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Published: August 6th 2007
It took twenty minutes of wandering around looking for the non-existent Hiroshima subway before a young Japanese woman stopped us and asked if we needed assistance; we must have looked lost. After a brief explanation, and a hearty laugh, we finally figured out the
Lonely Planet failed to mention it was a streetcar we needed to catch to the Peace Park and not a subway. Picking the right streetcar was a breeze once we found them; however, determining how to pay our fare was a different story altogether. Again, encountering the now expected language barrier with the Japanese, we boarded the streetcar and asked the driver how much the fare was. With a look of confusion, he motioned towards a machine adjacent to the door and turned away. Still not knowing how much the fare was, Jess put a 1000 Yen bill ($9) into the machine and received a handful of change in return. Satisfied that he had paid his fare, Jess took a seat while I followed his lead. Mimicking the process, I inserted a 1000 Yen bill and also received a handful of change. Taking a tally to determine how much the machine returned so that I could pay
Gina’s fare, I quickly realized the machine returned 1000 Yen in coins. The driver made no attempt to communicate with me, so I simply assumed a seat next to Gina and Jess for our ride to the park.
Naturally, Hiroshima has an inherent stigma to it. The unsuspecting target of the World’s second atomic blast and first against a civilian population, the city has come to epitomize the dawning of the atomic era. We had planned to visit the city well in advance of any contact with my second cousin John, whose relative location made Hiroshima our best rendezvous attempt, and were eager to explore the park and museums dedicated to the events of Aug 6, 1945. With only two hours to spare before John arrived with his family, Jess, Gina and I started our tour at the A-Bomb dome, the propped-up remains of the Japanese Cultural Committee Building that stands about 200 meters from the hypocenter of the atomic blast. Taking our time to absorb and document the solemn looking structure, we contemplated whether it was appropriate to take a group photo before spotting several other tourists doing just that. Jess approached another obvious tourist, who happily snapped
our photo.
As we sat and reviewed the picture, a docile looking Japanese man in his mid-60s drew near us.
Uh oh, here comes the anti-American sentiment. To our surprise, the man simply asked, “Where are you from?”
Unashamed but still reticent, we answered in unison, “The United States.”
Not phased by our answer, the man, who I now noticed was wearing a tag around his neck that said
Free Guide inquired if we were interested in a tour. Tired of the less than stellar directions provided in the
Lonely Planet, we jumped on the opportunity.
The man stood for a few minutes, expounding on the history of the A-bomb Dome before dropping a bomb of his own, “I am a Hiroshima survivor.”
Dumbfounded by the revelation, we couldn’t help our inquisitiveness, “Really?”
“Yes, I was in my mother’s womb for 4 months when the bomb went off,” he elaborated, before pulling a government issued identification card reserved for atomic blast survivors in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
For the next forty-five minutes we played ducklings to the extremely knowledgeable and helpful man, Mito-san, who walked us to sights that weren’t described in any of
our travel guides. A major misnomer is that the atomic blast occurred above the A-bomb Dome, when in fact, the hypocenter was about 200 meters away and is marked by an unassuming historic placard down a quiet street. A wealth of information, Mito-san walked us through a small graveyard that existed before the atomic blast and still remains today. He pointed out several gravestones that had been cobbled back together after crumbling under the intense shockwave of the blast as well as several which had shadows imprinted on them from the heat rays. Pointing at the kanji text inscribed on several stones, he explained that families in Japan typically share a grave marker. He noted the date on several gravestones of entire families killed by the blast or resulting sickness from radiation poisoning.
Curious as to how his mother survived, we asked where his family lived in 1945 and if anyone had succumbed to the blast. Mito-san clarified that his Mother and Father had a home in the city and one in the countryside outside of Hiroshima and that on August 6, 1945, his parents had been at their country home. His mother’s father was in downtown Hiroshima, but
survived the blast due to his position behind a building that blocked a majority of the shockwave and resulting heat. Three days after the blast, his mother returned to Hiroshima to check on her father and their city home, ultimately exposing herself to intense gamma radiation. Mito-san’s grandfather died a few months after the blast of radiation sickness and his mother developed blood cancer several years later but eventually beat it.
Conscious of time, we bid adieu to our informative guide a short while later and headed through the Peace Park towards the museum. Along the way, we were intercepted by a mass of Japanese school boys on a fieldtrip, seemingly entranced by our Western appearance. The eager group circled and engaged us in rudimentary conversation, “Hello!”
Willing participants, we exchanged the pleasantry, which opened the floodgate of questions. “Where you from? Do you like baseball? Why are you here? What is your name?” the inquisition started.
Afraid that our encounter would be more than a few minutes, I excused myself to a nearby restroom while Gina and Jess continued to field questions, like two celebrities on the red carpet. Returning a few minutes later, I laughed
when I saw the crowd hadn’t dispersed and approached to catch Jess in the middle of explaining the New York Yankees Derrick Jeter’s womanizing ways to the prepubescent crowd. Out of nowhere, one of the boys pointed at me and Gina before suggesting, “You kiss.”
Hoping to expedite our departure, I leaned over and kissed Gina to the echo of “eeeewwww” from the juvenile voyeurs. “Now kiss me,” the boy insisted while motioning to Gina.
She giggled as I put a firm kibosh on the proposition. Saying our goodbyes, we continued on to the museum with less than an hour before we were to meet John, my second cousin, and his family.
The Hiroshima Peace Museum is a concoction of Hiroshima and atomic bomb history with a bit of modern day pacifist propaganda mixed in for good measure. As Jess, Gina and I circled the room reading the narrative of events leading to the fateful morning of August 6, 1945, we quickly developed an image of 19th and early 20th century Japanese aggression in Eastern Asia. The seemingly reserved modern Japan couldn’t be further from the Sino conquests of the early 1900s and unprovoked attacks against interests
in Russia, the Philippines and Korean peninsula before the eventual sneak attack against Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Furthering our way into the exhibition, we read of the Manhattan Project, the choosing of Hiroshima as the first atomic bomb site, the aftermath of the bombing and eventual reconstruction of Japan. Concluding our visit with a walk through relics contributed by Hiroshima survivors and their families, we couldn’t help the overwhelming morbidity of the preserved and disfigured fingers, skin, and hair and documentary photographs lining the walls.
Somber from her visit, Gina looked as if someone stole her puppy. Only after reminding her that the Japanese were the aggressors in the war and that the other possible option for ending the conflict was a full scale invasion that would likely cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of US soldiers, did she finally sober up. Nearing our rendezvous time with John, we hustled to the streetcar stop for our return trip to the hotel. Of course, we missed the streetcar by seconds and had to wait anxiously for another 10 minutes.
Struggling to regain our bearings once arriving back at the streetcar terminal, we wasted another 5 minutes
looking for the underpass to our hotel. Nervous that I was nearly 45 minutes late in calling John, I stopped at a payphone to update him on our status. Nonchalantly, he brushed off our tardiness and gave us directions to his location by a tree outside of our hotel. Not having met John before, I described our motley crew before wrapping up the conversation.
Minutes later we emerged from the subterranean walkway and spotted John and his family perched under a tree. The introductions weren’t as awkward as I imagined and before long we were headed to lunch with John, his wife Hiromi and sons Lloyd and Arthur. Deferring to John to pick a restaurant, we soon found ourselves in a small Japanese eatery tucked under the Shinkansen station, with a focus on local fare. Being the polite host, John inquired if any of us had dietary restrictions before asking his wife Hiromi to order from the Japanese-only menu. We found out the hard way that the local specialty is oysters, which came served in a variety of dishes over the course of our meal. Never one to be a rude guest, I happily chewed through several, while Gina
pushed around her bean sprout and egg pancake and Jess feigned a full belly.
Not wanting to play the third wheel, Jess respectfully excused himself for the afternoon so that Gina and I could spend quality time with John and his family, promising to reunite for dinner later in the evening. Knowing that we’d already visited the Peace Park and not a native of Hiroshima, John suggested we take the Shinkansen one stop south to visit the arched wooden Kintaikyo bridge in Iwakuni-city. Happy just to spend time with our reunited relatives, Gina and I shrugged in agreement with the suggestion and soon found ourselves rocketing down the track towards Iwakuni.
Disembarking to grey skies, we wound our way to the taxi stand where our group, being six, was rebuffed by the driver despite John’s best attempts at coaxing. Not disheartened, we walked to a waiting bus that would deposit us near the tourist attraction. The bus driver, seemingly unconcerned with any schedule, was dragging on his cigarette nearby. Arthur, one of John’s sons, began fulfilling every parent’s nightmare as he started pulling fare tabs from an automated dispenser just insider the open bus door. The driver was
amused; John was not. It took about thirty seconds after Arthur was reprimanded the first time before he found himself back at the ticket dispenser, pulling tabs. Gina and I did everything we could to hold back the laughter.
The bus ride barely took ten minutes. John, the consummate host, purchased tickets for everyone and led us over the bridge, constructed of nothing more than wood, pegs and dowels. We discussed everything from his and Hiromi’s meeting, Gina’s and my marriage, his life in Japan and his business reselling auto parts to various regions of the World. Fascinated by every aspect of his life, Gina and I couldn’t help but drill deeper. Traversing the span, we soon found ourselves in a park, where John’s energetic boys began exploring every nook and cranny. Tempting them back into the fold, John bought them each an ice cream cone and chuckled as they managed to eat half and get the other half all over their faces and clothes.
Before we knew it, the afternoon was winding down, but not before the boys could find a little more trouble. Encountering a few stray cats, the boys couldn’t help but rush to one
to pet it. Skittish, the cat hissed and snarled before nipping at Arthur’s hand, failing to break skin. Shocked but unharmed, Arthur and Lloyd conspired in Japanese to find rocks to throw at the cat - a direct translation provided by John through a smile. Dissuading the boys, John herded the group back to the bus, Shinkansen and into Hiroshima.
Parting for a little over an hour to freshen up, Gina and I reconnected with Jess, who at this point seemed a bit jealous about our afternoon sightseeing. Everyone grabbed a quick shower before rendezvousing with John and his clan at their hotel room. Again, the gracious host, John had spent his hour hiatus tracking down a recommendation for dinner. The boys, now sans chocolate ice cream faces, didn’t wait long before shedding their earlier shy attitudes by grabbing our hands as we headed for the restaurant.
During the course of our Korean-BBQ style dinner that evening, we shared stories about our family, discussed Japanese culture and the things John missed about
home, roughhoused with the boys and laughed more than we had in a long time.
Several hours had passed by the time we walked back
to the hotel. Crossing beneath the Shinkansen station via a pedestrian tunnel, we happened upon something that we hadn’t seen much of in Japan - homeless people. Obviously, everyone had seen homeless people before in other parts of the World, but Jess, Gina and I were struck by the somewhat ordered fashion the 40-strong group had use to erect their makeshift cardboard village, many with shoes placed in front of their entrances in the traditional Japanese style. We consulted John and Hiromi about the homeless, as the tunnel had been vacant on the way to dinner just a few hours prior. John explained that the police and Japanese society in general turn a blind eye to the homeless using the train tunnels as long as they observe a 10P.M to 5A.M. occupancy. Moreover, someone provides and stores their cardboard habitats during daylight hours; however, the details behind this weren’t clear.
Exchanging goodnights, John insisted we meet for breakfast in the morning before departing to Nara. Jess, Gina and I returned to the room to recount the day’s events before settling in for some well needed sleep.
The next morning came early and we waited until John’s suggested 7:30A.M
before calling his room to discuss breakfast. He answered the phone still half-asleep, but assured me that it wasn’t a problem. Arriving solo to our room to accompany us to the restaurant in the hotel, John explained that the boys got riled-up after we parted ways the night before and that he and Hiromi had a later night than expected.
Over breakfast, I grew sad knowing that our time with John and his family was drawing to a close. The hospitability we were shown was truly remarkable. Our final goodbyes were back at his room, where we found a now stirring Hiromi, Lloyd and Arthur. I brought the laptop with to show everyone some photos of my Father, Mother and our wedding. John admitted that it had been such a long time since he’d seen everyone and in a way seemed a bit sad too.
It wasn’t easy leaving that day, not knowing whether we’d ever see John again. The experience itself however, was one of the most rewarding of our trip so far.
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darby
non-member comment
arthur...
was like a full sack of taters... i could barely get up with him on my back.