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SUN 21 MAY 00 Highs and Lows in the Big Udon
It’s a be-yoo-tee-full day in the Big Udon!
The sun’s out, the sky’s clear, and a breeze dances in the air. I pack myself out of the hotel as quick as I can and head for the hills – but not so quick that I can’t savor a Starbucks from across the street. Ahhh – liquid sunshine!
I head for my oft-postponed dream. (Well, one of ‘em.) I take the Yotsubashi Line to Namba and switch over to a Nara-bound express on the Kintetsu Line. After about fifteen minutes it starts to climb the foothills of the Ikoma Mountains, which are part of the range that separates Nara from Osaka.
Just to the west of the tracks I briefly spot a park? – a garden? – a place of New-Age rituals? Who knows, but it looks like some modern day would-be wizard placed a collection of astral figures about a large metal spherical thing - like a model of electrons whizzing about a nucleus. All this in a park/garden setting that overlooks Osaka to the west. It was but a fleeting glance, so I may not have seen things properly. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to going back again. I note that the station just past it is Ishikiri.
Shortly the train enters a tunnel about 3km long. Ikoma City, the station immediately after emerging from the tunnel, is my destination. I exit up the stairs at the west end of the station, pass by some shops in the elevated structure, and generally angle to the southwest.
And there it is!
And there it is.
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“It” is the Ikoma Mountain Cable Car. I never imagined that it would be this way. But here I am, and I guess I’ll go through with it. You see, the front of this incline rail car is a huge face of a cartoon clown. Blasting out from its speakers are kiddy songs pounded out on a calliope. And then there’s the voice-over (screech-over) of some Ritalin-deprived Pee Wee Herman wanna-be.
I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but I know what it is: “C’mon boys and girls! We’ll have some fun and play! There’s rides; there’s toys – Oh, what a happy, happy, day! You’ll race on the Whirlwind Coaster, You’ll spin on the Spit and Hurl, You’ll shake in the Haunted Castle, It’ll make your every hair curl. And then you’ll have candy, And then you’ll have cake, And then you’ll have little Lumps of dead raw fish…
Well….it might be fun – for someone.
Whatever, it’s not gonna stop me! I pay my ¥350, step inside and sit down in one of the thirty or so spaces. It takes about five minutes to go up. We all get off and board another cackling kiddy clown masquerading as a cable car. This one is steeper, and it starts out for the first 100m or so in an unlit tunnel. When it comes out, there’s a good view of the valley around Ikoma City. The track is lined with trees, blooming rhododendrons, and an occasional house.
The vehicle is a-howl with screaming kids, calliope music, Pee-san or Wee-san, and the clanking of the wheels on the tracks. Just in case we should hear birds in the trees outside, they have protected us by adding loud simulations of birdcalls to the sound track. It’s the bonsai approach to nature – nothing is of value unless man has created value out of it. So, if it moves, eat it. And, if it’s subject to the elements, be the first element there to subject it - and fashion it.
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We unload almost at the top, at an elevation of 642 m. In front of me is what appears to be a theme park (ala Magic Mountain, but without the foliage) entrance dead ahead and a service road to the left. Rides and attractions are scattered at the foot of a forest of microwave transmission towers. After the sonic assault on the way up, I don’t want to reward the management with a paid admission. I notice that others are just walking in – apparently there is no admission, but the attractions are ticketed.
I saunter in. To my left is a mouse-type coaster. To the right is another small coaster, but with Dumbos on top of the monorail track and with the riders slung underneath. Presumably they’re equipped with umbrellas or shielded helmets like the ones firemen wear. After all, it’s not like they’re sitting on top of the elephants.
Up ahead is a variant of the parachute drop. Off to the right I see ripoffs of Mickey and Donald marquee-ing other rides. Somewhere in there is what I would call a Spin the Sphincter and a Duke-Puke-em.
My current favorite is a simple one-story box-like building with white clapboards on the front. Seemingly classical columns support a pediment over a centered portico. The sign says “White House.” Under the portico is a painted statue of a barnyard bird holding a sign asking for 300 yen. I don’t know if it means that inside is a duck show, or if one should go to the “White House” for a cheap goose.
Inscrutable.
Further off to the left is a marginally themed flume ride. Just before it, is an arcade that looks like a Value-Engineered and abandoned Farrell’s ice cream parlor. The sign overhead proclaims it to be “Las Vegas.” How lucky.
Across the fairway is my ultimate favorite. Again, it is a simple concrete box, with only the front receiving any treatment – and 90% of that is an upper and lower band of sloping wall with score lines for character. On the lower left are four or five large vessels with a pipe or two coming out. Running horizontally across the front is a meter-high recessed band, halfway up the façade. In it are a few flashing strobes and some scrap pieces of pipe. Some have arrows on them pointing to the left, others pointing to the right – but they all say “Caution”.
Then there is a circular gate?, portal?, lock?, with sections that look like they might slide up, down, and to the sides. There are arrows to enhance the experience – and next to each arrow is the warning: “Caution.” Just in case you don’t get the idea that this is a dangerous place, a space capsule about a third of the size of a VW bug is crashed into the corner of the building.
The show title on this extra-terrestrial edifice should warm the heart of every Eco-Feminist out there: “Gaia – Cosmic Horror.”
Yeah – I’m horrified.
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I pass the mini-golf course on my way out. I cross the service road that leads up to the entrance and head toward more transmission towers. Right afterwards, the trail splits. Straight ahead, the trail essentially follows the ridge for the next 11.6-km to Mt. Ishigi, where another cable car brings one down to the terminus of the Kintetsu Shigi Line. To the right, the trail descends for 5 km to the western base of Mt. Ikoma where the Hiraoka Shrine and the Hiraoka station on the Kintetsu Nara Line are located.
The maps along the trail are next to useless, since they have no scale. The maps available at the trailhead are marginally better. All I know is that down is towards the station. The descent is steep along most of the way. Unfortunately, since it rained the night before, the trail has a slick coat of mud in most places. Where footing is available, the aggregate tends to be stones rather than rocks. The descent could be a breeze to a moderately skilled rock-hopper, but the smallish stones have no purchase in the mud.
It is hot and humid. There is no breeze. Everything is slowly, slowly dripping. Silkworms dangle from the trees above, and are swept onto my shirt as I descend. Birdcalls reverberate in the cathedral-like forest. Occasionally there are brilliant spots where wild azaleas bloom. But mostly, I’m thirsty. Like a fool, I keep forgetting to bring water on these excursions – and I haven’t had any fluids since breakfast some four hours ago. Much as I would like to take my time, I feel pressed to get to someplace where I can have something to drink.
About halfway down is a pavilion that overlooks the Osaka basin below. Both its roof and the guardrail around the drop have butterfly motifs. A section of trees has been clear-cut to provide a view – the cuttings left to litter the forest floor. But – who cares? – the butterflies don’t know if this is pretty or not.
Still further down, the trail crosses a paved road to get to a wooden bridge that faces a waterfall amidst maples. Beautiful, just beautiful – but on I hurry. Water, water, everywhere, but nary a drop to drink.
My best friend for some years in New York was Shoji Hiraoka, son of one of Japan’s most celebrated musicians, Yoichi Hiraoka. I had wondered whether there was any connection with his family and the Hiraoka Shrine. So, after all this anticipation, here I am. And zip!, zam!, badda-boom-bang! And I’m in there and I’m outa’ there, ‘cause I’m really, really, really thirsty.
Five minutes later, I’m down at the station. There’s a broom closet sized shop with a little glass reefer with cold cans of Asahi. I sit down on some steps outside and sip slowly. Pigeons jostle for position on the power lines above. A handful of teenage slackers and slackettes lounge about on the pavement in the shade of the station – waiting for the next big thing to happen.
Nothing happens.
I finish my beer, and catch the next train back.
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I freshen up a bit at the hotel, and then head out to the “Dance on the Banks” festival on the Modugawa. I needn’t have bothered. It looks like half of the Osakan Caucasian population is attending a grunge version of a Haight-Ashbury masquerade party. A handful of howling wretches is seriously abusing some instruments on stage while trying to impersonate musicians. The screeches of agony rebound from the few apartment buildings on the far side of the river.
Unfortunately, I’m still thirsty and I still haven’t thought to bring my own. So, during the course of my stay, I buy a few cans of dearly overpriced beer.
I say “Hi” to some friends and acquaintances from the office. FO’R suggests that this is the perfect time for some ultra-nationalist local to launch some homemade ordnance and take a major step in ethnically cleansing Osaka. The degree of plausibility makes me sprout eyes in the back of my head. I slowly scan the locals walking the tops of the embankment above us – trying to make myself think as they do. Suddenly, a cramp knots my brain during the attempt.
I saunter down to the water. Descending into the murk, a short flight of steps continuously follows the river’s edge. It is reminiscent of the section of the Ganges where all manners of things go on on the steps that lead into it. The water’s edge is filthy with debris and floating trash. Festival attendees are scattered about on the steps, chatting, watching the setting sun, or getting loud.
Three guys are shooting off little firecracker rockets – not towards the river – but towards me. I move on. Some other guy comes up to me and insists that “We need you in the mosh pit”. “No you don’t”, I reply.
Amazing. The only purpose in life I have among these revelers is to be a target. I revulse at the cultural dead-end this event upholds. It is where an open sewer replaces a riverside, where noise replaces music, and where slovenliness replaces style.
I walk out of there, with the back of my scalp prickling. My extra eyes are still scanning, and I’m thinking, “Any moment now - any moment…” |