We arrived in the remote town of Nachi Katsuura in the dead of an unbelievably hot and humid July. As juniors in the University of California’s education abroad program, a motley mix of 19 hippies, surfers, and bookworm nerds swarmed into this tiny town like locusts. The plan was to undergo intensive language classes for six weeks before heading out to Tokyo for our junior year.
Nachi no Taki or Nachi Falls, the largest waterfall in Japan, is nestled in the sacred mountains of the Kii Peninsula. Within this lush region lies a network of ancient pilgrimage trails called the Kumano Kodo where emperors and samurai used to roam. Many liken the spiritual Kumano Kodo trails to the Camino de Santiago in Spain. Every year, thousands of people flock to the trails that lead to Nachi no Taki to pay homage to the Shinto gods.
A well-worn tatami straw-floored dormitory for Shinto monks awaited our arrival. The dorm looked more like a rundown Japanese inn than it did a typical multi-story dorm building. The women were split up into three adjoining tatami rooms, separated by paper-thin shoji screens. The guys were herded into a large windowless room which served as their crash pad at night, a classroom during the day, and our mess hall at dinner time. Twenty-year-old American college kids sharing space with Shinto monks? An interesting fusion. The young monks practiced at the nearby Kumano Nachi Taisha shrine.
Every morning, I awoke to the deafening roar of Nachi no Taki crashing down onto the torrential river below our rooms. The smell of grilled fish permeated the hallways outside our rooms as Mr. Nawa busily prepared our breakfast, which typically consisted of miso soup, grilled fish, and a bowl of rice topped with pickled radish. Mr. Nawa, a portly middle-aged man, lived as a Shinto priest by day, and a dorm manager at night. He made every effort to minimize our interaction with the monks. For the most part, they stayed on their side of the dorm, and we stayed in our corner of the building. We rarely saw them. Did he think we’d be a bad influence? Mr. Nawa hovered over us like an annoying, but loving Uncle.
From Day One, a brutal boot camp-like schedule went into effect.
6 am – breakfast.
7 am to noon – intensive Japanese lessons.
A quick lunch break of noodles or fried rice.
1 pm – more lessons.
2 to 4 pm – homework.
6 pm – dinner.
8 pm – hot springs ofuro bath.
9 pm – lights out.
Why on earth would our university choose this small town as our initial foray into Japanese life? Yes, the sea of lush greenery was stunningly gorgeous. But being in the middle of nowhere with pesky mosquitos and cricketing crickets made for an aggravating rural experience. In the mornings, I woke up with a dozen mosquito bites on both my arms and legs. No matter how sacred and spiritual this place was supposed to be, I wasn’t sure I could survive the grueling weeks ahead of me. Pangs of homesickness hit me daily.
“Why was Nachi chosen for the summer program?” I asked Mr. Nawa one day.
“You’ll understand by summer’s end,” he responded curtly.
Monday through Friday was a nonstop barrage of reading and writing classes plus two hours of daily homework. But a different scenario ensued on the weekends. We unplugged. We hiked, often getting lost on the trails of Kumano Kodo. We body-surfed in the turquoise-blue waters of Nachi Katsuura Beach. We raced up and down the 237 steps from the main road to our dormitory, for the fun of it. We paid our respects at the nearby Shinto shrine. We hung out at the Post Office. Back then, we relied on snail mail to keep in contact with friends and family back home. The internet did not exist yet. We hunted for obake or ghosts that allegedly lurked on the hillsides late at night. Mr. Nawa often accompanied us on our hikes to the Falls, and painstakingly taught us the names of every tree and flora that crossed our paths.
On Saturday nights, Karaoke took center stage as Mr. Nawa served endless bottles of icy Sapporo beers, grilled soy sauce-marinated chicken, and fresh tuna sashimi for dinner. He told us Nachi Katsuura was the tuna capital of Japan, and for this reason alone, we should feel very lucky. Mr. Nawa’s complete transformation from a ceremonious priest during the week to a lovable inebriate on the weekends amazed me. The man could drink.
One summer night, Mr. Nawa invited us to view the annual Fire Festival, a Shinto ritual that takes place at the foot of Nachi Falls. Dressed in white cotton robes, Mr. Nawa along with 35 other monks carried 12 blazing torches, representing the 12 Shinto deities, up and down the steep stairs leading to the Falls. The loud chanting and boisterous ceremony attracted cheering spectators from all over the country. We watched in amazement as Mr. Nawa brandished the perilous torch to the crowds’ delight. I remember his colossal smile as he paraded by. He was in his element.
By summer’s end, I was hopelessly in love with Nachi. I learned to respect the locals’ reverence for Shintoism and their passionate belief to live in harmony with their environment. Life in this secluded region taught me to appreciate the serenity of nature. I finally understood why Nachi was chosen as a prelude to our Tokyo program. The cacophony of Tokyo would have created a challenging plunge into life in Japan.
September finally rolled around and it was time to move on to Tokyo to begin our junior year. I did not look forward to hitting the concrete jungles of a sprawling city. We tearfully said goodbye to Mr. Nawa. “Mata asobini kurukarane. We’ll be back soon to visit you.” As we descended the countless steps to our awaiting shuttle, I turned around one last time and saw Mr. Nawa standing at the top of the staircase, waving at us.
I spent an incredible year at Tokyo’s International Christian University, the sister college of the University of California. Despite my limited student budget, I managed to explore every neighborhood in Tokyo located along the Yamanote, a train line looping the city. I ate at all the ramen shops within a 2-mile radius of the campus. My Japanese became flawlessly fluent. I visited my grandmother in Shikoku numerous times. I often thought of taking a side trip to Nachi, but never did.
A year later, most of us returned to our respective campuses to finish out the senior year. Others continued with their travels. Some of us kept in touch but most vanished from my life.
It would be another 40 years before I returned to Nachi. Sadly, I never saw Mr. Nawa again.
