Six Mouthfuls and Tired of Salt
Island Travel on the Inland Sea
by
Randy Johnson
Originally published as "Inland Sea: Peering into a Kind of Shangri-la"
Orientations, May, 1978.
Reprinted in the Tokyo Journal, March 1986.
It cannot elude me now. This time I am going to search with tenacity until I find my tropical paradise.
I am not the first to long for Shangri-la, a refuge from the frowns of fortune and the harassment of daily life. You can still find your Paradise Island if you know where to look and if your expectations are not overly romanticized. But I have imposed a severe restriction upon my 'lost horizon' -- I must find it in Japan, within a day's journey of my home in Kyoto.
I explore the countryside as regularly as I am able, enjoying the solemn stillness of the mountains, the charm of rural villages; keeping an eye out for the lingering "road not taken", the odd hut without a television antenna, the rare sand beach. But I am no longer content with the few grottoes of nature, overlooked in the scramble to the resort. I must earnestly seek out some lost oasis of quiet simplicity.
Yet it is not only hedonism that spurs me on, but requital as well. For breaking my heart so many times, I must coax a coquettish Japan to surrender her well-guarded heart, if only for a few days. At least once more before she submerges beneath her own waste, Japan must repay the toll she has exacted from modern man -- that modern man has levied upon her, and upon himself.
It is 5:00 am. when Jean and I shuffle onto the glistening pavement of Kyoto's Kita-Oji Street and mount the tram island to catch the first streetcar of a crisp new day. Already we are discovering a new world; it is the shopkeepers, the grinning peddlers and workmen -- not the busy swarm of students and housewives -- who board the rickety old streetcar as it ambles down the drowsy streets of a quiescent Kyoto. At Kyoto Station we catch the early commuter train to Kobe in time to connect with the super-express for Okayama, and at 125 miles per hour we scream west toward Shangri-la.
Of course I must lower my sights a bit, make allowances. I cannot expect to find banana trees and tropical fish. I will make do without banana trees and tropical fish; these I will find easily enough another time, in more tropical parts of the world, where Paradise is often stumbled upon in curious ramblings.
Nor can I expect pristine innocents to lavish their hospitality upon the noble explorer -- the Japanese evolved a sophisticated culture over a millennium ago. My quest is not for Bali, but for Japan; for the unadorned past of a nation set upon preserving its heritage like a butterfly in a glass case. I am searching not for Zen spirit and pre-Meiji styles, but for Yamato spirit and pre-Meiji smiles -- for the smile that comes unguarded from hearts close to the land and the sea.
In a country that deifies rocks and trees, Nature is too often honored like an ancestor from another age -- not known, but not forgotten. Rites are observed and deference is shown, but increasing homage is paid to the living Trinity of Progress, Modernity, and Success, and few people are as intimate with the wind and the sea as they are with their television sets.
At Okayama Station we locate the red Shimoden bus for Kojima, and an hour and a quarter south we hop onto the little Shimotsui train as it crawls out of Kojima. The Shimotsui line is a narrow gauge railroad served by a single miniature two-car puddle-jumper that infrequently chugs and heaves its way around the tumultuous green hills between Kojima and Shimotsui, a quiet fishing port on the north shore of the Inland Sea.
Careful planning and a blind rush have paid off with sheer luck. Down on the wharf, the Marugame ferry is just preening to embark its jaunt across the sea to Shikoku, the smallest of Japan's four main islands. But we will make it not more than half the way to Shikoku -- not this trip. We will seek no farther than Hon-jima, literally the "main island" of the Shiwaku Shoto, a scattering of 28 tiny islands, only seven of which are inhabited.
The Inland Sea appears to be a lost expanse of innumerable islands. To the Japanese, it is Seto Naikai, the "sea between straits". It stretches 440 kilometers from east to west, yet spans only 55 kilometers at its broadest point, narrowing to as little as 5, not far to the east of us. Some 700 islands have been enumerated, but most of them still lie largely lost -- out of the way and sparsely inhabited. Tourists occasionally visit the larger islands, but even the fishermen are abandoning their crustacean homes and following their children to a more modern life in the cities of Honshu, Japan's main island. The Shiwaku Islands derive their name appropriately from the age-old sentiment of being "fed up with the brine" of the tide that dashes the islands at this narrow channel in the sea.
I have chosen these islands to explore on the strength of an obscure paragraph in a Japanese guide to island travel. Travel guides are certainly nothing new to the Japanese; while Americans were just beginning to forge their new nation out of the wilderness, Japanese travelers had benefit of numerous travel guide books which not only indicated roads and landmarks, but also commented on the character and quality of shops, inns, and bawdy houses along the way.
But why do islands so intrigue me? Because they often remain isolated not only from the main stream, but from each other as well. Each tiny island develops its own mini-culture, based on timeless needs and traditions unique to its microcosm. Depending on the terrain, the soil, the sea and the shore, the quality of living may be worlds apart on two adjacent islands.
Built upon centuries of private history, tradition, and superstition, began by one ascendant lord or family, an entire island society may evolve characteristically solemn or frivolous, suspicious or candid; harboring feelings of superiority or insignificance. Today the distinctions are beginning to fade away but each island still retains its own undeniable mood that you can sense the moment you step off the boat.
At the end of a harried journey, we clambered down the gangplank at 10:45 am. to a lackadaisical Hon-jima. The island covers a mere 6.7 square kilometers and can be explored exhaustively on foot in a day or two. A few rootbound roads meander around the hills that separate the island's seven tiny villages, but the natives rarely venture beyond their own corner of the island, unless it be out to sea.
The few historical landmarks are providentially less than spectacular, but you can't help discovering them as you stroll around the island. Local lore always fascinates me, but it is the idyllic setting that makes Honjima worthy of my quest. A rocky sea coast liberally sprinkled with real sand beaches is breached by pine groves and backed by forested mountains. Hakusa seisho -- "white sand, green pines" -- the phrase carries the intimation of a splendidly lonely seascape.
Best of all, no souvenir shops mark the way -- in fact there are no buses, no taxis, and no cafes. Only four or five small dry goods shops and one lodging impose themselves upon this, the main island. There are, however, five small Buddhist temples, four Shinto shrines, and the imposing sanctuary hall of the Tenri-kyo sect. A thorough inventory need only add two concrete school houses, the venerated old Shogunate offices, and the new branch office for the city of Marugame, which now administers these islands.
Despite my designs on discovering a new paradise, however, Hon-jima is not undiscovered. The National Lodge (Kokumin Shukusha) stands ready to provide comfortable accommodations for a number of visitors, and does so during the summer season. But as yet, the island remains relatively unaffected by the outside. As we arrived at the first of June, the last summer's tourists were all but forgotten, and this year's would not dare venture out to the sea before the official start of the tourist season in the second week of July, when the weather punctually becomes unbearably sultry in the cities. Two months later, we might have been intruded upon by a boatload of holiday anglers; but as it was, we had the island to ourselves.
Our first stop was to check in to the deserted Kokumin Shukusha. They weren't expecting us -- or anyone else for that matter -- and a room had to be prepared. So we left our bags with the manager and rented two of their bicycles for the rest of the day.
The dusty lane eroded beneath the dazzling sun as we bounced through narrow vegetable fields and down along the cliffs beside the southern coast. We managed to spend the rest of the day exploring the western half of the island, but only by whiling away several hours on the deserted beach beyond Fukuda village. Along the way we enjoyed the shade of a small cemetery overlooking the shell beach at Daiura cove, and gamboled down to assist the local women digging for shellfish in the surf.
Fukuda is just a handful of huts lining a stone breakwater, facing west to nearby Hiro-shima Island. The village was all but abandoned when we passed through, but on our way back from the beach in the late afternoon, some of the fisherman had already returned with a full catch and the narrow causeway quickened to the daily spectacle of unloading and cleaning fish, and mending nets. Stout wives beam appreciatively at the fine catch, but while everyone falls to work with a hearty vigor, they exchange few words. The odd comment arises on a large fish or octopus, but little else requires saying.
Fukuda survives without any need for stores, so we stopped off for a cool drink at the small shop near Daiura cove. The women of the family sat on mats beside the earthen floor, chatting candidly as we sipped our juice. Grandmother counseled her daughter on child rearing, and recounted how she had misbehaved as a child. The young mother was likely no older than 20, but her face held an ageless earthy cast that struck me at once with its startling resemblance to the classic Noh mask of Ko-Omote, the country woman -- with smooth full cheeks and a small mouth molded into a pleasing smile.
There was a time in Japan when one could guess a stranger's home not only by his dialect but also by his face and stature, as each feudal region maintained its own clannish physical attributes. But today's population mobility has largely dissolved the distinction of regional archetypes.
As we left, we thanked the ladies for their hospitality, in Japanese good enough to draw a delightfully embarrassed smile from the face of the Noh mask, for what they might have discussed earlier in our presence.
Dinner at the lodge was served in our room by a stocky young maid with deep-set eyes. She seemed pleased to have some company -- even, or perhaps especially, the rare foreigners. Oh, there was a German family who came once a few years ago; she had taken care of their rooms herself. But they hadn't cared much for the food, nor did they speak Japanese. She was happy to see that we were different, because the Germans were rather strange. They took two rooms and the children stayed by themselves in one room while the parents slept in another. And both parents and children thought this was perfectly fine. In a society where children may sleep beside their parents for many years, this is viewed as a most barbaric custom. We had little opportunity to reveal the true limits of our understanding, as the broad-faced girl chatted merrily away, pausing in her work to reflect on some pertinent point, as we grew more anxious to enjoy our meal.
The next morning, before we set out to explore the remainder of the island, we first had to visit the nearby graves of the "Ninmyo", forefathers of Shiwaku. During the Sengoku Period, while the entire country was in a state of chaotic civil warfare, these islands were the home of the Shiwaku Armada, a fleet of piratical seamen who hoisted the "crane and tortoise" banner over their headquarters on Hon-jima and rapaciously held sway over the islands between the straits. Since command of sea power on the Inland Sea was the key to control over western Japan, numerous military commanders endeavored to secure these buccaneers as allies.
In August of 1586, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, in his drive to consolidate Japan under his sword, won the allegiance of the Shiwaku fleet and they sailed for Kyushu to aid in the subjugation of the mighty Shimazu clan. Later they sailed for Hideyoshi against the final Hojo stronghold at Odawara Castle and in two unsuccessful sieges of Korea.
The island seamen so distinguished themselves as shipwrights and navigators, that Hideyoshi rewarded them with full pardons, granted sizable retainers to 650 valiant buccaneers, and acknowledged their suzerainty over the Shiwaku Shoto.
In this way, Shiwaku's swashbuckling seamen became daimyo and lesser vassals on their own fief. Of the 650 so-called "Ninmyo" four elders were chosen to oversee the affairs of the self-governing territory. Among these, the Miyamoto line of elders gained local prestige as self-reliant feudal lords.
Leaving the sentinel gravestones of the celebrated "Ninmyo", we hiked up behind the primary school to visit the Tenri-kyo temple hall, the massive white structure that dominated the scene when our ferry first rounded the point into the harbor. The main floor is a vast hall of 230 tatami mats, with another large altar area beyond. Founded in the late nineteenth century as an independent off-shoot of Shinto, the sect is dedicated to the veneration of elders, living and dead. We peeked into the auditorium downstairs to find it transformed into a children's playroom for the morning.
Below the temple, we visited the old Shogunate offices, then followed a vague trail up to the recently renovated shrine to Hachiman, the God of War, where the Miyamotos are well remembered as fighting men. Continuing on the main road we succeeded in finding the only shop on the island that keeps milk and some fresh fruit. Here the road jogged left and wandered off around the hills, but we kept to the path that remained straight on. We soon came to Toko-ji -- a small Buddhist temple -- and across the way its rickety and rambling old two-storey hermitage lay abandoned.
Now, the path narrowed and continued along a canal skirting the island's broad salt beds, temporarily inundated by the sea. The trail then entered the woods, short-cutting a jutting promontory, which we scaled to find a little wayside shrine overlooking the harbor. Beyond this promontory, the forest opens on a quiet fishing village in the small sandy inlet facing southeast, across the sea. All of the twenty or so houses here on the windward side of the island are boarded up against typhoons and heavy gales. Only the pleasant little Shinto shrine, set back by its long gravel approach, looks out on the sea.
At the end of the village the road jogs inland, avoiding Kameyama point, but we continued walking along the rocky coast and were rewarded with several small and secluded beaches, each more lovely than the last. Here we relaxed and bathed in complete privacy, save for the passing of a single fishing boat and the approach of the morning ferry.
After rounding the peninsula -- a stroll of some 25 minutes -- and spending the morning lying on the beach and swimming in the pre-summer chill of the Inland Sea, we came up the beach and met the road at Shin Zaika, a tiny settlement hidden among a stand of pine trees. Near the road, a charmingly rustic stone lantern, looking like a squat little open-faced troll with a broad-brimmed hat, stands under the spreading branches of a contorted shore pine.
Just over the next rise lies Kasashima, a small fishing village on the northeast. An old stone jetty protects its several fishing boats, most of which were out when we arrived. We ventured out anyway and tried to find someone to take us across to Mukkuchi Island, a few kilometers away. But it was growing late and the best offer we heard was beyond our budget, so we decided to stay.
There are two lanes in Kasashima and two shops as well, making it a fairly large town by island standards. A short walk up the beach to the north and an easy swim across the sand-barred channel, lies the small uninhabited island of Muko-jima, flanked by shallow oyster beds. Above its low rolling outline, the farther peaks of Mukkuchi-jima rise.
We spoke at length with both shopkeepers, but neither proved any help in finding us a room for the night. Oh yes, in the "summer season" some of the fishermen open up their homes to lodgers in the traditional minshuku manner, which has widely been lost to most minshukus which are today purely commercial enterprises. But no, no one had any rooms ready now, and besides, the Kokumin Shukusha is only an hour's walk through the hills. We tried to explain that we had already patronized the Kokumin Shukusha and would prefer a different perspective by staying in another part of the island. This sentiment was unfathomably lost, and although the second shopkeeper showed sympathy to our strange desires, no one was about to take foreigners into her home without any preparation, as if they ever expected to do such a thing at all.
Instead, we bought some canned fish and bread and headed up past the shrine behind the village, on the trail up Tomiyama mountain. After a vigorous climb, Tomiyama did indeed offer a "far view" in all directions of the countless islands spreading out over the sea to Shikoku and out across the gathering mist to the west.
Like the rest of Japan, these islands are relatively young mountains, created steep and rugged by the violent tumult of volcanic eruptions. From the shallow waters of the Inland Sea they poke up toward the sky, covered with a thick growth of pines and bushes, marked by jagged rock formations.
On the far side of Tomiyama we came upon an old jeep road winding down toward the northern shore. It followed the cliffs for a while before dropping to a broad crescent bay where a dense pine forest advanced to the verge of a clean white swath of sand. An old maintenance garage sagged idly beside the road and, deciding that it would adequately protect us from any sudden rains, we elected to spend the night sleeping on the beach instead of returning to the south side of the island where the sun had already disappeared behind the hills.
Content with our accommodations, we enjoyed a stroll down the long beach. At the very far end we discovered a tiny cemetery and later discerned the evening smoke of three small houses hidden among the pines behind the beach. There was even a small Shinto shrine beside the road, looking out across the sea to Honshu Island in the distance.
Under the spreading boughs of a pine grove beside the beach we ate our fish sandwiches and watched the evening unfold in a rare and quieting beauty. The sun descended slowly over western Honshu on the horizon, becoming a fiery orange globe, reflected before us across the gentle calm of the Inland Sea. And across that rippling shaft of orange light, the local fishing fleet turned slowly homeward in a steady string, heard chugging faintly between the lapping of the tide upon the shore. As the swollen sun glowed softly atop the horizon, the last little boat stole quietly across its lingering reflection and disappeared beyond Fukube point, into the glimmering twilight.
The air quickly grew chilly and, as we carried no warm clothing, we pondered the consequences of spending the night in the tiny shrine beside the road. Eventually the night won out, and in the humble fear of the gods -- and of being discovered -- we spread our ponchos out across the mats before the simple altar. All night the gods haunted our dreams, but we were pious enough to leave some bread on the altar and only the rats came to expose our intrusion.
We made certain to leave quite early the next morning, lest any worshippers should happen upon us. Wandering up again into the forested hills, we found a dirt track that led us back down to the main harbor in time to catch the early morning ferry to the mainland.
Back on the wharf at Shimotsui, we asked around for someone to take us
out to Mukkuchi Island and were directed to a small fishing boat at the
far end of the dock. A short weather-beaten man sat idly on its bow.
Oh yes, he could take us out to Mukkuchi; it would take about 15
minutes. Did we want to see the Elephant Rock? We assured him we did
not want to miss the Elephant Rock, but how much would it cost?
"The fare is 1500 yen for the boat, one way." At this news, we took a short walk up the breakwater to collect ourselves. We had no desire to part with fully 3,000 yen to get to the island and back, but there appeared to be no other way.
Bargaining is not generally accepted as a mode of commerce in Japan. You can get away with it in a few places, but now I felt the need to give it a try. The plain little man, now washing down the deck, hadn't really seemed the shrewd businessman, nor did he appear at all affected by our reluctance. Again we spoke of the trip, how far it was, the price. 'How about a thousand yen?' I ventured nonchalantly in my best bargaining ploy. He just gazed up blankly and batted his eyes. Then matter-of-factly he reiterated -- as though reflecting how dull foreigners really are -- "Sen-gohyaku-en nan des wa," in his most polite yet emphatic syntax. "It is 1,500 yen." And that was that.
We barely had the extra cash between us, but we definitely wanted to go, so off we sailed to Mukkuchi, pondering this perplexingly unaffected man from the rear deck of his boat. He dropped us off at a small landing on the near side of the island and suggested that we meet him later at the only other pier, on the far side. In fact, he had another passenger to collect from the inn there at noon, and we could all share the fare back. In the face of his earlier inflexibility, this seemed a most generous gesture. But then, he really had no choice; "the fare is 1,500 yen for the boat, one way" -- this is an inviolable natural law.
We explained that we intended to stay much longer than noon. 'But the island is very small; it only takes an hour or two to see everything!' We really had him baffled this time; but he happily drew us a map of the island and agreed to meet us at 5 pm.
A dirt path approximating Mukkuchi's 5-kilometer perimeter provides its only mode of transportation. The island is covered with densely forested mountains which tumble down to the verge of sheer rock cliffs, presiding over delightful white sand beaches. From the landing, all we could discern of the island was a long white beach, a narrow patch of cultivated land, and a small farm house nestled under the cascading pines of the unbroken eastern mountains. And we loved it; there wasn't a soul in sight.
Ten minutes to the west, we approached the sandy hollow that separates the eastern mountains from the western hill. If the sea were a few meters higher, Mukkuchi would actually be a pair of "cat and mouse" islands. This hollow is the only other land on the island level enough to be arable. At its entrance we came upon a rambling old two-storey farm house in a dilapidated state. Out in the front a haggard old woman spread broad bunches of flowers out to dry, while an even older-looking man reclined under the shade of the verandah. The old woman was gauntly hard-featured, her thinning hair cropped short, and her dark skin drawn by toil, time, and the elements.
We paused to admire her flowers and she carefully approached us with a toothless grin. She explained that the flowers were jochu-giku, a peculiar chrysanthemum containing a natural insect repellent. After drying, the jochugiku flowers are sold to a plant on the mainland where they are ground into 'pyrethrum' for mosquito coils. It isn't that the conditions here are so ideal for jochu, but that they are so poor, not much else will grow.
So in this secluded hollow on a nearly deserted island, they raise flowers, along with their onions, sweet potatoes, and a few other vegetables. The rest of the family? 'Oh, out there...' she gestured vaguely with a bony arm toward the distant shore of a different Japan. Only their first son stays, fulfilling his filial duty of caring for his parents in their old age. The rest have no doubt escaped to seek their fortunes in "Kei-Hen-Shin" the metropolitan Kyoto, Osaka, and Kobe areas.
Searching for questions to keep up the conversation, we asked if there was an inn on the island. Yes, there is a ryokan somewhere around on the other side. She had seen it herself just after it was built some years ago, but she didn't know how nice it was. As we left, she presented us with some of her flowers and said that if the inn was not to our liking, we could come back and stay in her house, as there were plenty of empty rooms.
We were greatly tempted to take her up on the offer, but we later realized what a great blunder it would be. Japanese inns are quite comfortably appointed and I'm sure she saw no danger that we could prefer her ramshackled old home. Should we have been brazen enough to accept her offer, the family would have been at a loss to feed and accommodate us. Her offer had been a well intentioned gesture of good will -- more a wish that she might better be able to help us, than a genuine offer.
In a matter of minutes we had crossed to the far side of the island, facing Hon-jima a short distance to the south. Here the land flattens out onto a broad beach where a small shop, awaiting the tide of summer bathers, lay deserted. Nearby, on a high rock outcropping stands a miniature stone pagoda, commemorating the site of a great sea battle in the 12th century struggle for power between the dominant Taira and Minamoto clans.
A short ways up the beach, the celebrated Elephant Rock rises 15 feet out of the shore, washed smooth by the pounding of the surf into a close resemblance to the head and body of an elephant. From Elephant Rock the path leads steeply up to the brink of the cliffs, then winds through dense forest around the rest of the island. But we chose to walk awhile along the shore, and found several sheltered coves blessed with creamy sand beaches and a mild cool surf.
Here again, we had the beach to ourselves. As in most rural societies, swimming is for children who have the time and the inclination for such frolic. And sunbathing is a ludicrous pastime, an American invention which has yet to spread beyond modern leisure societies. Most Japanese still value the ideal beauty of white skin, especially on women, and whenever possible, women laborers cover even the backs of their hands to prevent acquiring the unsightly tan that marks them as less than genteel. For thousands of years the Japanese have worshipped the sun as the source of their race; but they have yet to approach the religious zeal of sun-worshippers in California and the Riviera.
Here on the beach we enjoyed our picnic lunch in privacy and lounged on the sand, sunning and swimming in the cold water until we could no longer bear the abandon of it all. Later we hiked on through the woods to visit the ryokan, perched on the side of a mountain and looking out through a clearing over the panorama of islands to Shikoku. The inn is called Koshi So -- 'villa of noble spirit', and includes several buildings, some older than others, but all quite tasteful in the rusticity of a traditional Japanese-style inn. The kitchen was closed up but the innkeeper, a demure middle-aged woman, brought a beer out to the patio and joined us for some conversation.
Her family had lived as expatriates in Singapore for some time, but now most of them reside self-sufficiently on this small island, making up the remainder of its 25 inhabitants. In years past there were many more people, she told us -- enough to support a small school on the island. But that was some time ago, and now there are not even any children at all.
It is a pleasant life here for her. She runs a handsome inn with fitting prices, which likely sees a regular flow of summer escapists from the mainland to keep her company and provide revenue. In the off-season she has the place mostly to herself, her family and the help, to preside over the splendid landscape -- she likes it that way.
She suggested that if we continued around to the west end of the island we could find a path to the top of the mountain. So off we strolled up the inclining pathway, past several secluded houses, half hidden among the pines. The trail was carpeted with pine needles and a cool breeze filtered through the redolent shade of the forest.
It wasn't long before the island swung around and began its short jaunt back down toward the lowland of the lee side. Here we found the remnants of a path leading up into the trees, apparently unused since the previous summer, for it was so often overgrown that we finally left the trail and picked our way almost to the top before finding it again.
At the summit, 133 meters above the sea, only a few pines held their ground among the jagged outcropping of boulders that capped the peak. The rocks protruded out over a steep rocky precipice on the south side and provided the perfect staging to gaze out across the vast seascape, a view we never grew tired of. For from each new vantage point, the sea takes on a new perspective, the islands disappearing behind each other or popping out from nowhere. And a different scene unfolds with each change in the weather or the sea. On a clear midday, the distant main islands appear sharply on the horizon, but in the hazy early morning they fairly dwindle away, fading back into the misty void.
I don't know how long we sat there, looking out across the sea; long enough to become a part of the seascape, as though we belonged to it all, and our sitting there was as natural for us as the islands floating out across the tide.
On the way back down toward the inn, where our boatman was to meet us, we came upon an old man working in his garden below the path. He didn't look up from his work, but when we greeted him, he happily came up to talk with us. He led us to a clearing where we could observe several of the neighboring islands, and told us a bit about each one.
As we were about to head on, I had just one final question. I wanted to know how Mukkuchi got its name. "Saaaa," he pondered distantly, drawing his hand slowly across his mouth. And then, with a twinkle, "Jikan ga aru no?" -- 'Do you have some time?' Of course we had time; we had heard our boat approaching, but he was much too early and we reasoned that his supper could wait a few more minutes for us to enjoy a true folk legend from the lips of a genuine local historian.
Well, the story took place some 250 years ago, which would place it
during the time of the Tokugawa Shogunate. At this time the islands
were reportedly part of a fief belonging to the feudal lord, or
tono-sama, of Okayama Castle, the head of the Ikeda family.
Although the nation was at peace, rule was still based upon military
might, and power struggles between clans were not uncommon. During
the build-up of one such struggle threatening the Okayama province of
Bizen, Ikeda Tono-sama sent his horsemen to this tiny deserted island
to train for battle by the sea. Navigation had not advanced greatly
and warriors commonly trained their horses to be strong swimmers, that
they might freely cross rivers and have the mobility to fight even
into the sea.
The old man painted a vivid scene of the island. All day long the men worked with their horses, running on the beaches in full battle armor and swimming in the bay that spread out before us. At the end of a long day, they would lead their horses through the hollow to the far side of the island where there was ample space to construct a corral and make a camp for the men.
But although the horsemen worked up Gargantuan appetites, all that awaited their return to camp were large caldrons of rice and a few vegetables. In the bay, however, fish were bountiful, and soon the soldiers took to fishing in the midst of their training. They had no trouble hauling in tasty turbot, kisu, and flathead, hand over fist. Here our informant rose to the occasion and illustrated a fierce samurai slinging a line out into the sea, and just as quickly pulling in a large fish with great gusto. They kept a fire blazing on the beach and all day the warriors feasted on fresh broiled fish between workouts in the sea.
So when night fell and they made their weary way back to the camp, they had little taste for their rice and stale pickled vegetables. But just to make a showing, they would begin to scoop the rice in with their chopsticks, just as our narrator illustrated: "Sh'tokuchi, futakuchi, mikuchi, yokkuchi, itsukuchi, mukkuchi -- mo ii 'n da!" 'One mouthful, two mouthfuls, three, four, five, six mouthfuls -- and "no more, I'm full!"' Here he made a great face of one stuffed to bursting and shoved away any food that might have been in front of him.
We couldn't always understand everything he said at first try, so he often repeated the important parts over and over with broad gestures to assure that we understood just what he was describing.
Well, it seems that Ikeda Tono-sama himself came out one day to review the troops in action. However, he didn't arrive until late in the afternoon, in time to greet his men returning wearily from the day's exercises. But at dinner call that night the men took their time coming to eat and they barely touched their food. Here he went through the entire animated routine once again for effect. "...itsukuchi, mukkuchi -- 'mo ii 'n da'." The tono-sama was understandably puzzled by this unusual behavior and distressed at their poor appetites.
That very night while Ikeda was visiting, the samurai decided that the island must have a name, since the lord would need to refer to it when reporting on his adventures. It was Ikeda himself who came up with the idea, "Why not call it Mukkuchi, since no one here seems ever to take more than six mouthfuls of his food." Naturally, everyone agreed that the tono-sama's idea was by far the best name, and so the island was then and there christened "Mukkuchi-jima" -- Island of Six Mouthfuls.
By this time we were all three sitting around on the pine needles of
the forest floor and our boatman was sounding his horn in the
distance. The old man sat back, quite pleased with himself, smiled
happily out through squinted eyes, slapped his thighs, and gave out a
long guttural sigh after his spirited effort of yarn-spinning.
But now it really was time to go, and we thanked our storyteller very much and turned down the path toward the Inn of Noble Spirit, still puzzling over some of the more obscure details of his story. Doubtless, his was only one of many stories once told of Mukkuchi's name, but sad, the storytellers are all but gone.
Back at the inn, the mistress was out watching for us, to tell us that our boat was waiting to carry us back to the mainland. There on the beach below her villa, we left her, a slight woman with the soft look of a nun, and a truly noble spirit. And off we sailed to spend the night on the brink of Washu-zan Point, with yet another renowned view of the Inland Sea. We would likely be too late to get supper at the hostel, but our minds were not on our own stomachs.
As we looked back to the retreating shore, our mistress stood waving on the beach, amid a fierce company of Ikeda Tono-sama's samurai, racing their flashy horses down the beach, charging them out into the sea, and squatting over a crackling fire, roasting fresh fish in the growing shade of the mountains of Mukkuchi-jima.
