As of writing I am in Mie prefecture, located in the Kansai region of Honshu (Japan’s main island), where I will be based throughout my stay.
I think it’s common to associate Japan with sprawling cities, outlandishsub-culture and all the shiny baubles of technological modernity; by comparison rural life presents another world entirely. One that is, to all appearances, quaint and simple, perhaps somewhat antiquated. This no doubt holds a charm of its own for many travellers, myself included. As such I have developed something of a love affair with rural Japan, and relish any opportunity to explore it.
The prefecture itself consists of 14 cities, of which Tsu is the capital and largest city, with a population roughly the size of Hull, East Yorkshire (around 280,000, give or take). I am staying in Nabari. a sparsely populated city, tucked away amidst the rugged landscape that defines much of the region. Situated almost directly on the mountainous border with Nara prefecture, it is some 2 hours to Osaka by train, and a similar amount to Nara City (the capital of neighbouring Nara Prefecture) by car.
Mie encapsulates much of what I like about Japan’s country life: it is spacious and peaceful, with an abundance of wildlife and forests; the locals are also generally speaking friendly, albeit somewhat cautious—though one does have occasion to feel like a slightly famous, mildly unpopular TV personality spotted in public. The domestic and suburban architecture is what one might call quintessentially Japanese, comprised of wooden frames and ornate tiled rooves. Time ambles along slowly, with the elderly and housewives pottering around the cafés and shops.
It is easy for me to romanticise about all this, however it does not escape me that many of the things I admire about rural Japan are a hindrance to its prosperity—and in some cases are perhaps even a symptom of its problems. Urbanisation is by no means a new concept, nor a relative one, though it does seem to have taken a particularly heavy toll on Japan’s rural communities. Large swathes of the country’s young have migrated from their home towns and villages into the growing metropolitan areas, in search of work and opportunity otherwise unavailable in their home communities.
As such, what may appear as tranquillity to an outsider, may be viewed as stagnation, or even regression, to a young man or woman who has to live there. It is a mutually reinforcing phenomenon: the lack of jobs and opportunities leads to an exodus of the young, whilst the same exodus prevents innovation and change from occurring in the communities they have left. The hope is, at least in the long run, that some of those who have left will return to their hometowns, bring with them the skills, experience and capital they have accrued working in the city.
Whilst this has of course been true in other cases concerning migration, both at national and international scales, this does not yet appear to be happening in Japan; nor is it likely to in a time frame or intensity that would prevent many smaller towns from dwindling into extinction. When coupled with a declining birth rate, and an ageing population, this makes for a particularly debilitating cocktail.
The Mie economy seems to have fared better than that of other prefectures. It maintains a thriving rice and tea industry, and has a number of attractions that lure a steady flow of tourists into the region. For example, Ise is the traditional tea growing region, producing some of the finest in the country, and is also home to the Ise Shrine (Ise Jingu); the Iga region is similarly famed for its rice, a varietal known as Koshihikari (or Mie-Koshi), as well as being the birthplace of both Ninjutsu, and the venerable Japanese poet, Matsuo Basho—who scarcely requires an introduction from me. Mie also benefits from Japan’s efficient rail system, the Kintetsu line, linking many towns to larger cities (such as Osaka) and putting them on a commuter belt.
Nevertheless, despite all this, both Nabari, Iga, and Ise have smaller populations today than they did in 1995. Whilst the death to birth deficit has a hand in this, it is equally related to the aspirations and ambitions of Mie’s young, who wish to improve on the lot of their parents. Certainly the job market in smaller towns is not what it once was, and the quality of life there afforded, though comfortable, is out of sync with that desired by many; equally, the diminishing population impacts the level of public service provided, such as schools and hospitals, making relocation essential for parents who want the best start in life for their children. This can be a case of moving from smaller towns to larger prefectural cities such as Tsu, though often it involves migrating to larger metropolitan areas.
One area that has suffered particularly is that of the Buddhist temple. In conversation with a local monk, I am told that there simply aren’t enough monks to run the numerous temples spread amongst rural communities. He is now managing 3 temples—his own, and two others—which has become a terrible strain on him. It seems that many older monks are now reaching retirement age and, despite the profitability in becoming a monk, there is an apparent lack of those willing to take on such responsibility.
Many of the issues I have detailed are in fact the concern of countries all over the developed world, and are by no means exceptional to Japan. What might be considered exceptional however is the outstanding natural beauty and history in the Japanese countryside, of which Mie is a fine example. I only hope that some reinvigoration and innovation can help maintain its existence. Surely increased tourism is a means of doing this in the short term, and if I can promote that in some small way, all the better; though in the long run, some serious intervention is likely required, to prevent (or at least ameliorate) the decline into social decay.
Benjamin Elstobb
Nabari, Mie
The One True Journey 