NOTO PENINSULA, Japan—Most of my time in Japan is spent out in inaka. Inaka literally means the countryside. When I lived in Japan more than a decade ago, I lived in a big city and came from a big city, so in my circles, the word inaka was always spat from city slickers’ mouths. To them, the word is more or less equivalent to “the sticks.”
Today my view is different. The countryside is the “real” Japan, where traditions live and breathe, the importance of community is unquestioned, and aside from the ubiquitous vending machines, modernity is not a requirement.
Demographically, however, I worry for the future of these remote villages. The area I’m in, the Noto Peninsula, is a little finger of bliss sticking out into the Sea of Japan across the main island from Tokyo and a little north. It’s stunningly beautiful out here. You can be deep in the forest, which emerges into a perfect streamside hamlet, then suddenly you’re at the sea in a fishing village with its tiny winding streets and wooden, tile-roofed homes.
What you don’t see are a lot of are people. In fact, it’s not at all uncommon to pass through a string of villages and see nary a soul, and those who you do see are almost exclusively old—very old—along with a few small children. The middle generation is missing, gone off to seek jobs in some big city, leaving hunched-over grandmas and grandpas to tend immaculate gardens and cultivate life-giving rice as they always have.
What happens in 10 or 20 years when the elders are gone? I really don’t know. Possibly their children will retire and return, but I’m not sure after tasting the city they'd still know how to make it in inaka.
While life in the countryside may be in a dangerous decline, one would never guess it by the quality of the infrastructure. After the bubble economy burst in the early 1990s, one strategy employed by the government was to spend massive amounts on public works: huge dams, elaborate harbors, ambitious tunnels, a labyrinthine network of roads.
Even today, in the depopulated countryside, while Japan is suffering from the supposed economic crisis, the infrastructure improvements seem non-stop. The government is improving roads that service almost nobody and are in better shape pre-repair than most roads in the United States. I hear rumors that construction is controlled by Yakuza gangs so the contracts can’t stop.
I can also imagine that it’s an elaborate employment scheme. The unemployment rate in Japan reached 5.2 percent in July, which is considered high, considering that the average rate from 1953 to this year was 2.6 percent.
My theory employment theory was bolstered during a fill-up at a highway rest stop. Incidentally, I could write an entire column about the amenities at Japanese rest stops. This one had TV monitors in each bathroom stall showing promotional ads for local specialties. I was so amazed that I took a photo, then had good laugh when my male co-worker showed me his photo of the screens between the urinals.
Back to the employment scheme. The parking of our rest stop was a fair size, but highly orderly and in no way complicated, yet it was staffed by an army of attendants that looked like a white-and-florescent-clad national guard. I counted nine of them and assumed another couple were likely on break.
It was a national holiday—autumn equinox, not a particularly major one, but a nice idea for a holiday—but really the lot wasn’t busy. Nonetheless, the parking guards were serious and professional, seemingly oblivious to the fact that their presence was gratuitous. Or perhaps not. Perhaps these men were not protecting the parking lot; perhaps they are protecting the future of inaka—and doing it while making overtime.
