We reached Hokkaido under the sea. A tunnel separates the two most important islands in Japan and a train sneaks between the fish to appear on the other side, north, where common sense starts to turn around.
Hakodate's city smells of Salitre. There are hardly any noises beyond the seagulls, Young people are looking for a company in front of their computers and the elderly feed the pigeons. We rent the freedom of a car and parked at the gates of a reinvented village. In Shiraoi he received the huge figure of a wooden bear. Next to a lake that looks like a postcard, the traditional houses of the ainu. We had come out in search, But we didn't expect to see them in fable houses, With its brilliant traditional costumes. It was so easy and so pictorial that we didn't believe it. They showed us a workshop where the elders did, They gave us their coral songs and their dances that, in front of that lake, They charged a dignity that compensated for folk excess.
In front of that lake, They charged a dignity that compensated for folk excess.
Actually none of them was an Ainu, At least genuine Ainus, But while blood purity is just a biological fact, What seemed disappointing was the recreation of those traditions. Cultural villages have some nostalgic, of longing for the time that has already passed and we intended to portray the Ainus today. This indigenous group is the original of Hokaido. First were samurai swords and then the temptation of a better life, The fact is that the Japanese have invaded and attracted the AINU in such a way, that their culture has mixed as the blood of its descendants.
You had to get away, search where landscapes support ethnic culture because nature lacks cities anxiety. That idea took us to Lake Akan. The sunset burned in the water at that time when the fishermen did not think about anything. Yeray and I roller the pants attracted by the light glow in the water and there we spent the afternoon fishing plans.
The city of Lake Akan has a name Ainu –ainu kotan-, Wooden crafts, Ainus own, It has totems and decorative boats and tourism offices that point to the culture of that twinned town with the inhabitants of Kamchatka. They have stores where they sell skin for winter and even a street full of sculpted owls, Ethnic bears and symbols. But he lacked the Ainus.
Yeray and I roller the pants attracted by the light glow in the water and there we spent the afternoon fishing plans.
Their gods were there. And since we did not see anyone to give them pleitesia, We decided to approach us. The Meakandake volcano was a deity for the grandparents of those men who sold squirrel figurines and deer horns. Paul, Yeray and I decided to ascend the volcano.
We prepare as hikers, trying to reduce camera material to the maximum. We leave the car in a parking lot and enter the firm step of the enthusiasts. The posters in Japanese did not help us too much among the forests. We walked here and there among the weeds without finding a clear path that took us to the volcano. Four hours later we appeared in a new parking lot, just two kilometers from the other. Then we saw the volcano up there, yet, equally above that when we start. After the relevant oaths, We finally take the right path. We had drained the morning going around so we had to accelerate the rhythm and we made the second error of the day, The most serious: We forget about buying water. Chance wanted that day to be the hottest of the year on the island of Hokkaido. The sun was high and there was no cloud that gave us truce when the terrain stripped trees. As we ascended, we could see Lake Onetto at our feet, of a greenish blue color that only refreshed the look. During the last hour of ascension we stop talking. We barely record a couple of plans by inertia, Without too much criteria, nor camera indications, you don't even want. And we reach the top.
We made the second error of the day, The most serious: We forget about buying water.
The crater was waiting for us down, With its yellow sulfur lagoon and a column of smoke in the background. Yeray had to rebuke in the shadow of a rock, Before flying the multicopter. The images brought back the drone compensated that misfortune, But the truth is that the day was not over. The descent was even quieter, Because it was impossible to talk to the dry throat. We leave behind the peeled slope of the volcano, We walk clumsy dragging the tripod, The cameras and the multicopter. Water was our only destination and became liquid to thought. When we reach the parking lot we made a shipwrecked gestures asking for a bottle. A car rolled up when we saw us by emitting guttural sounds. Then a guy offered us a hose with which we satisfied that day of more than ten hours of trees, Slopes, Sun and sulfur. We were happy, But we still didn't speak.
Maybe the gods wanted to reward that effort and somehow we found a name the next day. Mr. Fujito was apparently one of the very few pure Ainus of Hokkaido. He was famous for his ability as a sculptor and before introducing ourselves to the artist we met his work. Did not make animal figurines, nor did he carve decorative trees. Mr. Fujito reflected in his sculptures the tired gesture of men. It was his way of being melancholic, to perhaps protest the futureless future of the culture of his people. Well, and it also had figures of bears, which is something irremediable in this region of the world.
It was his way of being melancholic, to perhaps protest the futureless future of the culture of his people.
When he welcomed us into his house, we discover the expression of a happy man, He had a dark complexion and more hair than the Japanese., usually beardless. He had several old motorcycles., black and white photographs of ancestors with tattooed faces, own wood carvings and even a sculpture by Dalí himself. It had gone well, He had married a Japanese woman and already had grandchildren who would never worship volcanoes..
He talked about his culture as who has lost the bus, Without a grief of grief. What gave me anger is that it didn't give him anger, But what could I say. Our search was over there. The truth is that Mr. Fujito reflects the future of the Ainus, They have changed the cabins for villas, The sleds for motorcycles and dances next to a lake for the love of an irresistible Japanese, although with this the story of a people is diluted.
