On the ferry to Mogi, a suburb south of Nagasaki, I thought I would lose my lunch. They may have
called it a ferry, but it was no more than a small yacht, what I a friend later called a
"Water taxi," but it bounced around on the water more like a pinball than any vehicle.
The wind's dominance that day (which was ironic considering there was no typhoon that I
knew of) was inordinate, gusts as strong as I had seen in Japan.
I bought my ticket in Reihoku, a small town of sea people just north of Hondo, from a man
who used an abacus to make my change. Say what you will about Japan's technological
advancements - this was a sight to see.
It seemed like it took more time than if he had done the math long hand, but he made the
right calculations and handed me shiny silver coins. As I boarded the yacht it was already
rocking violently, despite clear skies and the well-contructed harbor surrounding us.
My stomach growled and my head ached from the previous night's debauchery. To ease the latter
pain I had collected change from Napoleon's ashtray to buy my first (and hopefully last)
Japanese McDonald's meal. I had heard that the Japanese used fresher
ingredients than in other parts of the fast-food universe, but that was a rumor was quickly
proven untrue. My stomach growled again after the meal, this time for different reasons.
We backed out of the dock and the rocking halted for a moment. I wiped my brow. Then we were
off, racing at speeds I guessed were close to 60mph. It felt like we could take off if the wind
pushed us favorably. Instead it guided the boat southwest, forcing the captain to cut into
the waves at a 90 angle. We were hopping from wave to wave, each time a new crash landing and a
new rough liftoff. It was apparent at that moment that I had placed a lot of trust in the
captains, conductors and pilots of Japan. In my short stay (two months at that point),
I had used buses, airplanes, slow trains, fast trains, ferries, trams, cars, and this
unbearable water taxi. For some reason there was only one window I could bear to look out of,
so I sat like a statue praying for the ride to end. It was like a rollercoaster only in that
it had violent ups and downs, but it was fairly consistent, and after some time, I became
adjusted. Thankfully, the "water taxi" had been fast, and in less than an hour we were docking in the Mogi Harbor.
I stumbled my way off the boat like a drunkard failing to find his keys in the dark of night,
and feebly asked where I could find a bus to Nagasaki. I was befriended and helped by an old
man from Hondo who made his way to Nagasaki on business ("I am rich man!", he
later told me, in a voice as giddy as a schoolgirls' on prom night). He was the owner of a
chain of karaoke bars which covered Kyushu, and he spoke English fairly well though
he said he'd never been outside the archipelago. He helped me find the first of two buses we
would need to get into the city - Nagasaki was over a hill from Mogi, and at the top we
would need to change.
I had to convince the bus driver that I wanted to get off before the train station; the
karaoke boss had pre-arranged my port of arrival. I sat down on the concrete and marveled
on Nagasaki's eccletic beauty. I need to set my bags down and check this place out, I thought.
I called the first hotel in my guidebook and a friendly woman answered, strangely asking where I stood.
I told her, and in ten minutes, she had picked me up on foot, and led me back to her ryokan (Japanese style inn).
I couldn't help but marvel - again and again - at the helpfulness and friendliness of the
Japanese. No commission or bonus was at stake, but they went as far out of their way as possible to help
anyone - be it foreigner or compatriot. There were stories of men leaving their desks to drive
gaikokujin (foreign people) two blocks, or women setting down their groceries to show a
newcomer where to eat. Each time a new tale seem to trump the last.
After a short rest and a cup of Japanese tea, I sought socialization on the streets of
Nagasaki. The cobblestone steps below my hotel led me down past gyoza joints and ramen houses,
omiyage stores and bars named "Bean" and "Prom Star." Immediately, the city had an feel of multiculturalism,
and thus, seemed very un-Japanese. On shop signs and t-shirts, English, French and even some Spanish words
reared their comforting alphabets, bringing a smile to my face. In Asia, any sight of a Romance language is
like the aroma from a well-cooked meal, mouthwateringly appreciated but rare at best. One may
understand very little French or Spanish but compared to Japanese, it sounds like heavenly Sirens.
I was looking for a chanpon ramen store - Nagasaki's supposed specialty - a seafood, noodle and cabbage soup
- but only found one after a good deal of wandering. I sat down next to the only other patron at
the bar. The cook began to chop some meat and his wife came in from outside.
I heard a cough from the back room, peered at the cook wiping his hands, and decided to try
another, more sanitary restaurant.
And so it went. I spent a few good hours wandering, looking for food or temples or parks,
sitting on benches to decipher new kanji or take a rest. I felt very comfortable in
Nagasaki, where nuclear holocaust seemed as far away as my home.
When the sun had set I hiked the cobblestone to Glover Garden, a renovated park surrounding Japan's
oldest European style homes. Nagasaki was of the first ports to open to the west in the 19th century,
and Thomas Glover, among others, was a resident here for over 10 years. Among his other
accomplishments in Japan, he started shipbuilding and train endeavors, introduced guns to Japan,
helped himself to the finest hilltop real estate overlooking the city and the bay, and
married a Japanese woman. He is idolized in this garden, and I paid homage in a very literal sense (600 yen).
It was late afternoon by then, and it seemed wiser to visit Urakami, the A-bomb hypocenter site,
the next day, rather than speed through it before dark. I gathered it would be a inexplicable
experience, and it was.
