I want to write down what I experienced this summer before my memories begin to fade.
A man advised me, “Forget about this immediately.” He said it was for my “mental health.” I agree with him. That’s why, once I finish writing this, I plan to hide it away in the deepest corner of a steel shelf and forget it ever existed. I have no intention of showing it to anyone. At best, I’m just leaving it here in case I ever need to remember it in the future. That’s all.
I never asked for his name, nor did I introduce myself. So, even if I wanted to, there’s no way to contact him now.
The whole thing started on a whim. I was watching a foreign survival show on TV, and it suddenly made me want to go on a touring trip. Using my summer vacation, I set off all by myself.
I looked up outdoor camping methods online, bought a single-person tent, a hiking backpack, and a whole set of gear at a home improvement store, and hit the road. You know those TV shows where people travel around the countryside and depopulated areas on mopeds? Well, back in my student days, I actually got a mid-sized motorcycle license during a crash-course driving camp. It was one of those dual-training programs. I figured a mid-sized bike would make getting around a lot easier than a moped. It was with that kind of easygoing mindset that I set off.
I didn’t have the courage to camp out in the wild right from the start. So at first, I bounced from place to place, making reservations a day in advance for lodges or designated campsites.
At night, the guests would gather around the campfire. Most of them were the type you’d find in a university wilderness club, playing guitars and singing. They’d invite me to join their barbecues, but I felt it would be awkward for someone like me to barge in on a group of young people and make them feel self-conscious. Plus, I didn’t want to kill the mood if I had a bit too much to drink. So, I kept my distance from those gatherings and just minded my own business, keeping things casual and polite. Yeah, I had reached an age where being alone felt more comfortable. If I had to say, I think I’m the type of person whose name and face people remember easily. I’ve never really struggled with social interactions. But as I’ve gotten older, that side of myself has started to feel like a bit of a burden.
As I grew more accustomed to the routine, I began venturing deeper into the mountains. One night, I stayed at a so-called auto-campsite. Four or five families had arrived in large vans, and the place was lively and buzzing. Then, looking off to the edge of the site, I noticed a gruff, bearded, middle-aged guy picking at a hot pot cooked on a portable cassette stove. While stir-frying leeks and offal, he tilted a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a drink into a stainless steel cup.
“You on a motorcycle trip too, bud?” He called out to me.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I replied.
“You don’t see many guys touring on motorcycles these days.”
“Now that you mention it, I guess you’re right.” With that kind of opening, we hit it off, and the two of us started drinking his whiskey, cutting it with fresh water from a clear mountain stream.
The man turned out to be a freelance journalist and photographer. He traveled all over Japan taking photos, occasionally publishing photo books or essays, and sometimes holding solo exhibitions in Ginza.
“Can you actually make a living off photography?”
“Well enough. I’m just a carefree bachelor, after all.”
“Huh, I see.”
“How about you? What do you do for work?”
“I actually like being a salaryman more than I expected. Back when I was a student, I couldn’t even imagine myself working for a company.” As we drifted through that kind of aimless small talk, the man muttered quietly.
“They say there’s an uncharted village deep in these mountains.”
“Uncharted?”
“No electricity, no gas, no running water. Of course, no Wi-Fi either. Not a single cell tower.”
“Are there houses standing?”
“Yeah. Though they’re pretty dilapidated, apparently.”
“Isn’t that just a regular abandoned village or ruins?”
“No, no. People actually live there. But the villagers have almost zero contact with the outside world, living completely cut off from modern society.”
“What kind of nonsense is that? In this day and age?”
“And what’s more, for some reason, they say only children live in that village.”
“That’s impossible. Are the parents away working seasonal jobs? Even if that were the case, they’re kids, so they’d have to go to school—at least for compulsory education.”
“That’s how it should be. But the thing is, they say no one who has ever gone into that village has come back alive.”
“If no one has ever come back, how does anyone on the outside even know about it?”
“Well, that’s exactly why a journalist like me is going to find out the truth. What do you say? Want to come along?”
I wasn’t particularly thrilled by the idea. However, I was starting to become personally intrigued by this eccentric photographer, who wore an anachronistic bandana around his head. Thinking I’d like to travel with him just a little bit longer, I decided to tag along.