Hokkaido Highway Blues

country, my Japanese friends also thought of northern Japan as being hopelessly remote. For them, the island of Hokkaido was a world away, and when we discussed my travel plans they were not terribly optimistic about my odds. “It is very far,” they warned. “Very far.”
    To make matters worse, I decided to go by thumb. Striking an heroic stance, I declared my intention to become the first person ever to hitchhike the length of Japan, end-to-end, cape-to-cape, sea-to-sea. This did not impress my Japanese friends as much as I had hoped.
    “Why would you want to do that?” they asked, genuinely puzzled. “There
    is no reason to hitchhike. That’s why we built the Bullet Train.”
    Others worried about my safety. “But,” I would argue, “Japan is a very safe country, is it not?”
    “Oh, yes. Very safe. Safest in the world.”
    “So why shouldn’t I hitchhike?”
    “Because Japan is dangerous.”
    And so on.
    Now, I will admit that mooching rides across Japan is not a major achievement—I mean, it’s not like I paddled up the Amazon or discovered insulin or anything—but I am the first and so far only person to do this, so allow me my hubris.
    When I left my home in Minamata City aboard a southbound train, I felt suitably bold with my backpack and muscular thumb.
    “I’m going to hitchhike the length of Japan,” I told the man beside me.
    He smiled and nodded.
    “I’m going to follow the cherry blossoms.“
    He nodded.
    “All the way to Russia,” I said.
    He smiled again, and soon after changed seats.
     

3
     
    KAGOSHIMA CITY IS the Naples of Japan. All the guidebooks say this. Having never been to Naples, I really couldn’t tell you. The two do have a sister-city relationship, which is more of a suicide pact than anything, because both Naples and Kagoshima are known primarily for the imminent annihilation facing their people. Both cities, you see, are under the shadow of volcanic mountains.
    Across from Kagoshima City, rising up from the bay and dominating the entire view, is the gothic presence of Sakurajima, an active volcano with a potential wallop far greater than that of Vesuvius. Over one million people live within a six-mile radius of Sakurajima, well within the Blast Zone. The volcano itself is extremely ugly. It seems to float on top of the water like a charred, smoldering mass of candle wax. Although originally an island, in 1914 one of its more violent eruptions spewed out enough lava to weld it onto the far side of the bay.
    Incredibly, people continue to live on Sakurajima, even though an entire village on its east side was once buried under ash and stone. All that remains of the village is the top of a shrine gate, protruding out of the ground. The torii gate was over two stories high; only the top two-and-a-half feet stick out. Undaunted, the people who fled returned as soon as the volcano calmed down. They rebuilt the town around the unnerving landmark of the buried gate. And life goes on. From the ash-rich soil of Sakurajima, the villagers harvest giant radishes that grow to the size of watermelons, and they hold their breath and they pray at their shrines and they wait for the next big eruption.
    Kagoshima City is just across the bay. It will be destroyed by tidal waves and flaming rock-falls when Sakurajima goes. Not if— when. As you can imagine, this adds an element of fatalism to the city. The grit and ash of the volcano lie like a funeral cloth over everything. Cars look old. Gardeners routinely dust their flowers.
    I was on the beach of Kagoshima Bay one summer when across the water the entire mountain just, well, shuddered. If you’re like me, you’ve probably never seen a mountain shudder. It got worse. Ominous dark clouds rolled up like bucket-throws of dirty water, and a muffled roar echoed across the bay and back again. “Run for your lives!” I said calmly. The others just shrugged. “Why bother? You can’t outrun a volcano.” (This, of course, did not stop me from trying.)
    The Japanese word for volcano is kazan, “fire-mountain,” yet the people of Kagoshima chose to name their volcano not for fire or thunder, but for the fleeting flowers of spring: Sakurajima, “Cherry Blossom Island.” A rumbling volcano named in honor of a delicate blossom that symbolizes the transience of life. I used to think that this was all very poetic, but as I stood on the beach watching Sakurajima that day, I realized that the transience of life being alluded to was my