Something of an enigma to the uninitiated, Japan was no less of a mystery to me despite this being my third visit. It felt more like my first, since my previous visits were made when I was less than seven years old. This time I was old enough to appreciate the history and culture of my mother’s country, but also, as an adult, I felt acutely aware of how little I knew about my roots. Throughout Japan, despite being half-Japanese, I would be seen as a gaijin (foreigner), and my woeful lack of knowledge about Japanese culture only served to compound my feelings of alienation. I hoped that by spending time in my mother’s birthplace I might soak up enough of the culture to feel a little more at home there. My mother was born in Ehime prefecture on Shikoku, the smallest of the four main islands of Japan. It is perhaps the least visited by tourists and it still retains a great deal of its historical buildings – even in the ultra-modern capital city Matsuyama, which was my first port of call.

Despite being considerably less populated than Tokyo, with only half a million inhabitants, Matsuyama city is ostensibly a frenetic, bustling metropolis. Famous mainly for its baths – Dōgo Onsen, one of the oldest and best known hot springs in Japan frequented by many famous and imperial figures in the past – and also for its castle, built in 1602 by the samurai Yoshiaki Kato, it seems strange that Matsuyama is not more of a tourist destination, especially as these ancient attractions are juxtaposed with a shopping district worthy of any holiday hotspot. Visiting the shopping district, I felt a little overwhelmed and definitely impressed by the assortment of covered arcades and malls such as Okaido and Gintengai and also the department stores: Sogo, Takashimaya and Mitsukoshi, each one as extravagant as Selfridges or Harrods and each one air-conditioned to sub-zero temperatures. I also found a myriad of gadget and electrical equipment stores, coffee shops, plastic food-displaying restaurants catering for many different tastes, and shops selling the ubiquitous Hello Kitty toys and other kawaii (cute) paraphernalia. I would have been content to spend the duration of my trip shopping and hanging out with my cousins sporting their knee-high slouchy socks, but I still wanted to visit the place where my mother was born and perhaps, by simply being in that authentic Japanese, bucolic setting, I might gain a better understanding of the culture.

Although most of my family live in the suburbs of Matsuyama, they used to live on a small farm in the mountains, an enormous departure from the inner city. My grandparents’ farm is in a small hamlet called Yasuba, about an hour’s drive from Matsuyama. Located near the top of a steep mountain, Yasuba, meaning ‘resting place’, is aptly named. Until recently there was no adequate road for cars to drive up to the farm. Even now it is still necessary to get out and walk to reach the higher parts of the mountain. On the way up to the farm, we passed by many rice and tea fields. A seemingly ancient woman was working in one of the fields, her head protected from the sun, intense even in mid-September, by an enormous straw hat; a little island in a sea of undulating green stalks. Were it not for the hat I probably wouldn’t have noticed the diminutive woman at all. She stopped working to talk with my mother; she remembered her and the Fujita family. She looked curiously at me and my brother, fascinated, as most inhabitants of Matsuyama seemed to be, by the offspring of a Japanese woman and a gaijin. I wished, as I did on many occasions during my visit, that I could speak more Japanese. Instead, I smiled and tried to appear innocuous.

The farm on which my mother grew up is quite small, really only suitable for subsistence. There are chestnut trees, potatoes, cabbages and radishes; although in the past my family owned rice and tea fields as well as raising goats and chickens. There is little in the way of mod cons, but the buildings had been updated since my last visit some fourteen years ago. They now sported a Western-style toilet complete with flush. For me, this was a vast improvement on its predecessor: a hole in the floor. I am still haunted by the vivid memory of the old bathtub which, to my childish eyes, appeared to be a huge barrel over a fire! Fortunately, this time we did not stay long enough to make use of the bathing facilities. We sat down for lunch on the slightly worn tatami mats of the front room with the paper screens pushed open to reveal a stunning view over the valley of Yasuba, the paddy fields emerald green and resplendent, in readiness for the imminent harvest. I could see the farms and homes of all the people of Yasuba, although there are only a few inhabited farms in the area now. The young people have moved into the city and, like my grandparents, the old are forced to follow as the basic lifestyle in Yasuba becomes too demanding for them to cope with.

After lunch we headed up the mountain to Yasuba-no-jinja, a Shinto shrine, which can be reached by a strenuous but rewarding walk. Once I reached the shaded subtle beauty of the pine forest, the slog didn’t seem so arduous. The thin pine trunks, spaced close together at regular intervals, at the same time afforded glimpses of the forest ahead while also preventing me from seeing much else but the trees. The entrance to the shrine is up a great stone stairway and through a large red gate known as torii. This gate is symbolic of the distinction between the mortal world and that of the gods. The shrine itself is located in a large clearing in the forest which is lined with huge stones, ornately carved with the names of people who donated money towards the shrine’s upkeep. It certainly is a peaceful place, almost silent apart from the singing of the crickets and the occasional min-min of the cicada.

In the shady recesses of the shrine’s interior is an array of paintings adorning the walls. My aunt pointed out one in particular, saying that it should be of interest to me. I was intrigued to learn that this unassuming watercolour portrait depicts my great, great uncle. Many years ago he built a viaduct system which introduced water to Yasuba, allowing the inhabitants to grow rice. Now his portrait has pride of place in the shrine, commemorating his achievement. Looking at the painting, I could feel my own connection to Yasuba, and Japan, represented by the image of my uncle. I realised that although I may be a gaijin, there would always be a bond between myself and Japan – right there in a tiny mountain village in Matsuyama.

This article was first published on www.OrientalTales.com