I. Akashi Kaikyo Bridge
I am staring out of the balcony of a quiet hotel in Kobe, Japan. What greeted me is the Akashi Kaikyo Bridge, the world’s longest suspension bridge, which stretches across the tranquil waters of the Akashi Strait, connecting the city of Kobe with the Awaji-shima island. In the day, the Seto Inland Sea unfolds like a vast expanse of sapphire, dotted with islands and cargo ships plying their trade. At night, where it is now, it illuminates the darkness in shades of magenta, white and lilac. Romantic. Like a scene from a Murakami novel.
My legs are slightly sore from lugging two luggages uphill. I had whizzed off the coasts of Osaka’s airport to Kobe’s in a ferry, a thirty-minute journey that costs 500 yen, thinking it would cut some time away to get to my hotel and skip the dreary and dreadful evening rush hour train ride. Having shaved an hour’s worth of train ride, I was right for the most part, but I still made a mistake alighting at the wrong metro station and getting bamboozled in a very quiet neighbourhood. Jokes on me though the chilly autumn wind offered good reprieve from all that lugging. With no soul in sight, the journey uphill was pitch black and silent, except for the occasional street lamp illuminating the bumpy concrete floor, the rattling of trains in the distance, and not forgetting, the squishing of tiny green crawlies off my shoes and luggage wheels. Kobe is a sleepy town, and traversing at night is still pretty creepy.
Somehow, I am reminded of a time when someone I know bemoaned how long it took to travel to Japan. I cannot help but think many Singaporeans are pampered and whiny travellers. I, too, am one of them. In Singapore, escalators and elevators are present in almost every train station, and the route connecting one train to another in the same station is almost always air-conditioned. The same cannot be said for in Japan, stairs and hills are dime a dozen and most of these places are often outdoors, leaving commuters vulnerable to the seasons’ mood swings.
He also griped about the country’s complicated transport system, a challenging endeavour to grapple with and a rightful worry for any first-time visitors to Japan. How do you know when to board the right train at the right platform? He said.
This is not Dhoby Gaut. We will find it. If we miss one, let’s wait for another, I replied.
To commute around Japan is to be self-aware. The culture here emphasises not causing inconveniences to others; taking a phone call while on a moving train is inconsiderate, eating while walking on the street is inconsiderate, and listening to music with tunes oozing out from your AirPods is inconsiderate. You don’t always get that on the sunny island of Singapore. Sure, we mind our businesses, but we sometimes mind them loudly. This change of pace is refreshing and defeaning. And yet, being self-aware also entails being cognisant of the occasional frowns, the subtle shift in body language (and manspreading), or the use of a personal artefact, like a handbag, to erect an invisible barrier.
For the most part, however, Japan is friendly and lively; our Instagram stories are a testament to that.
II. Kobe Nunobiki Herb Garden
The sun sets early in the fall.
I am soaking my feet in a herbal bath in Kobe Nunobiki Herb Gardens, a few hundred metres above civilisation, overseeing one part of Kobe’s sleepy city basked in golden hue. I had wanted to trek to see the Nunobikio waterfall but shrugged off committing because doing so would inconvenience me (read above) and I was wearing the wrong attire (and also panting like a seal out of water).
When I think of travel, I used to want to be prepared. Very prepared. Countless nights were spent reading listicles from travel bloggers or bookmarking Instagram-worthy places to visit, while weekends were spent digesting Lonely Planet. I want to know when my trains are arriving, which platforms I should alight or board on, and how long I should spend at each location. With limited time and resources, I harboured an ambitious soul: I have two feet, a pair of sports shoes and a camera, and I am determined to conquer it all. The budding journalist in me also wanted to uncover stories and report them — I have since penned about Kyoto’s gimmicky Kichi Kichi Omurice (which in retrospect had almost no comforting wok hei), Tokyo’s infamous Aokigahara suicide forest, and even helped translate an interview by the famous Japanese architect Tadao Ando. This was the pre-pandemic era, and I had barely started college.
The pandemic has changed how we learn about the world, consume content and shape our travel itinerary. Gone are the days when Instagram and travel bloggers were your go-to places to chart your itineraries. Travel vloggers are on the rise, leveraging the social media TikTok to offer bite-sized travel snippets on the best places to visit or the best food to savour in town, drumming up their hype and helping us contribute to the country’s economy. Almost every spot with a snaking queue has some success attributed to these travel vloggers or TikTokers. Just like having two sides to a coin, some of these recommendations can be misses. A certain seasoned Singaporean TikToker is known for offering debatable food recommendations (like saying Kichi Kichi is palatable), albeit in an engaging fashion and ethically by paying for his meals. To each his own, I guess.
One of the joys of travelling lies in the research. Where do I go? What do I eat? Why should I be here? What’s the history of this place? There is fulfilment piecing all of these together from the get-go, like trawling Blue Planet or travel blogs.
Today, itineraries can also be ‘curated’ on Chat GPT. And it’s easy to want to cave in and seek convenience through AI. I grouse a little at the thought of this because using artificial intelligence to determine the entirety of your travels seems to be taking away a vital facet of travelling: unplanned travels. We must never forget that finding a sense of place in an unknown land can be enriching too. To be a deer in the headlights is to live in the moment. As you attempt to find grounding, you discover a part of yourself, uncover your likes and dislikes, and maybe find joy in scrutinising random observations.
From the ledge, I people-watch, as budding journalists do. Visitors of the herb garden typically stroll downhill, passing by different plots of flower beds and herbs through a long, meandering path. In the near distance, a young couple decides to rest on a bench. The boy comments. The girl laughs gently, head tilting towards him, body leaning forward and hands shielding away her lips. He makes another comment and she laughs harder, this time her hands move away. Kiss her already. Near them, a group of elderly photography hobbyists snaps away enthusiastically at the most random things: a bench, the vines on the wall, another bench. They wear a serious look. And I, a serious people-watcher, is seriously amused. The climate is perfect for activities like these. You don’t get that in the tropics. This has been an unplanned pit stop, and it’s difficult not to commit this to memory. Bliss indeed.
III. Kobe Meriken Park
While in Kobe, a friend offered to take me to Kobe’s Meriken Park to catch fireworks at a local fireworks festival. The last time we met, we were in secondary school (or middle school, depending on where you are). He has since completed his education overseas and is now teaching in Japan.
I think a lot about the times I have spent in Japan — with friends, with family, with more-than-close friend, and now, alone. I also think about moving to Japan, but it’s frankly going to be an inconvenience. But I have since visited Japan in four seasons. I have ticked many activities off the bucket list, too. Cherry blossom viewing? Check. Dine at a restaurant on stilts above the Kamo River? Yup. Play with obnoxious deers in Nara? Yes, but never again. Witness Mount Fuji’s splendour? Wow. Made a detour inside Aokigahara Forest? Yes, but no Logan Paul nonsense.
To bear witness to Japan’s synchronised fireworks displays would be a dream come true. As the Gen Z lingo goes: W friend.
Where should we go to snag the better seats? I ask, trudging alongside locals an hour and a half early to the festival.
I was here yesterday, but my view was blocked by the trees. Let’s go to the front, he replies, carrying a lot of camera equipment. I offer to lend a hand. He declines. I can do it, he says.
See, no inconvenience.
I am thankful to be able to practice what I was taught in my Japanese classes in Japan. For instance, あげる(pronounced “ah-gey-ru”) means do you have; おすすめは(pronounced “oh-su-su-me wa”) means asking for recommendations; 行きたい、食べたい、見たい (“i-ki-tai”, “ta-be-tai”, “mi-tai”) means want to go, want to eat, and want to see respectively. It certainly makes life a little easier navigating around.
We are standing on a small grass field at Meriken Park. It’s just my friend, and me, and a whole lot of locals. The chilly fall breeze feels fantastic. The locals who have been here ahead of time have had their picnic maps sprawled out on the tiny grass field. Some are with their friends, others are with their family. The sun has since set, and the food trunks are out. It is a small festival, my friend tells me. We are lucky to have no clouds in the skies. It felt like a scene from an anime, but I couldn’t care less; a festival is a festival.
First, the music starts. Then, a streak of red shoots high in the sky, leaving a fiery trail in the wake. And next, plume bursts follow, vivid star-like explosions that shimmer momentarily against the night. Applause and squeals beckon in the background. The rest is history.
The Kobe Port Firework Festival was held between 16 and 20 October this year. For 10 minutes each weekday evening, vibrant fireworks colour the night sky. It used to be held over an hour on a single night in a year, my friend shares. But they changed it post-Covid.
I nod in awe, mesmerised at catching the fireworks in such intimacy. I then make a quiet birthday wish. I will be back.
After the fireworks, we decide to get dinner. We catch up en route, reminiscing our childhood. Along the way, we got lost. His Google Maps has gone wonky. My friend apologises for the inconvenience caused. But I don’t mind, I reassure him.
This is the joy of travelling, after all.
