A is for A-Bomb

We're commuters.
Land-rovering commuters. Through-the-sprawl- of Nagano- to- get- to- the- farm- commuters.
I dread it.

Sarah has taken on so many projects in this area that much of the work is spread thin. She and her husband Joe (A total character - the sort who asks a question and then in one long breath offers multiple choice answers; the sort who finds a use for everything, including rancid pretzels which did you know could be crushed up and hidden in muffins they turned out a little salty but on a hot day like this you need some extra salt i learned that on my first paid job when i was a youngster baling hay and the grandma would give us her homemade pickles - and he won't be offended when you decline the rancid pretzel muffins, but he will proceed to offer them to you; the sort who breaks out into song - English, Japanese, French, German - when he's run out of things to say, in a shockingly lovely tenor. The dude is from Fargo.) are sort of scrambling to keep up it seems - with a baby on the way no less. So much of the way they function is contrary to the way Calder and I function - it's been a bit challenging.

The orchards here are full-on chemical. I've been trying to understand the larger history of agriculture in Japan (which if nothing else, softens what tends to be a knee-jerk reaction on my part) and, as with most things here, it can be described as post-war and paradoxical.

It probably goes without saying that land and farming reforms were embraced in earnest after the war. Japan was decimated and starving, their agricultural production cut by more than half by the time America set about ushering them into western-style capitalism as well as what was becoming western-style agriculture.

What that meant for the villages around here was a switch from mulberry orchards (silkworms) managed traditionally to apple orchards managed with surplus military chemicals. Another depressing change was the clearing of large swaths of native forest to plant cedar trees - the destruction from the war called for a fast-growing source of timber. Those cedars suck up more water than the native forest, so rice fields in the valley suffered, as did relations between neighbors over water usage.

The plan here is to eventually farm without chemical pesticides, but I'm fairly sure that it will take a stable younger generation of farmers to do so. It's not easy to convince 80-year old villagers to change the way they've been farming for 60+ years. For now, the work of saving the old chestnut and apple orchards from becoming apartment complexes - which is what Sarah has been doing - seems to be the priority. It has to start somewhere.

Obuse

How to describe this place? We got here last Wednesday and are still being surprised. I hate to describe a town as charming, but Obuse is pretty damn charming - all narrow streets with gorgeous vegetable gardens, temples, outlying orchards (chestnuts, apples, table grapes), foothills splashed with wisteria, the furthest mountains still with snow on their peaks.
We're staying in the upstairs of Masuichi, a sake brewery that has existed for 17 generations. Our host, Sarah, is a project manager for Obuse-do, the family company that runs the brewery as well as several other businesses in town. Sarah is kind of a marvel, having been integral in bringing young people back into Obuse by creating viable jobs and renewing interest in the traditional crafts and agriculture of the area.
The farm that she and her husband own is in another village so we've been dividing our work time between ornamental gardens here in town and thinning apples up on the mountain. The other day, while doing apple work, we joined the village farmers for their annual 'fire-blight' walk. We split up into a few groups and everyone set out to walk through the orchards looking for signs of the virus. The woman that led us is close to ninety years old and started farming apples 61 years ago.
Japanese people definitely think more in terms of the group than the individual - and it is reflected beautifully in these farming villages. The orchards are individually owned and farmed, but everyone has a vested interest in how the neighbor's fields are faring. And after the work is done, it's a good excuse to gather in the village hall to drink sake and, very likely, gossip about the foreigners in town.

This is Rice.

Going from the full-on New Zealand harvest to the Japanese start-of-spring has been more of an adjustment than I thought it would be. We’re going through fruit withdrawal. Still, it’s hard to complain when there is an abundance of fish and rice and wild vegetables and tea and homemade tsukemono (vegetables pickled in a ferment-y mash of rice bran).
After two weeks of surprisingly cold weather (made colder by this farmhouse, which for all its initial charm, is not the cosiest place to live) we are finally in what feels like full-on spring. This past week everyone has been getting their rice seedlings into the fields and today we went to the other side of the village to help with a planting. It was such a gorgeous scene - 70, 80-year-old men and women bent at the waist, bodies fully covered in several thin layers of fabric, wide-brimmed straw hats, knee-high galoshes. Bright green spikes poking out of the water.
(The particular family we were helping farms at the base of a small mountain. They’ve had a monkey problem. My 7-year-old-self [and my 31-year-old self only slightly less] wishes I were so lucky).
I found myself wanting to stick around until the rice harvest, which I imagine is a major event around here. The next best thing would be to eat the rice this family grows, which we did at dinner - and, um …I’m kind of speechless about this rice, actually. Unbelievable.

Kansai, Hyogo, Sasayama. We're staying with the Nishimura family - Midori-san and her son Gen-san. The third photo is looking south towards their home - a traditional farmhouse maybe around 150 years old - and the two others are of homes in the village.
The Nishimuras run a language school in town so there are ESL teachers in and out as well as other wwoofers here. This part of the village is, well, very village-like. It's not a layout one would find in the States - all the homes are close together, most of them as old (or older) than this house, each with a garden (invariably growing daikon, peas, beans, cabbages, scallions) and rice paddy. Surrounding the village are larger fields that, as far as I understand, were shared areas when Sasayama was a stable farming community.
Many of those fields, as well as these incredible houses, are abandoned - the result of younger generations moving to the cities and the older ones dying off. The Nishimuras are working to encourage young people, particularly those that want to farm, to return to Sasayama.
Culturally it is harder than it sounds. I don't think it's for lack of people that would want to live and farm here - the way Midori explains it, the old farmers who are still around view the land as family, part of a lineage that isn't easily handed over to strangers.
One exception is that of a man in the neighboring village who has given his farmhouse to the Nishimuras. We've been doing a bit of demolition - all lathe and plaster walls, blackened bamboo, old tatami mats, enormous thatched roof. The plan is to house future volunteers and teachers once it is restored.

the condensed version.

The last week in NZ was chicken slaughter - necks broken and slit and bled and plucked and gutted and into the woodstove and on our plates same day, it was a community grape harvest and the start of wine, it was autumn coming around, bottling the winter beer, harvesting the last of the apples, and heading to Japan.

A bit of city life in Osaka and now in Sasayama, village life, rice paddies, thatched roofs, drinking matcha before walking to the temple before breakfast, pots of genmaicha throughout the day, 80-year-old women in the fields, baby goats, rice hulls as mulch, daikon everywhere.

More to come.

I've Eaten One Hundred Feijoas

I really have. Besides that, I've been thinking about how much I like the work here. Sabine and Wolfgang are very much engaged in the larger definition of permaculture - the development of diverse and resilient and balanced systems in all aspects of their lives, not only that of food production. Architecture, energy, community, habitat restoration, waste management, water management, etc. - everything is being addressed, as it inevitably must.

A bit about the buildings and off-the-grid-ness....

Both the studio/barn (where Calder and I are staying) and the main house are timber-framed light earth dwellings. They are both beautifully constructed, with high ceilings, earthen floors and earthen plasters. Oriented north and with substantial eaves, they shade the summer sun and allow the winter sun to warm the common rooms.

Solar runs the electricity and heats the water. There is a gas stovetop, but all baking is done in a wood oven which has a wetback, so when fired up water is being heated as well. Like most households in this area, there is rooftop water catchment. No water is used for toilets, as they are dry composting, with urine (as well as dish and shower water) being shuttled into the greywater system.

Instead of a conventional fridge there is a cold pantry (passively cooled with below-ground air on the south side of the house - remember Southern Hemisphere) that holds all of the grains, legumes, preserved food, butter, eggs, and cheese - things that we Americans tend to unnecessarily refrigerate - and two small insulated drawers in the kitchen that work as coolers, for things that need to be kept at lower temperatures (raw milk, for example).

Having a more direct role in the harnessing of resources most of us take for granted naturally makes for more conscious use of those resources. Part of that awareness is sussing out where it makes sense to use human-scale energy instead of electric (even if it is solar-powered). Here that means hand-cranked grinders for coffee beans and seeds, brooms instead of vacuums, an extremely elegant laundry system (above), line drying, scythes and other hand tools, etc.

I'm thinking constantly of how profound good design can be.

Represent.

Saturday 3/14

We've been getting a sense of the larger community of Kaiwaka (pop. 5000), outside of the ecovillage. Some things that might give an idea of the vibe here:

The magazine rack at the local supermarket, which is really more quickie mart size by American standards, has the typical celebrity fare but is also well stocked with all manner of sustainable agriculture periodicals;

A plant nursery/permaculture education center in town, which is part of a separate ecovillage - and where we dropped off some surplus peaches - seems to be humming along quite nicely;

We sat in on a meeting of about 15 locals who are researching alternative fuels, part of a series of meetings that are following the Transition Town model (strategies for a post-cheap fossil fuel age.)

Good things all.

Sunday 3/15

Several people on the South Island told us not to bother with the North Island - both in relation to the people (not enough real Kiwis) and the landscape (tame in comparison). I guess there are regional rivalries anywhere one goes, but I found it surprising that people would be so blunt about their biases, particularly with strangers.

Being from the much-maligned (and oh-so-beloved) state of New Jersey, I've learned not to pay much attention to such generalizations. Yes, the landscape here might be more subtle than that of the South Island but it is absolutely stunning; and the people, while more international (in this area anyway) are incredibly easy-going and generous.

Curiously, the bias doesn't seem to go both ways. I've heard only good things about the South Island from people up this way.