Okinawan Breeze

The Dark Side of Ise

"This is the dark side of Ise."

My wife says this in a low, grave tone. Goosebumps inadvertently prickle my flesh. I feel a tightening of my abdomen and a tingling in my lower back. My knuckles are pale on the steering wheel of our rental. I cast a quick glance to the side at the object of her scorn. My brain bids me to look away more out of shock than a fear of my safety as I drive down the unending winding roads of the prefecture. Katakana on the road again reminds me of an upcoming "kaabu." (Curve my wife informs me when I inquired earlier. It makes sense when you realize Japanese has no "c," "v," or "es.")

Ise is a coastal city in Mie prefecture on Japan's mainland. It hosts about 150,000 people and Japan's "most powerful" (my wife attests) Shinto shrine, Ise Jingu. Unlike the more commonly visited areas of Japan, Ise feels secluded in a way the paved roads and more industrial sections of the prefecture can't negate. Even getting to the city feels like embarking on an adventure. After taking a speed boat from Centrair Chubu International Airport to Mie Prefecture, a visitor will find themselves in Tsu, a city with a more Western feel-buildings stacked against one another, plenty of cars and traffic lights, and large, flamboyant advertisement boards. A few minutes' drive from there towards the expressway leading to Ise and you're greeted with green fields and old-fashioned kawara tiled roofs. The small city of Tsu quickly fades away and the journey turns into an unending spectrum of green. Towering trees flank both sides of the road. Intermittent tunnels break up the scenery as travelers burrow through the surrounding mountains towards Ise.

My wife was born and raised in Ise. Most of her family still resides there and, despite her strained relationship with them, we decided it would be best to visit them before our departure to America. My wife and I got married prior to meeting her family. In case you're wondering, this act is equally taboo in Japan. In the days leading up to our visit, my wife had lovely text message conversations with her mother about me. One example is her mother asking repeatedly, "Is he a gaijin!? Is he a gaijin!?" Gaijin being the impolite Japanese word for foreigner. In Japan, concepts like racial purity and disdain for darker complexions uncomfortably lurk beneath the surface. My excitement for the trip continued to grow to new heights. Towards the eve of our flight, my wife asked if I would like to spend the night at her mother's house. Like a good husband, I maintained my tact and told her something warm and friendly like, "I'd rather die." She seemed surprised by my answer, which in turn made me questions whether there was some cultural misunderstanding going on. Maybe her mother refusing to congratulate her daughter on her marriage was actually a good sign? We settled on staying at her grandmother's house for a night instead.

If I had to summarize my experiences and impressions of Ise, I would say this: I saw a monkey on the side of the road. My wife might not appreciate this succinct review of her hometown, but it's the best I can do to convey my feelings on the matter. I'm not good with words.

Meeting my wife's grandmother first was a good choice. It was a pleasant visit and it helped affirm a universal truth for me: grandmothers are the same in all countries. She was fast asleep on a small couch propped in front of the living room television when we arrived. She awoke quickly, was very friendly, and offered me more food than I would have ever eaten on my own accord. Naturally, I gorged myself in an effort to show her what a reliable and loving mate I would be for her granddaughter. The real twist in the narrative occurred during our dining table conversation as I progressively became more bloated with delicious sashimi, rice, pork, tofu, pickled cucumbers, etc. Oh, and ice cream. Her grandmother offered a large chunk of ice cream wrapped in a soft cone skin BEFORE dinner. Despite this breach in protocol, I dutifully ate it with a smile on my face.

While we were eating, I remarked (genuinely) on how good all the food was. I really liked the cucumbers because the flavor reminded me of how my own grandfather used to pickle them. Grandma then pointed out the kitchen window towards a garden and explained she had grown them herself. She then spread her arms as if carrying an obscene amount of vegetables (I assumed) and imitated a waddling sort of walk. Grandma only spoke in Japanese, so I looked to my wife for a translation. My wife translated this charade as such: putting together this many cucumbers was difficult because a local monkey kept vandalizing her grandmother's garden and sauntering off with an armful of vegetables.