How to Leave Japan Without a Passport

After speaking incomprehensible Japanese on the phone to the ticket people and constantly repeating the word, ‘michi’ (street, path, road), Devin translated to Em and I the nitty gritty: yes there was space on the ferry, but we would have to sit in the aisle. Sitting in an aisle is not a very Japanese thing to do. This was a good omen. Em and I were on a mission to find the flip side to the Japanese workaday salaryman lifestyle; and we figured our island destination of Hachijojima was the most likely place to find it. Where is Hachijojima? Exactly.

So for the 10-hour boat ride out of Tokyo we sat against a vending machine in the aisle, our space demarked with a ‘leisure mat’. Splayed all about were a regular rogues gallery of Japanese outcasts; fishermen, surfers, and old-faced drunks.

When we landed on the island we realized that we had effectively left the Family Mart Lawson Daily Yamazaki beat behind. It was like Hawaii. Like really old Hawaii without the gleaming side effects. Beautiful. Sparse but beautiful. And mostly free.

We got a ride to the ‘main street of town’. I believe it was a gas station. Thinking that our weak Japanese abilities had failed us we decided to walk to the sea. After all people on islands are always on the sea…. Nope. Empty. We traveled around the island looking for people, only to realize that in fact nobody was anywhere, eventually returning to the first place we went; an abandoned black sand beach…

Miraculously we (and by we I mean Em) stumbled upon a stairway leading up from the beach into tent land. Posh tent land at that… and we didn’t have a tent. Smart planning eh?

No tent + no stores= ???

I combed the island’s meager and dusty wares for a tent. None. Zero. The idea of selling tents in an area where people went to camp didn’t occur to these simple quasi-Japanese beach side people. As I went from place to place asking for tents, I began to think of possible alternative solutions. Like steeling tarps and propping them up with sticks.

In the last possible shop (the dustiest of them all) I inquired in Japanese if they had a tent. They did not (arms crossed). ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. After a lot of head scratching and banter with the other clerk he asked me to follow him up stairs into an even dustier area. He took down a box, seemingly at random, that was filled with……….

Sorta tents.

It was a 4-sided dome with only one side covered. But it did have poles. And they did have tarps. And I did have duct tape.

So I ghetto rigged us up a tent, taping the tarps (using pleats) to the sorta tent. (Picture to come). The tent was the laughing stock of Poshtentland, but I served us well for our tenure on the island.
The tent solution was mediforic of our trip really; no planning, but great results.

We just did:

Nothing. Just chilled, read books, did some yoga, ate well, and took long walks (like 3-4 hours a day) to the waterfalls, onsens, and botanical gardens (all free). It was really nice… and we had beautiful weather with out exception.

On the way back (by boat) I was sleeping (in the aisle) and wide-eyed Em stirs me to tell me that she’s made some new friends. “Japanese?” “Yep” .The friends Em makes in Japan are borderline shady at best. Case in point the crazy dudes we played rain baseball against during hanami.

So needless to say we got drunk (sake, beer, sake, beer) on the top deck of our craft and it deteriorated pretty quickly. We ended singing/teaching “If your going to San Francisco” and practicing singing scales, all while the head dude, ‘Mr. Yellow,’ as he referred to himself, made strange remarks about how if he were still married to Ms. Pink (also present) that he would have an affair. With Em. Gnarly.

It was getting to be a bit much, so we took our leave, got off the boat and hung out with my buddy Devin, and his friend Teruo over pizza and good Spanish wine.

I'm trying to keep, my island vibe alive, but the Toyama grey-kick is giving me chills.