Ain't No Mountain High Enough: Climbing Ishizuchi

I’m a fairly introverted person. I like doing things and seeing people, but there are days when I would rather stay at home with a book and my Netflix account. And it’s for this reason that I felt living alone would be no problem prior to coming here. I like hanging out with myself. She just gets me, you know?

But being an introvert and living alone has its own insidious implications. Moving away from home (again) felt like being the new kid in school: I worried about what the other JETs would think if I wore the wrong outfit, did something ungraceful, or said something stupid. But ironically, the part I have found myself struggling with the most is actually getting outside of my comfort zone and making myself do things and see people when I’m not sure I want to do the things and see the people. I’m my own biggest obstacle to social interaction; if left unchecked, I could probably spend days at a time locked in my apartment, with no one but Walter White for company.

Enter Silver Week. This year, Japan was lucky enough to have two public holidays overlap, resulting in a five-day weekend. I hadn’t planned anything, and my Silver Week was looking pretty boring, until I was invited to climb Mt. Ishizuchi.

I love mountains — as a Colorado native, it’s pretty much impossible not to — so I’m almost always down for some hiking. When I first arrived, many Japanese people recommended I climb Ishizuchi (the highest peak in Western Japan) and I filed it away on my ever-growing, mental Japan Bucket List. Ishizuchi stands 1,982 m (6,503 ft) high — just slightly higher in elevation than Denver. Almost every hike I’ve done has been at a higher elevation than that, so I was feeling pretty confident that Ishizuchi would be no problem.

Then I heard about the chains. An older JET mentioned that the route involved free-climbing, and my desire to tackle the mountain bottomed out. I had never free-climbed in my life, and I am terrified of heights. Like, terrified as in have-a-mental-breakdown-at-the-top-of-a-roller-coaster terrified. The thought of pulling myself 68 meters in the air on iron chains seemed pretty unappealing, to say the least.

I told myself when I came here that I would do things that were scary and unfamiliar, (and I mean, hey, moving halfway across the world to a country where you don’t speak the language is ballsy enough to count in my book). Yet, despite my conviction I would challenge myself, I still spent a ridiculously long time wrestling with whether or not I would climb Ishizuchi. Had I compiled a physical list of pros and cons, it might have looked something like this:

Reasons Not To Go:

1. Heights are scary as hell. The chains are scary as hell. YOU DO NOT WANT TO CLIMB THE CHAINS!

a. What if you cry/panic/freeze up and can’t finish the climb?? Everyone will think you’re a n00b and a terrible Coloradan and a pansy.

b. On the other hand, if you go and don’t climb the chains, everyone will still think you’re a pansy.

2. You could actually fall and die. 

3. It will probably suck and you will be in pain.

4. You have to wake up really early. Are pain and possible death really worth losing sleep?

Reasons To Go:

1. You told almost everyone you want to, so now, even if you don’t do it, they will think you’re a pansy. Way to go, Anna.

2. You also actually want to do it.

3. You’re not doing anything else with your life during Silver Week. 

In the end I decided to go. If I can’t handle the chains, I can always wimp out and take the stairs, I told myself.

The closer the day of the climb got, the less sure I became about my decision. And because I’m a masochist and love nothing more than working myself into a panic, I spent hours reading blogs about other people’s experiences on Ishizuchi. I concluded that the chains were going to be scary and awful and if I tried to do them I would probably be sobbing the entire way up. 

But I still bought the climbing gloves. And, despite brief fantasies about coming down with a sudden stomach flu and bailing on the group, I still showed up at the Iyo-Saijo train station at 7:15 a.m. Monday.

It was a promising day to climb a mountain — warm, but not hot, with clear skies. And, joking with the rest of our group, I was feeling pretty good. The first leg of the hike was straightforward; it involved a fairly rapid gain in elevation as we climbed set after set of wooden stairs, but that was nothing I hadn’t seen on a hike before.

We reached the first set of chains, an extra set mostly designed to give people a taste of what’s in store if they continue. Looking at the snaking, metal links, I was pretty convinced that I would skip this set. I’ll try the next one, I told myself, knowing full well that if I didn’t try this set, it would be really easy to simply not try the next set, and the next one, until I reached the summit without actually touching a single chain.

But, seeing almost everyone else in the group head for the chains, something — whether sudden bravery or just peer pressure — switched. I pulled on my gloves and walked up to cliff face.

The climb was much easier than I expected. There were a few times when I abandoned the chains in favor of scrambling up the cliff itself, and a couple times I had to ask for help to find the best route, but I made it to the top in one piece. I did not have a panic-induced meltdown. I did not fall and die. I did not chicken out. And, perhaps most importantly, no one called me a pansy.

The way down was scarier than the way up, as the internet had promised. But somehow I still made it back to solid ground. And then I made it up the next two sets of chains as well. None of the chains were half as scary as I’d anticipated. After worrying myself sick about them, it was almost a letdown. But the last set of chains had been billed as the meanest, and I was pretty resolute that when we got there, I would duck out and take the stairs the rest of the way up.

When we reached the last set, my friend pulled on her gloves, looked at me, and asked, “Are you gonna do it?” I relented and pulled out my gloves too, feeling a lot less confident than I had for the previous three sets.

The last set of chains was, in fact, the hardest. Unlike the other three sections, there were meters-long stretches where the cliff-face dropped away, leaving me no choice but to keep both feet in the rungs of the chains. I took the chains one link at a time, trying to keep my eyes off the ground. I banged my knees on the cliff-face, straddled tree trunks, and got a little too familiar with the other climbers’ backsides. But despite all that, I made it, just like I had with the other chains.  I stood on the summit and looked out, at the rest of the Ishizuchi range, chest heaving but feeling pretty bad-ass. I looked down on the puckered mountains I was used to looking up at. I watched the clouds’ shadows skim across their surface. And, on top of that peak, it was easy to forget how worried I was at the bottom.

You made it to the end! Have a photo!

(Pictured: Ishizuchi summit)

Adventures in Naoshima

Well, my first full week in Ehime is over, and I survived. I feel like I have been here so much longer than I actually have — isn’t it strange how that seems to happen? I’ve finally started to figure things out, I feel like. This past week, my supervisor was at teacher’s training, so I took some time to get to know the neighborhood. I found the grocery store, drug store, and conbini with no problem, thanks to the map from my lovely building managers! And I even took my clothes to the dry cleaner’s and tried to speak in Japanese with the cleaners. That went okay, until I tried to write my name in katakana and the cleaners thought I was “PT” instead of アナ (ana). 

I could go on forever about all the things I’ve done, but I’ll spare you the nitty gritty. Easily the highlight of my week, and my time here so far was a trip I took with my supervisor on Sunday to Naoshima island off the coast of Takamatsu, in nearby Kagawa prefecture.

Upon disembarking the ferry on Naoshima, our first stop was visiting the six art houses in the island’s historic district. At one of the art houses, guides explained that we would be brought into total darkness and slowly exposed to dim light. They guided us into the building, telling us to feel along the walls until we came to a long, stone bench we all sat on. I know it’s the cliche, but I physically couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. This wasn’t your average, everyday darkness. In the words of Spongebob Squarepants once said, this was advanced darkness. It seemed to weigh on my eyes, and no matter how much I strained to see, nothing was visible. Maybe it says something about the way my brain works, but it was like being shut in a tomb, and I had to cross my arms to reassure myself that I still had a body and wasn’t just suspended in the nothingness. It would have been even more surreal had it not been for the small child whispering to his father in Japanese.

I wasn’t sure if my eyes were playing tricks on me, but slowly, a square began to emerge from the darkness. It grew brighter and more defined until there was clearly a screen a few feet ahead of us. The guides told us to move forward, and so I stood up and walked forward among the crowd of black silhouettes. When I reached out to touch the screen, my hands closed around nothing but air. I looked down, but I couldn’t see where the emptiness ended, in any direction.

We left the building and headed to lunch. When my supervisor showed me a list of restaurants in the area, I saw the cat cafe, and knew exactly where I wanted to go. I was a little disappointed to see that you had to pay a separate fee to sit in the cat room, but we sat down to order lunch. As she pulled out her chair, my supervisor cried out. There was a cat under the table. I happily traded seats with her so I could get some quality cat time in. The other customers were women, too, and they all squealed, “kawaii” as they watched the cats through the window to the cat room. I have no doubt that I will be visiting more cat cafes in the future.

After lunch, we visited four more art houses, my favorite of which was an old Edo-period shrine, called Go’o Shrine. We had to climb a long flight of stairs to find the shrine, and as we walked through dense trees, my supervisor commented that it was like Totoro. The shrine sat on a cliffside overlooking the ocean, and it was one of the more beautiful things I’ve seen here. The “art” portion of this art house consisted of a staircase of glass slabs that led up into the shrine. We weren’t allowed in the actual building, but a guide supplied us with a flashlight so we could venture down into a narrow cavern and view the shrine from below, shining our light on the glass stairs to make them shine like ice. I thought of the first line of One Hundred Years of Solitude (and if you know me well, you’re probably rolling your eyes right now).

Go’o Shrine was the last stop on our Naoshima art house tour, so we headed to Benesse House Museum at the request of my supervisor (and, okay, I’m always up for visiting an art museum). The Benesse House Museum is in some way affiliated with a hotel lower down on the hill, and I felt pretty plebeian mingling with all the hotel guests, who, unlike us, had their own private shuttle to the museum, could access more of the museum, and even had use of a private beach off of the hotel. The artwork in the museum was all modern art. In the main room of the museum, three metal silhouettes called “Chatter, chatter, chatter” for a predetermined amount of time before breaking into what seemed to me, at least, to be Gregorian chanting. The sound of their pre-recorded voices echoing in the open room was almost more disturbing than the total darkness I’d seen earlier. 

We left Benesse House and headed back to the port. On the way, we walked along the beach and saw the two iconic pumpkin sculptures that Naoshima is famous for. We still had some time until the next ferry by the time we reached the port, so my supervisor headed off to a public bath house. I wasn’t feeling adventurous enough to brave being naked in front of equally naked strangers, so I stayed behind and grabbed some dinner, looking the most gaijin I’ve ever looked as I scarfed down some chicken tenders without the aid of chopsticks. I didn’t get lost, though (always a source of anxiety), and I didn’t have to undress in front of strangers, so overall, it was a success.

On the ferry back to Takamatsu, I felt content with my first touristy adventure in Japan. Earlier, as we walked down the hill from Benesse House, an Irish man behind us had shouted, “This is the coolest place I’ve ever been to!” and, at least in that moment, I had to agree. There’s always a sort of wistfulness, I find, that comes from leaving a vacation spot and returning to the real world. I always wonder about people who live in places like Naoshima. Do they gradually become desensitized to the beauty of their home? Is it just mundane to them now? What place gives them the same escape that their home does for others? I don’t know. But I do know that it’s always nice to make it back to your own bed, no matter how great the trip has been.

Day 1 in Ehime: The Kindness of Strangers

I stepped off the plane in Matsuyama feeling nothing but overwhelmed. The past two (three?) days had been a whirlwind of flying to Japan and orientation in Tokyo, where I battled jetlag, met hundreds of new people, and sat through countless seminars, all while wearing business formal. I was exhausted, my one suit was dirty, and it was actually hotter than Hades, I’m convinced. But nevertheless, today was the day I would move to my new home in Niihama, Ehime prefecture.

Outside of the baggage claim, representatives from every JET’s new placement stood with hand-decorated signs. Some JETs had a crowd of people around their sign, and some had former JETs waiting to welcome them to their new homes. 

Two people waited with my sign — my supervisor and another teacher from my main school. My supervisor greeted me in English, and I replied in the same way. We headed out to the parking lot and set off for Niihama, about an hour’s drive from Matsuyama.

I hadn’t even set foot in my new city, and already I felt like the worst JET of ALL TIME. I’d been practicing a Japanese self-introduction all week (more like all month) for when I  met my supervisor, and yet, when it came down to it, I couldn’t even muster a “konnichiwa.” What the hell was wrong with me??

I spent the car ride panicking in my sweaty, smelly suit, until lunch, when I enjoyed some delicious udon, and then got back in the car where I continued doubting myself. A (not entirely hyperbolic) transcript of my inner monologue follows:

Oh my god, I’m so stupid! What am I even doing here?? I should’ve let a better candidate take my spot. I’m not cut out for this. How am I going to survive a year here when I CAN’T EVEN TELL THEM MY GODDAMN NAME?!?

Luckily for my self-esteem, when we got to my main school, I managed to introduce myself correctly — in Japanese — to both my principal and vice principal. So it got better. 

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of getting my gaijin card (foreign resident card), buying furniture, and moving into my new apartment in Niihama city. My apartment had zero furniture in it when I moved in, so I had to buy a bed, rug, and kitchen appliances. The teachers at my school (where would I be without them?!) were kind enough to donate a lot to me, so I had a fridge, a wardrobe, a microwave, and TONS of towels. Like, more towels than I would have ever thought I would need. 

The air in Niihama felt (and still feels) like the inside of a gym sock. It’s so hot and humid here that when I step out of the shower, I basically just stay wet the rest of the day (sorry not sorry for the gross imagery). So yeah, those towels will definitely come in handy. My coworkers also brought me an electric fan, without which I would most definitely be a greasy, gaijin puddle on my apartment floor. 

After the majority of my furniture was moved in and after I’d gotten some food for the next day at the conbini (convenience store) down the street, I prepared to settle in for the night, only for my building managers to show up at my door. They’re a middle-aged married couple, and they brought me kiwi and tomatoes. 

The wife, who spoke a little English, told me: “We are worried about you because you are alone in a foreign country.” 

I can’t really say how much I was moved by their compassion for me. I had definitely felt pretty alone and overwhelmed that day — not through anyone’s fault, of course — and it was encouraging to know that there were people looking out for me.

The building managers spent some time struggling to explain to me how to get to the nearest grocery store. Then, the husband told me to follow them  and led me to their apartment on the first floor. They invited me in, gave me black coffee and put on some smooth jazz — two things I don’t normally involve myself, and that I don’t associate much with Japan. The wife drew me a map with detailed routes to the drug store and grocery store. As I left, they told me to let them know if I needed anything. I thanked them and told them I would.

I don’t know what about me made them want to take care of me so much. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a young, short woman. Maybe it’s my overwhelming gaijin-ness. Maybe they have a daughter near my age and know that I’m somebody’s child, too. Whatever the case, so far in Japan, I’ve found myself like Blanche DuBois — depending on the kindness of strangers (and everyone who knows me knows I don’t really like to do that). My supervisor, fellow teachers, and basically everyone I’ve met have been so incredibly kind to me, and for this reason, even though I know I will have good days and bad days, I’m now feeling a bit less worried about living here.

But only a bit. Let’s not get too crazy.