Up the mountain with power and pride

Here is the second of my series of republished missives from small-town Japan, dusted off in honor of a trip to Toshi's Ramen last night and the resulting nostalgia that the potent scent of green tea never fails to evoke.

Yesterday, I walked up a mountain.

The annual Kinpo Town Omusubi Marathon compensates for the fact that it is only 8 km long by making the majority of the course up a remarkably steep (albeit paved) slope.

Picture a windy, switchback-laden mountain road. Now imagine a disorganized parade of about 900 people, from three-year-olds to grandparents, trudging up the hill's stiff grade bearing backpacks, sweatshirts, walking sticks, strollers, and (as this is Japan) cellphones. One little girl I passed was reading a comic book as she walked along behind her parents. A few people, usually slightly older men making the climb alone, wore khakis, hiking boots, wire-rimmed glasses, plaid shirts, and many-pocketed fishing vests. Put a Starbuck's cup in their hands and these guys would look like Portland or Seattle natives. Odd that the closest
thing I have to a 'native costume' is considered proper attire for climbing mountains here, while we wear it every day.

The truly amazing thing is that an additional 300 or so people managed to RUN the whole way. I, at least, am decidedly not in shape enough to manage that. A friend of mine who works at one of the elementary schools in town was one of these crazy people. "Good morning, Melinda!" he yelled as he jogged past, flashing a big smile. Even more red-faced than usual, I managed a feeble "Ganbatte!" in reply, but he was already almost out of
sight around the next bend.

But I made it to the top, albeit at my own slow pace. My JET Programme friends who came to take part in the marathon with me (and to at least briefly elevate the foreign population of my town from its usual count: one), quickly left me in the dust. Even Scott, recovering from a cold, less genki than usual, and therefore initially my walking partner, eventually left me behind.

But my out-of-shape muscles eventually proved to be a blessing in disguise. Groups of foreigners are majorly intimidating for the average Japanese person. Small children stare openly at us, mouths agape, as if we were zoo animals let out of our cages to mate in the wilds. But when they distinctly outnumber us, usually someone is brave enough to at least say hello or ask where I'm from.

I started up a half-English, half-Japanese conversation with some people along the way, and so managed to pass the time quite nicely. There were three boys, all about my age, who walked with their arms around each others' shoulders. The one in the middle had the soft features of Down's Syndrome or a similar disability, and his two friends were gently helping
to propel him up the hill. We talked about baseball, food, and how steep the mountain was. I taught them to walk backwards for a minute to give their muscles a rest, and gave my usual explanation of where Oregon is: between Ichiro (the Japanese member of the Seattle Mariners and a national hero here), and Disneyland. It's a rough description, but it gets the point across without needing the Japanese for "west coast" or "No, that's the other Washington."

My other new friend was a small older woman in a tan hat who immediately informed me that she was studying English as well. She thought hard before carefully delivering her best English sentence, probably memorized from a textbook: "Would you please refill my coffee?" I complimented her prowess, and she beamed. Pair her up with those guys in the plaid shirts and they'll be perfectly prepared for life in Oregon. Although she did look a bit crestfallen when I told her about Northwest winters in my best garbled Japanese ("10-month to 4-month rain is").

She was walking up the mountain with her husband, who said little, and frequently stopped at the side of the road for cigarette breaks. They had three children, she said, all grown, and all single. Her face showed her profound disappointment that her children (aged 31, 27, 25)
weren't married yet. She asked if I had a boyfriend (this is a typical question for foreigners and young women), and when I told her I didn't, said, "Oh, your parents maybe are sad."

I assured her that they weren't too upset about it.

At the top of the mountain, we ate miso soup and rice balls, watched the ceremonial rice pounding dance and the elementary school kids' noodle-eating contest. (Completely unfazed by their walk/trot up the mountain, they were still happily running around and yelling as their
parents sat spent in the grass).

Opting to forgo the water bottle promised in exchange for walking another 8 km back down the mountain, we rode the bus back to the parking lot. "Next year we'll walk down," we said, looking back up at the green mountain. "And we'll go all the way to the shrine at the top,
not just stop at the finish line."

Incredible to think that we might be here again in a year's time. Maybe by then I will be able to read the schedule of events and not leave before the lottery. "They called your name!" the board of education staff tell me over and over today. "But you did not answer. You were
maybe already left." I wonder what I didn't win. I hope it was more radish pickles.

And if for no other reason, I'll have to come again next year just to get one of the t-shirts, with their wonderfully bizarre English slogans. This year's proudly states, LET'S MAKE A HAPPY TOWN WITH POWER AND PRIDE.

Which, really, basically is what we did.

- October 2003