JOURNEY TO TOKIO

New Zealand Listener, Volume 15, Issue 388, 29 November 1946, Page 12

JOURNEY TO TOKIO

| (Written for

The Listener

by

'the Official New Zealand Corres-

pondent with J Force)

f (By Airmail) N the carriage with the three New Zealanders were 40 or so Americans; among them were Chinese, a Negro, four Japanese, another who could have come straight from the plaudits of a Spanish bullfight crowd. But all of them were American born; they were citizens of that nation and on the collars of their neatly-pressed uniform shirts were two letters cut from brass-U.S. In the carriage too, with the cards flicking on the pillow held on their knees, were Australians-and even without spotting their slouch hats you would have marked them as from that country, a country, you had already decided, which is now old enough and sufficiently developed to have national characteristics of its own. ; Behind the Australians, handsomely turbanned and with beards almost the size of wheatsheafs, were two Indians. Later, in the diner, an exacting religion forbade so much of the menu that they were left only with pickled cabbage a a slice of bread. The diner steward looked a little embarrassed when he offered them a slice of bread more than the ordinary ration. In front of two English officers with Grenadiers picked in silk on _ their shoulders and stamped on their bearing, were two Japanese nationals. Travel on this American military train, the "Yankee Flier’ is forbidden to Japanese, but these two were Catholic Jesuit priests and exception to the rule had been made. But, compromising approval and disapproval, the authority responsible for allowing the Japanese priests to travel had not given them permission to use the dining car. Their journey was ‘| to last 24 hours and they had brought no food with them. An example’ of a New Zealand trait which has been apparent right through the war was the P result. Fraternisation One of the three New Zealanders, a six-foot Kiwi private, returning from the dining car to find the two priests alone in the carriage, sat beside them and began a conversation, at first in pidgin Japanese and then, when he found they could speak perfect English, in English. In three minutes he had learnt where they were educated, where they were from and where they were going, their names, their work, and "what do you think of the occupation?" He had wiped a soot smut from the robes of the younger man, and wondered, offering a battered tobacco tin, if they would "like a roll"; he had told them about the Maoris in New Zealand and "reckoned" that, although the Japanese knew how to use every inch of the soil they did not have a "clue" about mechanical efficiency.

Suddenly the Kiwi realised the two priests had not been in to breakfast. "Why?" "What, no munga?" "Really? . . We'll soon fix that." And he did. From his haversack in the rack he produced two tins, of bacon and steak and kidney pudding. In a minute the tins were opened; and for the next ten minutes in that crowded carriage two Japanese Jesuit priests with shaved heads and dressed in their church robes and one six-foot Kiwi (still hungry), ate bacon and steak and kidney, passing the tins from one to the other, the blade of one pocketknife combining the uses of knife and fork. Wherever they have lived overseas, New Zealanders have become known for their genuines unstumbling friendliness to local pépulations of whatever nationality or country, whatever the circumstances. It was apparent in Italy, Trieste in particular. It has been proved again in Japan. And in a country that has been defeated, with a nation that is unsteady and confused but sharply aware of the attitude of the troops who are in occupation, this uninhibited, unembarrassed, uncomplicated interest in the people and friendliness towards them is more valuable than any directive ever could be. As with other peoples, the Japanese do not think in the abstract; it is. the individual that they are concerned with and by him they will judge democracy. The priests and the soldier parted with handshaking and an assurance from the Kiwi that if he ever had the chance he would visit his new acquaintances and have his hospitality returned. He would be no less at ease at a sukiaki party or a Japanese tea ceremony than he was in the railway carriage; the chopsticks he would have to use would be no more difficult to handle than the tinopener with which he opened the tins of bacon and steak and kidney pudding. By the Inland Sea From Shimonoseki, the railway terminus in the New Zealand area, to Tokio is 600 miles. But the journey which takes 25 hours is not as weary as might be imagined; there are three excellent

meals seryed in the dining car, the sleepers are comfortablé, and those wishing to change from carriage seats may spend an hour or so in the club car which is fitted with armchairs and tables, where books, magazines, and games are available. The first of the journey is along the Inland Sea. There are the famous cities of Hiroshima, Okayama, Osaka, Kyoto, and Yokohama. Between them is all the beauty of rural Japan; the wooded hills, the unending terraced paddy-fields enlivened by quaintly-dressed workers (most of whom are women), by scarecrows that are curiously artistic (each year a competition is held with a prize for the most attractive creation), and the primitive farm machinery-the hand ploughs, the threshing machines worked by foot, the stone crushing mills, the carts drawn by oxen which look so dispirited and weary that you wonder if perhaps they have taken the defeat of their country even more to heart than their owners. A journey that is never without interest, through a countryside that at present is harvest-yellow with the ripe rice crop, with scenes of changing colour and beauty, of nature working with man. Looking at peace, ironically prosperous, you are tempted to risk precious film by chancing shots from the swiftly-moving train. Three hours after lunch (pork chops and ice-cream) and an hour before dinner (chicken and tinned cherries-you are in luck) you look suddenly from the window and there it is, there across the wide plain with small villages neatly breaking the yellow harvest like chocolate splashes-there is something of the Japanese mind and character, a part of their worship, a piece of themselvesthere is what, perhaps, Rugby football is to New Zealand, what, they say, the dollar is to the United States, what, you imagine, the olive is to the Italian. /There, glorious, is Fujiyama. Smoothly symmetrical, snowcapped peak rising 5,000 feet above cloud, and caught in the sun, Fuji is even more breathtaking than you had imagined. Mt, (continued on next page)

{continued from previous page) Fuji- "Divine Fire’-"The clouds themselves can hardly climb its height » » + I find-no word to tell of it, no name to call it by. ...O Peak of Fuji, in Suruga Land, Fuji-no-yama, I could stand and gaze on thee forever and forever," wrote a Japanese poet of the 7th Century. Mt. Fuji (12,467 feetabout the same height as Mt. Cook, and with a circumference of more than 60 miles) has not been active for more than 200 years, but from old Japanese prints jt would seem there was a time when eruption of smoke and steam was usual. Sacred since ancient times, Mt. Fuji was not climbed by a woman until 1868 when the wife of the British Minister in Japan was allowed to make the ascent. It is estimated that before the war about 100,000 people a year made a pilgrimage to the summit. You don’t sit and gaze forever and forever because dinner is ready and the end of that long journey not far off. Within an hour you are passing through ‘the outer suburbs of Tokio; the twilight shows buildings and houses jam-packed, but the streets are wider and cleaner than you have noticed before. Soon, through the gloom, you catch sight "of massive buildings, with neon lighting running up and down modern theatres, with modern cars moving as fast as the train. This, Tokio, is the third largest city of the world, with a population twice as great as the whole of New Zealand's. As you step from the carriage and wait for your luggage you are weary, and there is soot on your face and hands. But your need for sleep and a bath is forgotten in an excitement you haven't felt since that day long ago when you first came from the country where you were born to all the life and movement of a city.