Apart from the photography aspect of it, exploring abandoned buildings/haikyo seems to offer different things to different people, and whilst the actual structures and especially the decay they undergo are invariably quite interesting, for me personally, it’s the little details and the private possessions left behind that are by far the most fascinating; items that often give hints about a person’s interests and tastes, possibly even their name — all left behind, and left untouched, sometimes as though it was only yesterday, creating strangely personal (and yet at the same time somehow impersonal) historical artefact of sorts.
A semi-decent example of this being a desk in the Okawa Seminar house, photographs of which can be seen here in part 1.
Presumably once belonging to the facility’s manager, it almost certainly hasn’t been sat in front of for the best part of twenty years, and yet it still feels almost used — private even. Especially so knowing that whoever held the position — and with this being Japan we can at least safely assume it was a man — unfortunately suffered from the occasional stomach complaint.
But whereas he may once have talked to somebody about it, or mentioned it in passing during a phone call, it will never happen again. At least not here.
Likewise, no messages or mutterings will be relayed through to reception either.
And similarly there also won’t be any talk of his other,
rather more mysterious ailment.
Although this somewhat incongruous Felix the Cat pencil case may, or indeed may not, have briefly kept his mind off it.
Tucked away on an Izu hillside overlooking the Sagami Sea, the Okawa Seminar House, presumably once bustling with students and lecturers alike, is now not only silent, but slowly disintegrating.
But thankfully not enough, at least as far as the latter is concerned, to erase the signs of its one-time owner, Tokyo’s Nihon University — reminders of which are randomly dotted around the somewhat deceptively large complex.
However, why the facility closed its doors and said no to more seminars isn’t clear, and it’s arguably rather strange, at least considering the state it has been left in, when one considers that the University is the biggest such institution in Japan, boasting a colossal 68,000 undergraduates. Yet nevertheless close it did, and calendars along with long unread notices suggest that it was the best part of two decades ago when it did.
A situation that means the building’s numerous rows of desks have been silently sitting unused for an awfully long time.
And the blackboards are now only covered in grime,
or the names of groups.
Plus, away from the confines of academia, the games room is equally ghostly.
Leaving the corridors free to be roamed alone, with once locked doors no longer a problem.
Meaning plenty of rooms to peruse.
And the odd piece of apparatus to ponder.
Although a fire, unfortunately,
would pose much more of a problem.
But in time even that will be irrelevant, if in fact it isn’t already, as nature is slowly,
but surely,
taking back the building.
Next week, in part 2, I attempt something a little bit different, and take a close and concentrated look at a single piece of furniture found in the office.
Abandoned buildings/haikyo come in all shapes and sizes as well as covering all manner of previous purposes; however, whilst a certain amount of melancholy is par for the course due to the memories, and to a certain extent the lost hope, left behind, the Higashi Izu-cho Isolation Ward is by far the most depressing place I have ever visited.
A predominantly wooden structure that, due to its location in a relatively dense bamboo forest, is rapidly decaying — the sanatorium’s brave battle with mother nature now very much a long lost cause.
Yet when the ward finally closed its dilapidated doors isn’t exactly clear, with anywhere up to the early 80s deemed possible, although magazines found in one of the rooms apparently suggest it may well have peaked in the mid 60s.
But regardless of the dates, the ward’s remaining straw mattress beds,
along with the antiquated and now damaged fittings,
paint an especially bleak picture.
One in which sick and presumably dying patients — smallpox being the most likely cause — lived out whatever time they had amidst the most basic of facilities.
Somehow dealing with the no doubt dank and dreary conditions.
And all the time resting on those aforementioned,
and absolutely horrible looking,
beds.
In the last couple of years I’ve explored numerous abandoned buildings/haikyo, ranging from museums to mining towns, but for one reason or another, never any war-related sites — a situation I finally managed to rectify last week with a trip to Nagasaki and the Kawatana Japanese Navy Torpedo Boat Training School.
Many of those enlisted for the far more widely known of Japan’s special attack units, the Kamikaze, were taught at the relatively nearby Tachiarai Air Base, but at Kawatana, the less well known but no less deadly Shinyo (suicide boats) and Kaiten (explosives-laden submarines) personnel underwent their specialized training. Along with the even more desperate, although in the end little used, bomb carrying Fukuryu divers. All of it needless to say in preparation for the young conscripts one and only mission.
Now, however, after more than sixty years of standing untouched and exposed to the elements, the various lonely looking structures are slowly beginning to crumble.
And despite the fact that the base would have been a very different place during the last couple of years of World War II, with thousands of men, many as young as 15, passing through in the process of making the ultimate sacrifice, nowadays there is only silence.
Plus, perhaps surprisingly, a certain sense of peacefulness.
And added to this, the visit for me personally was especially poignant as I was taken there by a colleague whose father trained at Kawatana as a two-man suicide boat captain; a recruit who was luckily saved from performing his duty by Japan’s surrender after the devastation at nearby Nagasaki. A decision that, had it come a few weeks later, would have meant that his son wouldn’t have existed, and I’d have been standing there alone.
Just like the buildings do now, except for the occasional company of local fishermen.
The highlights of haikyo/urban exploration seem to vary depending on the person, meaning that for some it’s purely for the pleasure of exploration and the buildings themselves, whereas others are far more interested in the detritus and the details left behind. And for me at least, it’s definitely the latter that is key — little pieces of information that give hints about the lives of the people who once worked, or better still lived, there. Items that offer the briefest snippet of the past — a moment captured in time almost.
And yet that said, the Mt. Asama Volcano Museum is the first haikyo I’ve visited that was actually more interesting on the outside; its shape and precarious position on the side of a mountain making it a sight that is simultaneously both sad and stunning.
More pictures of which — in black and white — can be seen here in Part 1.
But that’s not to say there were no signs of past life in the place, it’s just that on the whole they weren’t especially personal that’s all. Except this perhaps somewhat tellingly full box of business cards — still patiently waiting for a taker since the museum closed its doors sometime in 1993.
Otherwise it was mostly indicators of the work that went on there, whether it was science-based study,
or catering to the customers culinary needs.
And maybe also their health, should they have been struck down with a bug.
Possibly even a bird.
Plus, as it was open back in the day when smoking was practically a prerequisite rather than something to be merely put up with, there were signs of where some people smoked their last cigarette on the premises.
Or off the premises, in more of a nod towards the ‘manners’ that pervade today.
And yet just like almost all haikyo, the museum conjured up a few mysteries, this time due to its unfathomable possession of a diverse array of dead animals. Some of which were stuffed.
Whereas others were simply stuffed into jars.
Which are now left alone with nobody to look at them.
Should they have ever wanted to in the first place.
Having sent numerous emails over the last 18 months or so sharing stories and locations with fellow haikyo/urban exploration fans Mike (Michael John Grist), Mike (Mike’s Blender) and, erm, Mike (Gakuranman), the chance to actually get together on a trip finally presented itself, culminating in a two day road trip covering the known, and not so known, roads of Gunma and Nagano; first and foremost on our minds being the Mount Asama Volcano Museum — a decidedly bleak looking structure somewhat precariously perched on one of the many mountains looking up to the one time tourist spot’s not exactly insubstantial namesake.
The slowly decaying building creating a strangely serene and yet at the same time almost post-apocalyptic scene.
A feeling that continues as one gradually approaches.
Its wonderfully weatherworn exterior damaged due to the extremely exposed location.
And more than likely the marvellously positioned museum’s close proximity to a still very much live volcano.
Some early snow on the roof already signalling what’s to come in the ensuing months,
along with signs inside of what could be a combination of both vandal and volcanic activity.
The latter at least creating a situation that may well have played some part in the people who once worked there walking out.
Leaving only the lonely binoculars to rather forlornly look out onto the landscape.
For more of a look at the museum, here, in part 2, I take a closer and in colour look at the interior, along with the various odds and sods not so lovingly left behind.
After looking at some personal effects and the rooms in parts one and two respectively, it’s finally time to see the facilities; areas of the small huddle of mining company-related houses which, despite being abandoned a couple of decades or so ago, are still surprisingly well equipped.
And whilst at least one resident appears to have left in a relative rush,
others were decidedly more deliberate.
Not of course that clean dishes would make cooking dinner any less disagreeable.
Meaning it’d be about as tempting as using the toilet. A water closet complete with twenty-year-old used paper for added uncomfortableness.
A feeling of filth and fetidness that no amount of cleaning,
could ever cleanse.
For anybody interested in more haikyo/urban exploration, there are also pictures on Tokyo Times of entirely abandoned mining towns, water parks and also love hotels, along with a whole gamut of other stuff in the haikyo category.
