May and my Midwestern brain is having an incredibly hard time trying to imagine what summer is going to be like here in Saijo. We haven’t been given leave to change into our summer uniforms yet, apparently one of the students needs to pass out from the heat before they decide shorter sleeves and thinner skirts are ok, and I am sweating profusely through my navy blue, ankle length, multi-layered, polyester sailor uniform. I zoom past closed store fronts in the covered mall (known as an arcade) and dodge old men as they dump dirty mop water into the already dingy, narrow, linoleum tiled road, making my bike tires squeal and my school bag swing from my handle bars. Other than the sounds of the aforementioned old people and the few birds that are chittering away in the arcade’s rafters, I am completely and utterly alone.
At the tender age of 17, I thought it would be a great idea to live one of my biggest dreams -- A year in Japan as an exchange student. I won a scholarship and got the amazing opportunity to live with a host family and fully submerge myself in Japanese culture, language and food. On my application I marked that I would live anywhere and they put me in the middle of nowhere. I was placed in Saijo, in the Ehime Prefecture, on the Island of Shikoku -- the smallest of the four main Islands of Japan. Saijo is about the size of Walworth County, which is about 100,000 people. Seems large for a city, but in all honesty, it did not feel large at all. Compared to other Japanese cities -- such as Tokyo, Osaka or Kyoto -- Saijo is just a tiny little blip on the map, if it is even marked at all. The city has some old traditionally Japanese buildings, but otherwise it is surrounded by farmland, tall mountains, and the sea -- a view that is marred by the plethora of cranes and other bits of dark and grimy industry.
Saijo was said to have been inhabited in the Jomon era around 6,000 BCE by hunters and gatherers. A lot of information about the area was lost during the Invasion of Shikoku in 1585 and not until the Tokugawa Shogunate did we hear about the Ehime Prefecture again and the area that became known as Saijo-han (district or fiefdom) which historians believe is the etymology of the city’s name, “Western District.” In 1636, during the Edo period, dams were built and the castle eventually was transformed into a high school -- and is one of the few in Japan that has a moat. Old Saijo was established in 1941 and New Saijo was established in 2004 after a horrible typhoon (Typhoon 21) hit and destroyed much of the city. This ultimately forced them to absorb the three neighboring small cities: Toyo, Komatsu and Tanbara. I moved to Saijo in 2005.
Saijo is relatively unknown amongst the Japanese. Other than mikan (which are like mandarin oranges), uchinuki (natural spring water that you can drink right out of the ground), Mt. Ichizushi and the Saijo matsuri (festival), not many tourists end up in this area of Japan, especially foreign ones. It was common for me to walk down the heavily populated streets and feel the stares of the residents piercing my flesh from behind. Sometimes there were drive-by stares and sometimes people would come to a full stop in the middle of the sidewalk to stare at the tall, freakish, kinpatsu (blonde) alien walking down the street. It was even worse when I was in my school uniform. When they were not starring, they would whisper. Loudly. You know what it is like when a drunk person or a young child tries to whisper and you can literally hear every word they say? It was like that. I remember a particularly hot day in which I went to the local Fuji Grand -- a supermarket/mall/food court -- to get some melon flavored ice cream. I had been dreaming about it all day and could not wait for school to end so I could race down to my favorite ice cream shop and find comfort in it’s creamy, cold, cantaloupe flavor. I sat down at a table in the food court with a tiny pink shovel, also known as a spoon, and carefully and delicately savored each and every bite. That is when I noticed that the mall, which was pretty busy, suddenly became deafeningly quiet. I slowly looked up from my prized sofuto creamu (ice cream) and noticed that everyone who walked past me was staring and whispering. I did what any normal person would do. I checked my entire being for bright green ice cream. Nothing. Suddenly, realization set in and I couldn’t get out of the mall fast enough. Time seemed to slow down as I gathered my things. They are staring at me because I’m different. They are staring because I’m not like them.
My host family did not understand or even try to understand my feelings of isolation. At first they tried to include me in everything: dance club after school with my sister, tennis with my dad, even my younger brother and I would try to talk about manga or play Japanese word games -- which I usually won. We would sit around the kotatsu (heated table) and talk about our days and laugh together at comedy shows that I didn’t understand. It all felt so warm and inviting. Once they realized I was not picking up Japanese fast enough, they stopped trying to talk to me. I was alone in my adoptive home, with my host family and no one really cared about how I was feeling or adjusting to life in Saijo. Many times I would catch them talking about me as if I was not even there or they would plan family outings, completely leaving me out. I would hear my host sister, Hiromi, laugh at something my brother Junji said as the whole family got into the car and drove away. I would be studying in my room as I watched the little white car drive down the narrow streets of our neighborhood. My area representative, the woman who was supposed to check on me and see how I was dealing with my new life, hated me. I have no idea what I ever did to her, but she would stare at me with contempt and a deep hatred that I could never understand. When I was feeling lonely, I was supposed to talk to her, but I would have rather tried my luck with the Naruto whirlpools. They seemed safer. Even the friends I made would openly talk about me as if I wasn’t there. I would catch them talking about how I ate or how I wore my hair. They would talk about their plans for the weekend and not even bother asking if I wanted to go with them. It is impolite to ask to join someone’s plans in Japan, so I would just sit and listen as they talked about shopping, new movies they wanted to see or going to sing karaoke.
On particularly hot days, I found solace in hanging out by the Kamogawa or the Kamo River. The Kamogawa is one of largest rivers in this area and a great place to get a nice, cool breeze. During the rainy season, the river is full and furious, but during the summer, the water is quite shallow -- about waist deep -- and flows lazily. On either bank, there are big, sharp white rocks that protrude from the ground when the water is low that make perfect places to perch and watch the water, if you are not too afraid of possibly finding a disgustingly large spider. Usually I would stand on one of the bridges and gaze out at the sparkling water, but occasionally I would traverse the dangerously rocky banks and find a spot halfway between the water and the grass, close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the cars crossing the bridges and the chorus of cicadas, singing loudly from the trees that surrounded the river. In those moments, a cacophony of noises bombarding me from every direction, I would not be able to shake that feeling of isolation and loneliness.
The pachinko parlor lights up the night sky like a beacon near my house. The glass doors dampen the sounds of ball bearings being dropped and the ear splitting sounds of genki (energetic) electronic anime girls cheering on the Yakuza/Yanki (mafia/gangsters) that haunt the machines. It is only 8 p.m. and these are the only lights on as far as the eye can see. It is eerie and I walk past it as quickly as I can, but not too fast as I know what awaits my return home. Never in my life did I think I could ever feel alone being surrounded by sounds and people. I learned a lot about myself in those ten months abroad that changed the way I think about myself and how I think about loneliness. I never take for granted the lessons that Saijo had taught me, hard as they were, they were important.
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