Or, A Conradian Reflection Upon the Phenomena of Modern Travel.
In his ‘Preface’ to Richard Curle’s Into
the East (1923), an account of Curle’s travels in Burma and British Malaya,
Joseph Conrad lamented the transition of travel writing from an era of intrepid voyaging,
adventuring curiosity, and philanthropical reportage to a new and stupefying age
of mass tourism: ‘… those things, which stand as if imperishable in the
pages of old books of travel, are all blown away, have vanished utterly as the
smoke of the travellers’ camp fires in the icy night air of the Gobi Desert, as
the smell of incense burned in the temples of strange gods, as the voices of
Asiatic statesmen speculating with the cruel wisdom of past ages on matters of
peace and war.
Nothing
obviously strange remains for our eyes now.’ (p. 90)
Conrad wrote these orientalising, elegiac
words late in his life. This particular ‘Preface,’ along with another essay which
was published the following year in the National Geographic Magazine, show
Conrad looking back on the events of his own life and career, prompting him to reflect upon his place in this changing tradition. A tradition which he believed was
characterised by a clear sense of cultural evolution in terms of human
exploration from ancient to modern times. In this essay, entitled ‘Geography
and Some Explorers,’ he famously distilled this peculiarly inquisitive, globetrotting endeavour into three developmental phases: first, Geography fabulous; second, Geography
militant; third, and finally, Geography triumphant.
Geography fabulous was graphically
represented by medieval maps crowded ‘with pictures of strange pageants,
strange trees, strange beasts, drawn with amazing precision in the midst of
theoretically conceived continents. […] regions infested by lions or haunted by
unicorns, inhabited by men with reversed feet, or eyes in the middle of their
breasts.’ (p. 2) A Mappa Mundi-like world of awful mystery and extravagant
speculation, but, nevertheless, a world of gradually expanding horizons, best characterised by the early wanderings of Prince Henry the Navigator’s
Portuguese caravels skirting along newly-seen African coastlines, venturing
into these ‘blank’ (or hitherto unknown) spaces, progressively advancing the
boundaries of portolan charts dotted with compass roses from which radiated
the rhumb lines upon which mariners set their courses. The Old World’s
‘discovery’ of the New precipitated an epochal shift that permanently altered both
European and non-European planetary consciousness in different ways. Conrad’s
view of Christopher Columbus is interesting when read in the context of recent and
somewhat controversial claims concerning Columbus’s ancestry (Genoese Christian, or secretly Jewish Spaniard?), as well as on-going de-colonial
debates about how Columbus’s legacy should or shouldn’t be remembered in our
own times. Conrad opines that: ‘Columbus remains a pathetic figure, not a
sufferer in the cause of geography, but a victim of the imperfections of
jealous human hearts, accepting his fate with resignation. Among explorers he
appears lofty in his troubles and like a man of a kingly nature. His
contribution to the knowledge of the earth was certainly royal. And if the
discovery of America was the occasion of the greatest outburst of reckless
cruelty and greed known to history we may say this at least for it, that the
gold of Mexico and Peru, unlike the gold of alchemists, was really there,
palpable, yet, as ever, the most elusive of the Fata Morgana that lure men away
from their homes, as a moment of reflection will convince any one. For nothing
is more certain than that there will never be enough gold to go round, as the
Conquistadores found out by experience.’ (p. 3)
European-led exploration opened up
routes for exploitation and the succeeding phase of Geography militant became
a defining aspect of the early modern period (previously referred to as ‘the
Enlightenment’) of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. From the
personal point of view of individual explorers, it was characterised by an arduous
seeking for the confirmation of certain theories proffered and stubbornly
maintained by learned armchair geographers, as Conrad characterised them, who ‘did
not seem able to accept the idea that there was much more water than land on
this globe.’ (p. 6) Thus the most renowned navigators of this era, men such
as Amerigo Vespucci, Ferdinand Magellan, and Abel Tasman, roamed the oceans,
circumnavigating the globe, searching its southernmost latitudes in pursuit
of an elusive ‘Terra Australis Incognita’; until the more refined scientific
exploits of this long tradition of great men, running through the efforts of
Captain James Cook and Sir John Franklin at sea, and, on land, the endeavours
of Messrs Burton and Speke, and Dr David Livingstone, who collectively rounded
off this heroic era, successfully transitioned us into the modern age of Geography
triumphant. Another distinctly masculine and assertively imperialist age in
which, as Conrad saw it, ‘there will be no backyard left in the heart of
Central Africa that has not been peeped into by some person more or less
commissioned for the purpose.’ (p. 89) Citing, as a kind of self-conscious footnote
to this era, the example of his own career as a merchant sailor in the romantic last
days of sailing ships, wherein it was his ‘duty to correct and bring up to
date the charts of more than one ship according to the Admiralty notices.’ (p.
14)
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As needs must, however, Conrad observed
that travel writing in his day had changed because travel and the modern-day
traveller had changed. These three phases of questing geographical endeavour
had clearly succeeded in shrinking the globe, and so the game was almost up. Hence
a writer like Richard Curle, according to Conrad’s estimation, represented ‘a
traveller of our day, condemned to make his discoveries on beaten tracks, he
looks on, sensitive, meditative, with delicate perceptions and a gift for
expression, alive to the saving grace of human and historical associations; and
while pursuing amongst the men busy with ascertained facts the riddles
presented by a world in transition, he seems to have captured for us the spirit
of modern travel itself.’ (p. 92)
Now, exactly one hundred years after
these words were freshly penned by Conrad, oddly enough they still seem
indelibly apposite; has anything really changed in terms of travel and tourism
in our increasingly globalised world? – Some might argue that the fortunes of
travel writing and the popularity of travel writers has ebbed and flowed significantly
during this century of accelerated development. But some might say that on the
whole it has always been in a steady decline, like an echo of diminishing
returns, travel writing in a sense has simply become a prolonged,
self-repeating parody of itself – so much so, in fact, that it has essentially
become redundant.
Conrad certainly thought so: ‘That
category of travellers with their parrot-like remarks, their strange attempts
at being funny, and their lamentable essays in seriousness has apparently
passed away. Or perhaps they only print their books for circulation amongst
friends. I suspect, however, they have ceased to write simply because there are
too many of them. They do not appear as travellers even to the most naïve minds
and perhaps even to their own minds. They are simply an enormous company of
people who go round the world for a change and rest, either suffering from
overwork (whatever that may mean) or from neurasthenia. And I am sure my best
wishes go with them for an easy and radical recovery. Steamship companies love
them.’ (p. 86)
Indeed, modern mass tourism and the
increasing prevalence of social media has redefined the world and people’s
perceptions of their place and how they interact within it. Perhaps, as Conrad
seems to suggest, travel writing had a greater sense of authenticity in an era
when fewer people travelled. Traveller’s tales may well have served a different
and more vital social function in such times, whether those tales were first imbibed
by simply listening to their retelling in the quayside inns of port towns or avidly
devoured in the pages of popularly published travelogues. For those who did not
go to sea and so were not able to savour the wider world firsthand, such texts
were the only means to push back the bounds of their horizons and get a taste
of the furthest reaches of the globe.
But not all travelogues have stood
the test of time, many have long since fallen by the way. According to Conrad: ‘The
outstanding figure amongst those men who dedicated their books of travel to
popes and emperors is Marco Polo, with his meticulous descriptive gift, his
cautious credulity, his eye for splendour and his historian’s rather than a
traveller’s temperament. He gave his readers what the readers of that day
wanted, historical facts in a foreign and gorgeous atmosphere. But the time for
such books of travel is past on this earth girt about with cables, with an
atmosphere made restless by the waves of ether, lighted by that sun of the
twentieth century under which there is nothing new left now, and but very
little of what may still be called obscure.’ (p. 88)
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Nowadays everyone is a travel
writer of sorts. But today images appear to be more important than words.
Self-presentation has become a means of projection as much as reflection.
Without really knowing it, perhaps, it strikes me that people have now become
their own versions of Alan Whicker or Michael Palin. Social media is not so
much a window on the world, but rather a window into our own worlds – shaped,
defined and presented as we ourselves would wish others to see it, thereby
fanning our own solipsistic vanity! – The world is now girded with fibre optic
cables and the ether buzzes a relay back and forth between encircling
satellites, transmitting millions of ‘selfies’ from tourist hotspots around the
globe. Pixelating the present for posterity; each of us harnessing the here and
now of the twenty-first century via our camera-phones. The present moment has in effect become a single
unending photographic image, capturing and arresting the falling domino-like
effect of time. Freeze-framing our lives and the world which we have ostensibly
ventured out into, in order to explore for ourselves, in search of rest or a
change – a panacea for that universal yearning for self-fulfilment and the need
for self-expression; a universal Instagram account viewable by all in lieu of an
album of holiday snaps, or perhaps in lieu of a travel diary, or a ship’s
captain’s log.
Crafting itineraries from Rough
Guides, Lonely Planets, and Time Out’s seemingly inexhaustible
supply of lists advising on the ‘Ten Best Places to …’, etc., these are
the means by which we now measure and triangulate our own personal journeys of
discovery. Bookish gurus such as Bill Bryson, Peter Mayle, Cheryl Strayed, Elizabeth
Gilbert, et al., still provide traditional vade mecums of sorts to help
us ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ our way around the globe with a hope of
ameliorating our own modern-day neurasthenia. Hence the tradition of travel
writing is far from defunct, rather it continues to do what it has always done; it’s perhaps the mode and the medium through which we engage with and respond
to it which has reconfigured itself – as needs must.
All of these thoughts passed
through my mind only a few weekends ago when I took the train from Shinjuku to
Fujisawa in order to visit Enoshima, just along the coast from Kamakura here in
Japan, where I am currently living. Enoshima is an island of Shinto shrines and
Buddhist temples which has long been a place of pilgrimage, particularly during
the Edo Period (1600-1868); but, since the early twentieth century, tourism has
been the predominant religion of most ‘pilgrims’ visiting this special place in
modern times. Like so many religious ‘tourist hotspots’ in Japan, Enoshima
exudes a kind of otherworldly spiritual enchantment. ‘There is a charm
indefinable about the place—that sort of charm which comes with a little
ghostly thrill never to be forgotten,’ as the writer, Lafcadio Hearn
described it in 1894. ‘Not of strange sights alone is this charm made, but
of numberless subtle sensations and ideas interwoven and inter-blended: the
sweet sharp scents of grove and sea; the blood-brightening, vivifying touch of
the free wind; the dumb appeal of ancient mystic mossy things; vague reverence
evoked by knowledge of treading soil called holy for a thousand years; and a
sense of sympathy, as a human duty, compelled by the vision of steps of rock
worn down into shapelessness by the pilgrim feet of vanished generations.’ (pp.
94-95)
The island’s main shrine complex is
dedicated to the Goddess Benzaiten or Benten, and mythology also credits the
island as being watched over by a once wrathful dragon who was tamed by the
goddess and later became her spouse. Benten, as manifested in the Shinto and
Buddhist traditions of Japan, is related to the Hindu Goddess, Saraswati. She
is a Dharmapala, or Dharma protector. And, like Saraswati, strumming her
lute-like biwa in many of her effigies, she is the patron of music, the
arts, eloquence, and knowledge. But, unlike Saraswati, in Japan she also has
other associations too, thought to have derived from early associations with
local gods or kami in different regions. Through one of these
associations, she came to be viewed as a water deity, hence her association with
dragons and snakes, as well as with wealth, fortune, protection from disease
and danger, and the protection of the state. The association with water means
that many of the shrines dedicated to Benten can often be found situated on
islands; one such example, which has a personal connection for me, is the
Benten-dō
which stands on a small island at the centre of Shinobazu Pond in Tokyo’s Ueno,
close to where I stayed on many of my earliest trips to Japan over twenty years
ago. Given this personal affinity and the fact that I was born in the year of
the Dragon, Enoshima seemed to be a place which should have a unique resonance
for me, and in many ways, I found it did – perhaps all the more unexpectedly in
the form of certain ‘ghostly’ echoes of home.
Seeing Enoshima for the first time
from the shoreline, rising up in the form of a high, tree-covered mound with
the rooftops of buildings peeping out from the green foliage, I couldn’t help
thinking how much it reminded me of my hometown, Harrow-on-the-Hill, near
London; which, similarly, is cloaked by tall trees and topped by a church with
a tall spire, built and consecrated by Saint Anselm on a spot which is thought to
have long been a religious site, since pre-Christian times even. In the twilight
of the Edo Period, the famous artist, Hokusai, depicted Enoshima in one of his
series of woodblock prints, entitled ‘Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji.’ In this
view a pagoda can be seen piercing the greenery, but today those trees are now
more prominently parted by a tall lighthouse and observation tower known as the
‘Enoshima Sea Candle.’ Like other sacred islands throughout the world, such as Saint
Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, or the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, situated just
off the coast of Northumbria back home in England, Enoshima is a tidal island,
which is connected to the mainland by a sand bar or tombolo at low tide. This
has since been built over by a twin set of parallel bridges, one for the
convenience of those travelling on foot and the other for those travelling by
car or coach, making it accessible at all times and tides for
pilgrims and day-trippers alike.
Ambling across this bridge,
there are still echoes of Lafcadio Hearn’s visit to be found as you arrive on
Enoshima: ‘We pass the sand-flats; and the ever-open Portal of the Sea-city,
the City of the Dragon-goddess, is before us, a beautiful torii. All of bronze
it is, with shimenawa of bronze above it, and a brazen tablet inscribed with
characters declaring: 'This is the Palace of the Goddess of Enoshima.'
About the bases of the ponderous pillars are strange designs in relievo,
eddyings of waves with tortoises struggling in the flow. […] High before us
slopes the single street, a street of broad steps, a street shadowy, full of
multi-coloured flags and dank blue drapery dashed with white fantasticalities,
which are words, fluttered by the sea wind. It is lined with taverns and
miniature shops. At every one I must pause to look; and to dare to look at
anything in Japan is to want to buy it. […] This curious street ends at another
torii, a wooden torii, with a steeper flight of stone steps ascending to it. At
the foot of the steps are votive stone lamps and a little well, and a stone
tank at which all pilgrims wash their hands and rinse their mouths before
approaching the temples of the gods.’ (pp. 86-88)
But different to Hearn’s day, there
is now a set of three escalators which can comfortably whisk the weary pilgrim
to the highest heights of the shrine, which is actually composed of a number of
shrine buildings situated on several different levels. Three of these, the Hetsumiya,
Nakatsumiya, and Okutsumiya, are dedicated to the three sister
goddesses of the sea, of happiness and fortune, and of musical skills. The Yasaka
Shrine is dedicated to Gozu Tenno, the guardian deity of Yasaka Shrine in
Kyoto, and the Hoanden is an octagonal hall which houses two important Japanese
‘cultural assets’: two revered statues of Benzaiten – the Hadaka (or
naked) Benzaiten, and the Happi (or eight-armed) Benzaiten.
Another important site on the
island, also with historical associations to Benzaiten, is the Iwaya Sea Caves,
located low down on the island’s western shoreline. Eroded by the inexorable crash of ocean waves over
unfathomable aeons of geological time, the first cave is a gallery 152 metres long which splits into
two at its farthest end, and the second cave is formed of two interlinked
galleries, each of around 56 metres in length. My Rough Guide is very
dismissive of these caves, saying: ‘Though it’s an attractive walk, you
might want to give these very artificial grottoes, with their piped music and
roaring dragons, a miss.’ (p. 260) – Personally, I’d advise giving the
jaded Rough Guide author a miss on this occasion, and listen instead to
Lafcadio Hearn’s far more evocative description: ‘… the Dragon cavern, not
so called, Akira [Hearn’s local guide] says, because the Dragon of
Benten ever dwelt therein, but because the shape of the cavern is the shape of
a dragon. The path descends toward the opposite side of the island, and
suddenly breaks into a flight of steps cut out of the pale hard rock—exceedingly
steep, and worn, and slippery, and perilous—overlooking the sea. A vision of
low pale rocks, and surf bursting among them, and a toro or votive stone lamp
in the centre of them—all seen as in a bird's-eye view, over the verge of an
awful precipice. I see also deep, round holes in one of the rocks. There used
to be a tea-house below; and the wooden pillars supporting it were fitted into
those holes. I descend with caution; the Japanese seldom slip in their straw
sandals, but I can only proceed with the aid of the guide. At almost every step
I slip. Surely these steps could never have been thus worn away by the straw
sandals of pilgrims who came to see only stones and serpents!
At last we
reach a plank gallery carried along the face of the cliff above the rocks and
pools, and following it round a projection of the cliff enter the sacred cave.
The light dims as we advance; and the sea-waves, running after us into the
gloom, make a stupefying roar, multiplied by the extraordinary echo. Looking
back, I see the mouth of the cavern like a prodigious sharply angled rent in
blackness, showing a fragment of azure sky.
We reach a shrine with no deity in it, pay a fee; and lamps being lighted and given to
each of us, we proceed to explore a series of underground passages. So black
they are that even with the light of three lamps, I can at first see nothing.
In a while, however, I can distinguish stone figures in relief—chiselled on
slabs like those I saw in the Buddhist graveyard. These are placed at regular
intervals along the rock walls. The guide approaches his light to the face of
each one, and utters a name, 'Daikoku-Sama,' 'Fudo-Sama,' 'Kwannon-Sama.'
Sometimes in lieu of a statue there is an empty shrine only, with a money-box
before it; and these void shrines have names of Shintō
gods, 'Daijingu,' 'Hachiman,' 'Inari-Sama.' All the statues are black, or seem
black in the yellow lamplight, and sparkle as if frosted. I feel as if I were
in some mortuary pit, some subterranean burial-place of dead gods. Interminable
the corridor appears; yet there is at last an end—an end with a shrine in
it—where the rocky ceiling descends so low that to reach the shrine one must go
down on hands and knees. And there is nothing in the shrine. This is the Tail
of the Dragon.
We do not
return to the light at once, but enter into other lateral black corridors—the
Wings of the Dragon. More sable effigies of dispossessed gods; more empty
shrines; more stone faces covered with saltpetre; and more money-boxes,
possible only to reach by stooping, where more offerings should be made. And
there is no Benten, either of wood or stone.’ (pp. 92-94)
Though this was once the hallowed place
where the first of the Kamakura Shoguns, Minamoto no Yoritomo (1147-1199), came to pray to
Benten for victory in battle, and though the Benten statues have long since
been removed for their safe-keeping higher up the island, the cave is still
lined with votive statues and a small shrine can still be found by pious
pilgrims and tourists alike at the end of its furthest reach. If you feel a
cool breeze emanating from the inaccessible depths of the shorter branch this
is because it is said to connect (whether spiritually or physically is not
specified) to Mount Fuji, a mountain deity itself, on the far shore of Sagami
Bay.
As in Hearn’s day, there is still a
steep climb down (and then even moreso going back up again once you are done),
but the stone steps are more evenly set and less polished today, and instead of
a ‘plank gallery’ there is now a long wide concrete stilted walkway which
comfortably skirts the cliffside, from which you can watch the sea surging over
the rock shelf where local fishermen stand stoically while casting their rods, sending
their fishing lines out into the surf, or you can descend there yourself to
search among the rock pools for a natural rock formation which looks like a
turtle swimming out to sea. The entrance to the caves is filled with
information panels detailing the history of Enoshima and the caves, as well as
the local flora and fauna, and the artworks this place has inspired. Such as a
poem by one of Japan’s most well-known poets, Akiko Yosano, which is inscribed
upon a rock set in a mirror-like pool near the mouth of the first cave. With an
admirable economy of words characteristic of Japanese haikai, this short
verse manages to evoke the magical atmosphere of the island’s inward and
outward facing vistas.
沖つ風 吹けばまたゝく 蝋の灯に
志づく散るなり 江の島の洞
Wind from
the sea,
The
shimmering candle light,
A drop
spread, the cave of Enoshima.
Akiko Yosano (1912).
Further down the passage, the same as
when Hearn came here, visitors are still given lighted candles to carry.
Clutching these we ventured into the wet, dripping darkness, following in
Hearn’s literal footsteps, silently trepidatious and inwardly praying to Benten
that the earth might hold off on initiating any tremors or full-scale
earthquakes until we were safely outside once more. As the tall ceiling of the
cave gradually lowers at its furthest reach, it does feel as though you are peeping
into another realm of subterranean enchantment, like Rupert Bear humming a few familiar
bars of the Frog Song. The long, dark and dank passage presents a challenge to
the senses, especially those that usually manage to hold our fears of nocturnal
claustrophobia at bay. There is, however, a leavening sense of light-relief to
be found in the adjacent cave, where a Disney-esque dragon statue lurks and can
be made to give a (concealed, tannoy-induced) roar if you clap your hands at its
far end – a delight for young Rupert Bear-like kids and light-hearted, less fussy folk,
rather than for our somewhat grumpy grown-up friend who penned the Rough Guide.
Continuing this whimsical quest for
Enoshima’s dragon lore associations, at the top of the hill, far above the
caves and tastefully set apart from the shrines, there is a so-called ‘Dragon’s Love Bell’ which visitors can ring. It’s a modern ship’s bell made of bronze,
clearly installed in very recent times in a metal framework with a sturdy rope
attached to its clapper so that it can be rung by couples (predominantly young,
but also old alike) as a means of proclaiming their eternal and undying love to
all within earshot. An adjacent set of metal railings have been very conveniently
erected here to accommodate a new and now seemingly universal copycat-trend of modern-day
Romeos and Juliets, who wish to set an immovable padlock to slowly rust at
scenic spots (discarding the key) as a sign of their eternal troths having been
duly pledged. However, setting up a fully-committed site for this purpose seems
a very shrewd move on the part of tourist management strategies for the island,
largely so that Enoshima isn’t plagued by the appearance of such padlocks in
other parts of the island where they might cause damage to the island’s
heritage or become unwanted eyesores. Oddly enough though, for a site of such dedicated
personal absorption, this is also the one place on the island where complete strangers
are most likely to interact, because despite there being a ‘selfie’ stand
provided, more often than not couples seem inclined to offer to take photos for
one another, in a kind of cupid-inspired relay of mutual assistance.
Everywhere I looked while wandering
the paths and precincts of the island’s sacred shrines there seemed to be
people taking photographs of their companions or group selfies rather than
photos of the buildings and monuments, or more occasionally of the stunning
views. It’s been widely reported in the news – this year especially – that,
since Japan has re-opened its borders to tourists with the end of the Covid
pandemic, the country has begun to suffer the ill effects of ‘over-tourism,’
with traveller’s disregarding ordinary decency as much as an awareness and
sensitivity to local customs, or the rights of local people to go about their
daily lives undisturbed. Some tourist hotspots here, such as the five lakes
district around Mount Fuji, have attempted to discourage the internet-fuelled
fever-trend for seeking out famously-framed views from particular locations specifically
for the purpose of creating social media posts and ‘influencer content’ (the
modern-day digital equivalent of “Kilroy woz ‘ere”) due to the disruption and
damage it has increasingly spawned. The herd-like nature of mass tourism is
nothing new, but the increasingly locust-like phenomenon of today’s traveller
seems to be a new and deeply self-centred trait. Along with the usual flows of
Europeans and Americans there certainly seem to be far more Asian tourists here
now, particularly from India and China, compared to when I first began visiting
Japan – but it’s definitely not a trend restricted to certain demographics or
nationalities alone, it’s a symptom of our ever-increasing global mobility. All
tourists regardless of culture or creed are equally culpable, and all tourists
need to be more culturally aware. A good guest should be grateful, not greedy; discreet rather than rudely disruptive.
After all this arduous climbing in a
dedicated pilgrim-like adherence to the three main tenets of modern travel (‘Eat,
Pray, Love’), those footsore visitors to Enoshima who have prayed devoutly
at the shrines and caves, and duly rung the dragon bell and set a padlock declaring
their undying love should certainly reward themselves with some
well-earned refreshments eaten and relished in one of the many tea shops
or restaurants set along the tree-fringed verge of the high clifftops
overlooking the sea. ‘Perched upon this verge,’ just as they were in
Hearn’s day, with large windows and verandas ‘all widely open to the sea
wind, so that, looking through them, over their [tatami] matted floors
and lacquered balconies one sees the ocean as in a picture-frame, and the pale
clear horizon specked with snowy sails ...’ (p. 90)
The foremost regional specialty in
these restaurants is undoubtedly shirasu, or white bait. These are the tiny
young fry of fish harvested in two limited seasonal periods during the spring
and autumn, which are most commonly eaten atop rice bowls (donburi) garnished with various
types of seaweed and Japanese basil (shiso), and they are either served
raw or boiled, or a combination of the two. Boiled shirasu can also be
eaten on toast, as I first encountered them in one of my favourite films, 海街 diary
(Umimachi Diary), also titled Our Little Sister (2015), which
was filmed only a short distance further along the coast between Enoshima and
Kamakura. The name shirasu is said by local fishermen to be echoed in
the shape they take when boiled, which uncannily conforms to the hiragana character
for shi = し.
Naturally, the best and most
memorably romantic way to round off a day’s exploration of Enoshima is to watch
the magnificent, resplendent orange-blaze of the sun as it sets into the mist
shrouded horizon of the sea from the high viewpoint of the island’s cliffs. But
finding a spot which isn’t crowded out by the human throng of fellow
day-trippers, all straining to take the perfect selfies on their camera-phones,
is a challenge. It was here, at this very moment in our own wanderings around
the island, that I first began to think about the shifting characteristics of
travel in its current, modern-day manifestations. I found myself thinking about
the words of Lafcadio Hearn and Joseph Conrad, and of all the information
panels we’d encountered and read, as well as the half page of my inch-thick Rough
Guide describing Enoshima. I found myself pondering how the experience of
travel is both uniquely individual and inescapably generic. There is no one
true form of travel writing. What Conrad and others lament the loss of isn’t so
much the novelty of discovery, but rather the lost sense of exclusivity.
Mass tourism may well have
overcrowded the places which we have collectively deemed to be the most
interesting or picturesque locations to visit. It is only natural to mourn the
fact that at many of these tourist hotspots it’s nigh impossible to savour them
in silence and solitude. But we often curate our own experiences, waiting for
that gap in the swarming crowd to snap an unpeopled view which in time will end
up posted on our social media accounts, rendering a memory which may well with
the passage of time mellow into a projection of the place which we have
sought to create, that unique idea of a place such as Enoshima, sacred and beautiful,
and the charmed experience which perhaps we went there in search of. It’s all a
matter of perspective – ‘Twas ever thus! – Travellers have always
embellished and distorted the truths found in the places they encountered and
the tales they told upon their return. It’s disingenuous to think or claim
otherwise, after all, the world is essentially whatever we make of it.
In writing this essay, Enoshima has
already begun to transform itself in my memory, converting ‘historical facts
in a foreign and gorgeous atmosphere’ through the lyrical and picturesque words
of other travel writers, poets and the woodblock prints of Ukiyo-e artists to add
character and flavour to my own carefully curated photographs and the
paragraphs of self-reflective prose which I’ve spent time very carefully
crafting above. But who am I? And why should anyone be interested in my meandering
tales? – I’m just another travel writer, as Conrad might observe, for whatever
it is worth, attempting to distil ‘the spirit of modern travel itself.’ – Another
personal perspective on times and places far away, already fading and all too soon
to be forgotten.
References
Andrei Codrescu, ‘The
Many Lives of Lafcadio Hearn,’ The Paris Review (2 July 2019)
Joseph Conrad, Tales of Hearsay
and Last Essays (Dent’s Collected Edition, 1955)
Robert D. Foulke, ‘Life in the
Dying World of Sail, 1870-1910,’ Journal of British Studies, Vol. 3, No.
1 (November, 1963), pp. 105-136
Lafcadio Hearn, Glimpses of
Unfamiliar Japan, Vol. 1 (Houghton Mifflin, 1895)
Henry Johnson, ‘Enoshima:
Signifying Island Heritage Across Space and Place,’ Okinawan Journal of
Island Studies, Vol. 3, No. 1 (2022), pp. 3–20
Iwaya Benzaiten, Enoshima, History
in Postcards (27 July 2024)
Zoria Petkoska, ‘Island-Inspired
Poetry From Around Japan,’ Tokyo Weekender (2 November 2022)
The Rough Guide to Japan
(2008)
Shirasu – Trails to
Oishii Tokyo (NHK World, Japan: first broadcast 4 May 2022)
海街 diary
(Umimachi Diary), also titled Our Little Sister (written &
directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda, 2015; based on the manga by Akimi Yoshida, serialised
in Shōgakukan’s Monthly Flowers magazine, 2006-2018)
Also on 'Waymarks'
The Buddha at Kamakura - Japan
A Poetic Pilgrimage to Matsushima
Lost Japan - Tradition & Transience
The Dancing Girl of Izu
"My Asakusa" - Sadako Sawamura & Me
The "Isle of Bow" - A Journey of Discovery
Razumov & The Ile Rousseau
Visiting Conrad's Grave - Canterbury
All photographs of Enoshima by Tim Chamberlain, October 2024.
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