A major advantage to having a car is the freedom to drive where I want, when I want. This past weekend, on my drive back to Ofunato from Minamisoma, I stopped at Minamisanriku (Miyagi Prefecture) to visit the head of a temporary housing complex there.
I have never been to Minamisanriku. What I saw there was a kind of destruction I had not seen to date. Having spent a lot of time in Rikuzentakata, a city almost completely destroyed I assumed this was as bad as it got. I was wrong. Minamisanriku is in shambles. It was Rikuzentakata, and then some. Here again, if it wasn't concrete it was gone. Large vacant buildings, doors and windows blown out crowd what must have been "downtown." Everywhere else, nothing. The foundations of houses, concrete slabs essentially, go on mile after mile. Then came the bridge.
Some evil monster must have come out from the sea, grabbed onto 200 meters of solid concrete, and pulled that portion of the bridge down into the water with it. I've never seen anything like this. How did this happen?
All last year, I was angry. At nature. At the randomness of what was spared and what taken away. Here, I felt fear. Goosebumps. What happened here?
Numb, I call the man I'm scheduled to meet. He gives me directions, and I arrive 10 minutes later. We say hello. He shows me around. I see potted plants with bright colors all along the "street" separating one row of temporary housing from the next. I comment on them, complimenting the gardeners. I meet his wife, and I'm invited into their home. I step into a temporary home for the first time.
I will no longer complain about the size of my apartment in Tokyo. I promise this. I vow it. I was told earlier, the homes are 2DK. That's code for "two bedrooms, a dining room and a kitchen." Those who have never stepped into temporary housing, myself included, will assume a "bedroom" is just that. Room for a bed, a dresser, a small stand, etc. This was no bedroom. I've seen closets bigger than this. The dining room barely had room for a table. By "table" I mean a one meter square kotatsu.
We chat. I see two photos of who? The mothers of the husband and wife I'm having tea with? They are up on a shelf near the ceiling, sticks of incense, a tangerine, and flowers in a short vase surrounding the photos. I look at the writing on the paper next to one of the women. March 11th. They must have lost at least one of their mothers in the tsunami. I try not to stare.
We keep talking. They're lovely people. I'm shown the coasters the wife makes to sell at the local souvenir shop. I ask directions, telling them I'll stop by on my way out.
"You'll have to back track," I'm told.
"That's okay. I want to see the shop."
I actually want to see more than the shop. Driving into town, I passed a gas station with a large sign out front that read "Stupid tsunami." 津波のバカ。That was a first. I need to fill up with gas, and I want to ask about the sign. I've seen plenty of signs saying "hang in there" and "we won't give up" but I've never seen anger expressed like this. Driving back into town is no big deal. It's now a must.
It's time for me to go, and as I get up, I comment on the flowers on the back "porch."
"They're cheerful colors, aren't they?"
"Yes. Definitely. They're beautiful."
As I'm walked back to my car, the director of the temporary housing complex tells me a story.
"We're really grateful to the US Military."
"Oh?"
"Here," and he waves his hand over the land right behind us where 250 homes were built, "this was a soccer field. We all came up here to escape from the tsunami. Several hundred of us. We had no water. No food. We were here three days when we decided to spell out 'SOS' onto the soccer field, and next thing we knew, a helicopter landed. It was your military. We couldn't understand them, of course," and here we both laugh.
"I think they were asking if we were injured. We said 'hungry' and 'water' and then they left. I thought maybe they really left but soon another helicopter, a different one this time, came with blankets and bottled water and food. You have no idea how happy we were."
I see him choke up, so I stay quiet.
"We haven't said 'thank you' yet. We don't know how."
"I can help you with that," and we strategize on how to write the letter and get it into the right hands.
There's something to be said for going to new places, meeting new people. They turn into friends more often than not. Trying new things, seeing new things especially when the sights are so horrific, it's tough. It's tough, but worth it. I'm determined to keep going.
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