Wow Place #350: Chiran Peace Museum For Kamikaze Pilots, Minamikyushu City, Kagoshima, Japan

 

“Mother, I have nothing to say. In my last moment, and my first act of filial piety, I will smile and conquer. With dry eyes and knowing I have done well. Please offer some rice dumplings at our Buddhist mortuary tablet.”    –Second Lieutenant Fujio Wakamatsu, in a personal letter to his family on the eve of his kamikaze mission to Okinawa.

 

When planning a trip to Japan, most travelers conjure images of elegant geishas, classical temples and gardens, giant Buddhas, steaming hot springs, delicious fresh sushi and futuristic bullet trains.  Most of us wouldn’t purposely put a Kamikaze Museum on our itinerary.

 

The Atomic Bomb Museum in Hiroshima?  Perhaps—as a ritual act of atonement.  But Japanese suicide fighters?  Why would I want to go there?

 

To be fair, this extremely moving museum has its share of controversy.   Of the 2,000 visitors it draws every day, only 5% of them are from outside of Japan.  On the one hand, one can view it from the lens of peace. Its stated purpose is “to commemorate the pilots and expose the tragic loss of their lives so that we may understand the need for everlasting peace and ensure such incidents are never repeated.”

 

In this sense, the museum serves as a useful educational tool prompting reflection on the nature of war and sacrifice, a la Auschwitz, Dachau, or the Killing Fields in Cambodia.

 

Nevertheless, it must also be stated that on August 15^th of each year, the anniversary of Japan’s surrender in WW2, right-wing groups descend on the site to pay tribute to the kamikaze pilots.

 

In other words, the Chiran Kamikaze Museum is a flashpoint for the various interpretations and perspectives about Japan’s wartime history.

 

I sense nothing of this controversy during my visit to the museum.  All I feel is sadness and regret that war (in all its forms) continues, across the ages, to demand such vast sacrifice of life from our youth.  Because whatever the country, no matter the situation, war is inevitably directed by old men asking young men (and women) in their teens and early 20s to engage in the murder of other human beings.  It’s a heartbreaking failure of human society to solve its problems through violence rather than civil discussion.

 

The Chiran Kamikaze museum, built in 1986 and spanning 17,000 square feet, is a poignant memorial to the 1,036 young men who sacrificed their lives as kamikaze pilots.  439 of them took off from here in Chiran, making it the principal base for kamikaze operations during the Battle of Okinawa.

 

During my visit, I observe four original aircraft, a “Shinyo suicide motor boat,” a variety of uniforms, letters and weapons, and an assortment of hachimaki headbands and water bottles. Perhaps most moving are the Hinomaru flags, with messages from family and friends.  Photographs of all 1,036 Special Attack Corps pilots are represented in the museum, organized chronologically by the date of death.

 

I’m particularly touched by the recordings in the audio guide program, which provide a glimpse into the minds and hearts of these young men who willingly signed up for certain death.  Says one pilot, “I will do a splendid job sinking an enemy aircraft carrier…I read the Bible every day…I will sing a hymn as I dive on an enemy vessel.”

 

Interestingly, quite a few pilots survived their deathly assignment, experiencing last-second engine trouble that forced them to miss their missions. Paraphrasing one such survivor’s account, “I figured we were going to lose the war anyway and the Allies would come in and kill us all.  I might as well do something helpful for my country.”

 

Is the museum a monument to peace and the insanity of war, or a glorification of these young men’s valiant patriotism?  Was Japan the victim of the war, or the aggressor?   The museum allows you to make your own interpretation.

 

Myself, I think the Chiran Kamikaze Museum is well worth a visit if you’re in this neck of the woods, compelling you to ask yourself such questions as:   What would I do in these young men’s shoes?  Would I willingly sacrifice my life out of a sense of devotion to country and community?  Can we ever let this kind of situation happen again?

 

Only you and your conscience can decide.

 

(It’s safe to say that war is the most complicated of subjects.  Is warfare always to be avoided?  Some would say yes, others would say, “Wait a second, you can’t just back down to a bully like Hitler.”  And what of the soldiers who fight these battles?  Are they brainwashed?  Are they heroic?  Can we appreciate those who defend us while at the same time mourn the tragedy of war?  Is war a “necessary evil,” as long as men are flawed?   I have no answers on these questions.  About all I can say is that most of us would like a LOT less war and a LOT more peace, harmony and collaboration.  To make that happen will require a different kind of struggle – an internal one — a struggle of mental and spiritual evolution.   And that’s a battle I would happily engage in.)

Wow Place #349: Wakaba Ryokan, Kurokawa Onsen, Japan

 

When you think of a stay in a Japanese onsen (hot spring) hotel, what tends to come to mind is a traditional room with futons and tatami mats, a delicious, multi-course Japanese meal and, of course, an outdoor bath surrounded by beautiful nature.

 

What no one ever talks about is all the slippers!

 

During my stay at the Lovely Wakaba Ryokan (traditional Japanese Inn) in Kumamoto prefecture, I counted five different slipper changes, including:

 

• The soft, indoor slippers you wear in your room…
• The sturdy outdoor sandals you step into when walking from a room in the wings (like ours) to the main hotel building…
• The indoor slippers you slide on when shuffling around the main building on your way to the outdoor onsen…
• The tiny slippers (always a size too small) you change into when using a restroom…
• And finally, the wooden geta (a cross between a flip-flop and a clog) you wear when walking around town, visiting other onsens. Ideally, you’re also donning a yukata (an unlined, casual summer kimono traditionally made of breathable cotton or linen).

 

That’s five costume changes in the course of one day.  And they say visiting Japan isn’t a production!

 

What is the reason for all this slipper-swapping?   Honestly, I have no idea.  My guess is that the goal is for every surface to remain clean and pristine, the dirt, grime and bacteria (of the bathroom and the outside areas) quarantined to their own sites of infestation.

 

This is Howard Hughes-level germaphobia, taken to another level.

 

What are you gonna do?   When in a bubble, do as the bubble-denizens do!

 

Apart from the slippery slipper situation, Wakaba Ryokan is a gorgeous traditional inn situated smack in the middle of the “downtown” area of what is widely known as Kurokawa Onsen. Located about 20 km north of Mt. Aso, Kurokawa dates back over 300 years to Japan’s Edo period, when the springs were used as a place for daimyo (feudal lords) and weary travelers to recuperate while traversing between Hita and Taketa.

 

Gathered around a small river, the hotels and shops in Kurokawa are committed to a unified vision of removing neon signs, banning large concrete resorts, and ensuring all structures follow traditional wooden designs. Their credo: “The entire town is one large inn; the streets are hallways, and the individual inns are guest rooms”.

 

To encourage guests to explore the whole town, the tourism bureau offers an iconic, wooden onsen-hopping pass, the Nyūtō Tegata. For $1,500 yen (~$9.00), you can visit up to three hot springs; the pass is good for 6 months.

 

Myself, I decide to forego the Nyūtō Tegata this time.  The idea of wandering into a strange hotel, stripping down to my birthday suit, taking a naked bath, drying off, getting dressed, and then doing the same thing at another hotel (or two) seems a bit too hot and sweaty for my taste. I’m more of a monogamous bath user, thank you very much.

 

And why not, when staying at an onsen as gorgeous as Wakaba!  Beautiful room, elegant meals, and oh, that outdoor bath – steam wafting off clear water, a surrounding of mossy, cut rocks, with an atmospheric bamboo forest as backdrop.

 

Wakaba Ryokan (and Kurokawa Onsen in general) is a place to linger.  As I wander the atmospheric, narrow streets, absorbing the view of the scenic river and the historic inns, stopping for a cup of green tea or a sweet potato snack, I can’t help thinking this place just “fits” me.

 

Like a comfy slipper, one might say.

 

(On the face of it, the expression “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” makes a world of sense.  Why wouldn’t you adhere to the local rules and customs of the place you’re visiting?  It’s just basic respect, right?  And yet, what do you do when the culture you’re visiting doesn’t match your values or your health regimen?  What do you do if you’re a teetotaler visiting a country where everyone expects you to drink alcohol?  Or a you’re a vegan taken out to  dinner, pushed to eat chicken or steak by your local, meat-loving friends?   Do you drink a beer out of courtesy? Do you eat that steak fajita?  The line between societal expectation and personal preference is exceedingly blurry, not only when traveling abroad but also here at home.  In the end, it’s a question of how far are you willing to bend out of a sense of politeness and a desire to “fit in”, without breaking your ethical code.  It’s a fine, fine line!  Sometimes the best you can do is bend but not break.   Adhere to the dictates of the culture you’re visiting, say 80-85%, but know your redlines and when to hit the ejector seat.

 

“Always do what is right. It will gratify half of mankind and astound the other.”
― Mark Twain)

Wow Place #348: Mount Fugen-dake, Japan

 

By and large, I’m a “moderate” guy.  Moderate height. Moderate weight. Some might say moderate looks and intelligence.  😊

 

I like moderate portions in my food.  The spice level of my curry? Moderate!

 

So when I found a hike in Unzen-Amakusa National Park described in the guidebook as “moderately challenging,” I figured this was the trail for me.  3.9 miles.  One hour out, one hour back. How hard could it be?

 

As it turns out, remarkably hard!

 

You have to understand, for all its subtle, gentile art forms – ikebana (flower arranging), origami (paper folding), chanoyu (tea ceremony) and the like – Japan is a rather hearty country.   Nine times out of ten, your train station won’t have an elevator or escalator.   You want to catch a train…climb three sets of stairs first.

 

Hiking trails in Japan are at another level completely.   Expect long, uphill trails and rocky flights of steep steps, often covered in slippery, green moss.

 

In a volcanic park like Unzen-Amakusa, the name of the game is lava rock.  Or in Fugen-dake’s case, huge, toe-catching, knee-scraping, ankle-busting boulders – straight up, for miles and miles.

 

Do not take the guide book at its word.  Especially in the late May heat and humidity, this is a brutally-challenging hike.  Nothing moderate about it.

 

And yet, I can’t deny that the trail is breathtakingly lovely.  Southern Kyushu boasts a host of scenery like this: tropical flora, dense green forests, and in the springtime, ever-present pink azaleas that are a feast for the eyes.  The gorgeous views along my hike almost take my mind off the exhausting, often-perilous climb up the mountain.  Almost.

 

On more than one occasion I think about giving up and turning back.  But how can I when, upon rounding a turn, I come upon a group of ten Japanese elementary school students on a class excursion with their teachers.  To be precise, this precocious group of agile ten-year-olds are scurrying up the mountain like the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys.   What a hearty country Japan is, sending school groups out on a killer hike like this as if it was an ordinary walk in the park!

 

I can’t give up now and let these kiddos beat me to the summit!

 

In the end, I make it up the mountain, hot and sweaty—and am rewarded with panoramic views of the coast and the active Heisei Shinzan volcano.  It’s a spectacular sight –well worth the effort.

 

The intrepid school kids arrive a few minutes later and quickly take a celebratory photo, followed by a lively picnic of artfully-packed school lunches.  Unlike me, clearly none of the students are thinking about the bone-crushing descent to follow.   It’s party time at the top of Fugen-dake.

 

After all, if you’re a Japanese, this is just a moderate hike on a moderate volcano.

 

Myself, I’ll be jumping into a moderately-hot bath that night for sure!

 

(The Buddhists frequently recommend taking the “middle path.”   Equanimity.  Mindfulness. Avoiding extremes.   It sounds like a great idea, doesn’t it? Not too high, not too low.  Moderate!   But can we achieve “great things” in our lives if we don’t occasionally go to an extreme?   Name any Olympic medalist you can think of and chances are that person was a bit obsessed with their exercise and training regime, at the expense of everything else. Same for great artists, great writers, great scientists.  Is “moderate” always the best way to go?   It’s a choice we all must make throughout out our lives.  Is this my season for doing great things?  Or my season of living a steady, balanced, domestic life?  It definitely merits a modest period of thought, wouldn’t you say?)

There’s a scene in the movie Kill Bill: Vol. 2, where the Bride (played by Uma Thurman) wakes up in a coffin, buried alive by her evil nemesis, Bill.  Luckily, she has trained for situations like this, able to break through wooden containers via the sharp, focused, rap of her knuckles.

 

I have no such ninja tricks up my sleeve as I find myself lying down in a shallow trough, an attendant shoveling hot sand onto my arms, legs, and torso – literally burying me alive.

 

Kill Bill: Vol. 3, you ask?

 

Nope. Just a typical visit to the Saraku Sand Bath Hall in Ibusuki, Japan.

 

Called “Sunamushi” in Japanese, sand baths have a long tradition in the country — and Saraku, on the far-southwest tip of Kyushu, is Japan’s most famous public “sand steam onsen.”  Visitors have been coming here fromas far back as the 16^th century, recognizing the unique healing and detoxification properties of the naturally warm coastal sand, made extra toasty by the local, geothermally-heated ground water.

 

Like everything in Japan, there’s a correct process for getting yourself buried alive.

 

Stowing my clothes in a locker, I grab a small hand towel, wrap it around my neck, and don a cotton yukata robe.  As I make my way out to the beach, an attendant hands me an umbrella because, on this rainy morning in May, I wouldn’t want to get my head and body wet before my hot sand burial.

 

At last I arrive at the “bathing” area, a series of clearly-delineated sand pits, numbered 1-10 and covered with a tarp.  There, an attendant in a light-blue jersey, a towel wrapped around his head, points to my trough.

 

“Lie down in #4!”

 

No problemo.

 

But that’s when things gets kind of weird.  It’s not the sensation of having warm sand piled on me –akin to being covered in weighted blankets – that’s upsetting.  It’s the sound!

 

You see, sound travels very efficiently in the medium of sand.  So not only do I hear my own bath attendant driving his shovel into the ground.  I hear ALL the shovels biting into the sand pit.  “Ka chuuk, Ka chuuk, Ka chuuk.”  It’s like taking part in a mass burial in a mass grave, accompanied by a shovel symphony.

 

Even stranger, everyone around me appears to be laughing and chatting, like this is the most normal thing in the world – being communally buried in a very HOT SAND PIT!

 

“Oh, the breakfast at our hotel was so delicious this morning, wasn’t it?”

“It sure was!”

“I’d love to have that miso soup again.”

 

And all the while, I’m getting hotter and hotter in my burial trough, sweating more and more profusely.

 

“Keep an eye on that clock and get out after ten minutes!” my attendant warns me.

 

“Or what?” I wonder.  Loss of consciousness?  Over-detoxification?  Brain hemorrhage?

 

After my ten minutes have elapsed, there’s the final question of how to un-bury myself.   You see, the sand is very heavy!

 

In the end, I summon up the requisite energy, push upward and burst through the earth like a zombie from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.  Grabbing my umbrella (which I’ve become quite attached to at this point), I lumber, zombie-like, back to the main building, where I shower off all the sand, throw my towel and yukata in a chute, and plunge into a final, communal hot spring.   Ahhhhh!

 

Is it all worth it?  The heat, the sweating, the sound assault?  Medical research certainly supports the practice.  Apparently the combination of the weight of the sand and the geothermal heat increases cardiac output and core body temperature. It’s said to be 3-4 times more effective than a traditional hot spring at improving blood circulation, delivering oxygen to tissues, and flushing waste materials from the body.

 

And for a mere $15, who am I to complain.  Why not “take the plunge”?

 

After all, friends who are buried together must surely stay together!

 

(In case you’re wondering why I did the “sunamushi” alone, my traveling partner, Cenzo, declined the experience, citing tiredness.  And to be honest, I almost joined him.  At 8:30am on a rainy morning, it would have been sooo easy to just stay in my comfy, climate-controlled hotel room, enjoying a cup of coffee and reading through my guidebook.   Arriving at the sand bath facility at that hour required an effort:  getting dressed, sprinting to our car, setting the GPS, driving ten minutes in the pouring rain, finding a parking spot, sprinting to the building and then figuring out the bathing process (in Japanese).   In other words, it required what my Mom would’ve called “a production.”   And yet, isn’t it also true that we enjoy what is easy but we remember what is hard?

 

The difficulty is part of what made the experience memorable.

 

What “production” are you putting off today because of inertia?  What potential stories are you missing by taking the comfortable rout    What kind of life do you want to live – one of forgettable luxury or memorable challenges?)

Some time back, I wrote about my visit to Upenji Temple (Wow Place #77), a memorable stop on the Shikoku 88-Temple Pilgrimage Trail.  I was reminded of Upenji recently while watching the fascinating new documentary, “The Hikikomori Pilgrimage (2026),” produced by NHK WORLD-JAPAN documentary.

 

The documentary details the journey of five young men, all social recluses (“Hikikomori”), who embark on a 1,200-kilometer pilgrimage around the island of Shikoku on a journey of self-discovery.

 

It’s a fascinating story, both externally as well as internally.   The movie follows the five participants as they walk from temple to temple over the period of several months, dressed in the pilgrim’s (“henro’s”) “uniform” of straw hats, white shirts, and white pants.

 

For the young men, this is one of the hardest tasks they’ll take on in their entire lives.  Just completing the physical walk, itself, is an enormous test of grit and stamina.   But for the participants, it’s the social challenge that proves to be the greater challenge.  For the first time in years, the men need to leave behind their prolonged isolation and reconnect with the world — at their own pace, one step at a time.

 

It’s a fascinating and moving journey of self-discovery and mental fortitude, as the “pilgrims” re-learn how to interact with locals along the way and form bonds with each other.  During their walk, they watch how they re-examine their life choices and consider how things might be different when they return back home upon completion of the trek.

 

I strongly recommend watching this documentary as wells as visiting, in person, as many of the 88 Shikoku Temples as you can.   Although I only stopped in at about 3 of the sites on my Shikoku trip, I found all the temples I visited to be serene, almost magical, locations.  More often than not, the temples were situated at the top of a hill or mountain, enveloped in soft pines and graceful firs.   At every location, I met a variety of welcoming “henro” eager to say hello and share the details of their journeys.

 

Best of all, along the pilgrimage you won’t likely run into another tourist during the duration of your visit.   This is Japan “off-the-beaten-track,” a worthy pilgrimage indeed.

 

(Due to the confluence of social media, video games, video conferencing and Covid, we’ve all become considerably more reclusive than we used to be.  I mean, why go to a movie theater when you can just stream the film at home, saving time, gas and popcorn money?   Why join an organization or club when you can get all your social and community needs met on line?  Why go out at all?!!!   Well, you know why.   We humans need in-person connection. We need eye contact with others. We need touch.  Since our caveman days, we’ve been wired to be in the same physical space with other people.  So whadya say?   When you’re done reading this article, go outside!  Go to the mall!  Have a coffee in a café.  Join a club!  Be around people!  At least for one day, put your Hikikomori tendencies behind you—you’ll be glad you did.)

There’s an old expression in Japanese that I find quite intriguing:  “Ataru mo hakke, ataranu mo hakke.”  It literally means “fortune-telling misses as often as it hits.”

 

The phrase suggests several things:  1) fortune-telling is a serious practice  2) Sometimes its predictions actually come true  3)  Sometimes they don’t.

 

Implied, as well, in the expression is: fortune-telling (and religion in general) can both hit and miss simultaneously.  In other words, although you shouldn’t dismiss spirituality out of hand as a fake practice, nor should you necessarily reject it.  The two opposing beliefs can be true at the same time.  Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not. Why choose?

 

I have this heady, almost quantum concept in mind as I approach Wat Phra Si Rattana Mahathat in Phitsanulok, Thailand.   Referred colloquially as Wat Yai or Wat-Phra-Sri, the “Temple of the Great Jeweled Reliquary” is located on the east bank of the Nan River, about 200 miles from Bangkok.

 

It is quite simply one of the most-lovely temples I’ve ever seen.

 

Founded in 1357 by King Lithai of Sukkothai and remarkably elegant, Wat Yai is most famous for its amazing, golden Buddha image (“Phra Phuttah Chinnarat” – “King of Victory”), considered by many Thais as the most beautiful Buddha image in the country.

 

Approaching Phra Phuttah Chinnarat is a dazzling experience. The reflective floor-tiling of the temple picks up the rich, golden hue from the Buddha’s flanking columns and sends it bouncing all around the temple, up, up, up to the ornate ceiling, glowing in yellow and red.  The Buddha, itself, is a tranquil dream, an oasis of ornate, shimmering gold designed both to be admired and worshipped.

 

And worshipped it is.  At all times of day, local Thai people dressed in colorful saris kneel and pray before the Buddha… hands clasped and bowing…applying gold leaf… burning incense. The statue is at once a holy pilgrimage site and a tourist attraction.

 

How it can be both of these things at once is the epitome of “Ataru mo hakke, ataranu mo hakke.”

 

What’s fascinating about Buddhism in general is how it holds a space for ambiguity, encompassing both prayer and personal meditation as paths to enlightenment.  At Wat Yai, thousands come every year to pray to a Buddha image for healing and good fortune, then go home to sit in their private meditation practices.

 

So, is Buddhism a practice or a religion?  Is the historic Buddha a teacher to learn from or a god to worship?   Can praying to a statue actually fulfill your hopes and wishes?

 

Like fortune telling, Buddhism seems to be a quantum state, simultaneously a practice and a religion.  Practitioners can both pray to gods AND follow a meditative path to enlightenment.   There’s no need to be absolutist about it.

 

And who knows? Perhaps praying to a statue will hit. Perhaps it will miss.  It never hurts to hedge your bets.

 

(If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that people don’t necessarily argue from a place of logic.  And I’m not just talking about religion or politics.   It seems like when it comes to just about everything, people argue from gut, instinct, and values.  How frustrating!   What has become of Socratic thinking?  In a perfect world, we could persuade people to think “correctly” (ie. OUR way) through the strength of our superior, logical arguments!   But that’s not how it works, is it?   People debate from their fear…they argue from their hurt and trauma…they dispute from a need for community (and the terror of being kicked out of the tribe).

The next time you’re in a heated discussion that just isn’t moving towards a resolution, stop debating and start listening.  Show your partner that you’re not the villain—you’re a friend who cares enough to hear their anger, hear their fear, hear their needs.  By listening, you demonstrate that you’re interested in their viewpoint, even if you don’t necessarily share it.  You’re not the enemy, because enemies don’t listen!

 

If only our religious and political leaders would shut up and listen—even occasionally—what a more peaceful world it would be.)

 

Over the years, I’ve been continually bothered by a key contradiction of travel:  Is tourism “good” or “bad’ for a place?   On the one hand, visitors bring much-needed tourism dollars to cities and towns that might struggle to support themselves otherwise.  On the other hand, along with the tourist hordes often comes overcrowding, disrespectful behavior and “corruption” of the local culture.

 

If you’re praying to your personal deity at a church, mosque, shrine or temple and a group of loud, 20-somethings from Decatur, Georgia stomp up and snap a selfie with you—without asking—is this okay?  Is this what you bargained for when you said yes to tourism?

 

Although I always try to be respectful wherever I go, I, too, sometimes fall into the trap of “exoticism hunting.”  It all started when I was 10 years old and viewed the slides my grandparents took on their journey to China and Hong Kong.  Slide after slide presented a magical world I had never dreamed existed – colorful lanterns, majestic dragon boats, elegant temples gleaming in red and gold.

 

I yearned to visit those place, snap photos, and exult in the rush of exoticism.  Just imagine the stories I could one day share with my friends and family!   By visiting such special places, I hoped I would become special too.   The magic dust would somehow rub off on me.

 

And to be honest, that kind of magical transmutation DOES happen sometimes, especially at a strikingly foreign place like Boudhanath, Nepal.

 

One of the world’s largest spherical stupas and a premier UNESCO World Heritage site, Boudhanath sits just a few miles outside of Kathmandu.  A central hub for Tibetan Buddhism, this classic, whitewashed monument (the holiest Tibetan Buddhist site outside of Tibet) is renowned for its massive mandala design, all-seeing Buddha eyes and surrounding monasteries.

 

An active spiritual site, Boudhanath draws droves of pilgrims practicing “kora” (clockwise circumambulation around the stupa), lighting butter lamps and spinning prayer wheels.   The monument stands on a massive, nine-level base representing Mount Meru, the center of the cosmos, and is crowned by the watchful eyes of the Buddha.

 

While the original structure dates back to the 5^th century, the current building only became a major refuge for Tibetan practitioners in the 1950s.  The site is particularly beautiful in the evening, when hundreds of lamps illuminate its dome.

 

What traveler wouldn’t want to experience an exotic place like that!

 

And yet—I have to ask myself, doesn’t my secular visit to this site disrupt the faithful who have traveled miles to quietly pray and make religious offerings?   Even if my tourist dollars fund maintenance of the stupa and support the local businesses?

 

There’s no easy answer to my cognitive dissonance except to draw on the expression “hanshin hangi,” the Japanese belief in “half belief, half disbelief.”  In other words, sometimes you just have to embrace paradox—the notion that contradictions can coexist side by side.  Left/right, up/down, correct/incorrect – life throws a lot of paradoxes at us;  we don’t have to stress when we confronted with conflicting opinions about something.  We can hold differing perceptions and still be a-okay.

 

Tourism is bad. Tourism is good.  It’s something in between.  It’s all of that!  Hanshin-hangi!

 

(There’s a pivotal scene near the end of Les Miserables where the inspector, Javert, is saved from certain death by Jean Valjean, the criminal turned businessman/philanthropist who Javert has been chasing throughout the story.  Unable to hold conflicting notions that a “bad” man can also be “good,” Javert throws himself into a river and perishes.

 

I hope that a paradox never drives you to such a state of consternation!   The next time you’re faced with diametrically-opposed judgments about someone or something, remember Hanshin-hangi!  Contradictions can co-exist.  No need to stress.  No need to throw yourself off a bridge.  Embrace the paradox!)

For every big, famous city you pin on your itinerary — teeming with tourist sites — there’s always a quaint, little-discussed town nearby that preserves the local culture as a living time capsule.   In Italy, it’s possibly Verona.   In Spain, it’s most likely Ronda.  In France, my vote is for Bologna.

 

In Nepal, it’s gotta be Tukuche.

 

Also spelled Tukche, the village is situated in the Mustang District of northern Nepal. With a population of just 652 individuals residing in 166 households, this is a fly speck of a settlement—a two-street town known for its Thakkali culture, catering mostly to trekkers making their way around the Annapurna Circuit hiking route.

 

Along with food and a few places to stay, Tukuche is all about the vibe.

 

Set in the dry and dusty Kali Gandaki Gorge, with several 20,000-foot peaks towering overhead, Tukuche feels like a land lost in time.   Upon stepping into town, you notice the white-plastered wooden houses, the orange prayer wheels, and the waving, multi-colored prayer flags so popular in the Himalayas (and Berkeley import/export shops).   Donkeys laden with bags of goods wander freely in the street, seeking stray bits of grass growing out of cracks in the walls.

 

In Tukuche, you know you’re in Nepal, alleged home of the fabled Shangri-La…at the top of the world.  The people living here are not cosplaying Eastern spirituality—they’re the real thing.

 

During my day in Tukuche, I don’t see a single temple.  I don’t visit a single museum.  I don’t get a tourist booklet stamped.   All I do there is wander around –slowly— soaking up the Himalayan vibe and hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’ll run into a yak (or a yeti).

 

It’s not a flashy place, but Tukuche sure is atmospheric.  And that is more than enough.

 

(What if, the next time you planned a trip, you skipped every single big-name sight in the guidebook? You just skip them!   Instead, you choose an area at random in your country of choice and just drive—or better yet, bike or walk.   No itineraries, no agendas, no recommendations from Facebook forums and Reddit.   Literally, you just let yourself get lost. Soak up the atmosphere of traditional towns that have nothing to see but their architecture.  Have a drink in a local bar and try to communicate with your bar-stool mates.  Get off the beaten track and let yourself imagine all the people who have lived and died in this placed, all the stories they must have to tell.

 

Traveling in this way is the only functioning time machine yet proven to exist—and it’s yours to access — if only you have the courage to take the road less traveled.)

When you think about Japan, a few stereotypical experiences come to mind, like:   taking part in a tea ceremony, attending a sumo match, catching sight of a geisha, walking under cherry blossoms or eating excellent raw fish at a sushi bar.

 

Myself, I’m always hoping in Japan to run into ninjas or photograph a kaiju (a giant monster like Godzilla) in action.  But that’s just me.

 

For the more spiritually minded, however, the ultimate Japan experience would no doubt be meditating in an authentic Zen rock garden. Nowhere captures that Zen vibe more than Ryoanji Temple in Kyoto, perhaps the best, classical Buddhist rock garden in the country—and the most touristed.

 

Originally an aristocrat’s villa during Japan’s Heian Period, the site was converted into a Zen temple in 1450.  Interestingly, the garden’s exact date of construction is unknown and speculation abounds regarding its designer.

 

The “garden” consists of a rectangular plot of pebbles surrounded by low earthen walls, with 15 rocks laid out in small groups on patches of moss. By design, at least one of the rocks is always hidden from the viewer.

 

Ryoanji is a special place to visit. Even after hundreds of years, the rock garden is perfectly maintained, landscaped and manicured—an act of devotion. The placement of the rocks gives a sense of islands floating in a wide ocean. Or if you prefer, cliffs poking out from a carpet of fog.

 

Some believe that the garden represents a tiger carrying cubs across a pond.  Others claim that the garden represents an abstract concept like infinity. Because the garden’s meaning has not been made explicit, it is up to you to find the meaning for yourself.

 

Ryoanji is a calm and spiritual place, a spot to sit, watch your breath and contemplate the impermanence of life.

 

It’s also a wildly touristy site, on everyone’s list of “must-see-in-Kyoto” locations. Loudspeakers (with an emphasis on LOUD) blare incessantly, directing you where to sit, how to behave and when to leave.  To appreciate Ryoanji, you need to arrive early in the morning, right when the garden opens, before the tourist hordes descend.

 

I like Ryoanji and think everyone should visit it.  I also think there are other Zen rock gardens in Japan that are just as nice and a whole lot less touristy.

 

Little-known gardens where you might just see a ninja – or a kaiju.

 

(Ryoanji is a bit like a Rorschach test, where you receive a series of ink blots and ascribe your own meaning to them.  What does Ryoanji mean? It’s up to you to determine, and don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.  Isn’t this true in all aspects of our lives, particularly in this online age where experts, pundits and influencers are incessantly telling us how to think.   I’m reminded of the lessons of the Indian spiritual teacher Krishnamurti, who essentially taught, “Don’t let any guru tell you the meaning of life.  Find it for yourself through meditation.”  Ryoanji might well be islands, tigers or infinity itself.   Go early, center yourself, and make your own judgment, in this as in all things.)