Our first day in Japan yesterday is going to be hard to beat, but today, after marvelling at it from above, we’ve got an exciting programme to visit Nagasaki in a more pedestrian way. This morning, it’s looking a bit drizzly, so we stay close by, and start with a walk around our neighbourhood: we’re just next to Chinatown (a bit boring after our experience in Taiwan), and also close to another foreign enclave, Dejima island.
Dejima is the remains of a fascinating piece of history: this used to be the only place in all of Japan that European foreigners were allowed in during the very insular Edo period, between the 17th and the 19th century. This tiny artificial island off the coast of Nagasaki was the one and only trading post with the West for over 200 years, and the Dutch, who occupied it, had a monopoly on the Japanese market. Despite the benefits of the arrangement for both parties, local officials kept an incredibly strict watch on the foreign merchants, and everything was made to keep the two populations (and cultures) separate: the bridge to the island was guarded day and night, no crossings were allowed outside of very few exceptions, and all incoming ships were carefully searched. The story seems right out of a medieval fantasy book, and indeed it’s quite clearly the inspiration for a location in one of my recent reads, “The Priory of the Orange Tree”, giving this an additional fantastical dimension for me.
As Japan opened up to the world in the mid-19th century, the strict border policy relaxed and Dejima was slowly absorbed into Nagasaki following a series of land reclamation projects. The original canal and bridge still remain however and as we walk along it, it’s easy to imagine this small neighbourhood as the mysterious, isolated bastion it once was. Aesthetically, it’s less interesting for us however than its history would suggest: the buildings have been preserved in the old Dutch style, but we can see many examples of those closer to home, and we’re content with simply daydreaming about what life must have been like there at the time.
Leaving the old trading post behind, we continue on through a pleasure port and to the Nagasaki Seaside Park, keen to see some more cherry blossoms, even in less than ideal weather. The trees are indeed in full bloom and we have a pleasant stroll around the gardens, enjoying the flowers and the pretty views towards the bay and the impressive Megami bridge. It’s rather grey and windy still but there’s no downpour, and it means we’ve got the park to ourselves.
As the clouds slowly recede, we’re ready to venture further from our hotel and towards a mandatory stop in Nagasaki: the Atomic Bomb Museum and Peace Park. This is quite a walk from our hotel, and in the now balmy noon sun, we soon get warm and tired: time for lunch. It’s a bit of a challenge as we’re currently going through a quiet, typical residential neighbourhood, and all of the restaurants are very much geared towards local residents. At a loss to decipher the menus or even names of the places we pass, we pick a decently full one at random, and land in a lovely old lady’s establishment. She kindly sits us down and brings us tea and menus, obviously all in Japanese, and even written vertically from right to left. We give it a go with the translate app but our phones can’t make head or tails of the unusually arranged characters, and there’s not even a picture we could point to. The owner doesn’t speak a word of English, and to avoid holding everyone up too long, we end up just asking to have the same meal as the friendly local couple at the table next door, who assure us their food is lovely. They even explain which noodles to order depending on whether we want it hot or cold!
As we keep trying to figure out what is likely to land on our plate, Google Translate finally picks up one word on the menu: kitsune, or fox. Hopefully it’s just a picturesque name for a dish? Better stop looking in any case, and concentrate on our food, which arrives very soon. With our neighbours’ help, we’ve ordered a full set menu: a warm noodle soup in a lovely, eel-tasting broth, fried meat and egg on rice, some accompanying pickles, and a even a dessert, a weird-looking coffee jelly, which the owner helpfully sets aside when she serves us, to make sure we only eat it at the end. It’s all delicious regardless of which creature it came from (including the unexpected jelly), and we tuck in, although the portions are so big that I struggle to finish. If this is the standard meal size I’m seriously wondering how the Japanese stay so thin in their vast majority!
We’ve again taken about three times as long as the other patrons for our lunch, between fumbling about with the order and my slow eating, but everyone has stayed unfailingly kind and polite, and we’ve profusely thanked our host at the end (using one of the only Japanese words we know). We really hope we’re not being horribly rude inadvertently, because so far we’re feeling genuinely welcome everywhere, despite some less than enthusiastic accounts online about how Japanese treat foreign tourists. For us, the Edo period and its shutting out of visitors sure seems long left behind.
We’re just a few streets away from the museum now, and it’s a sobering prospect as we reach the vicinity of the impact site. We start by visiting the memorial to the bomb’s victims, a beautiful underground facility, containing towers of ledgers with the names of the hundreds of thousands dead. There’s a peaceful sunlit media room with documentaries on the long-term effect of radiations on the immediate survivors of the bomb, and we watch the story of a sixteen-year-old girl drafted in to help in the Mitsubishi arms factory.
The museum itself describes more in detail the bombing run and the effect of the blast on the city and its inhabitants. Everything about the atomic bomb is superlative: the temperature of the explosion, the radius of the shockwave, the strength of the blast. Although Nagasaki’s geography limited the effects, the city was massively destroyed, in large part by unchecked fires caused by the explosion. The human consequences are grim too: instant deaths, horrible injuries on the spot and insidious long-term radiation sickness, as we saw in the documentary.
A very interesting section at the end of the exhibition gives wider context about the war and presents various testimonies from people involved in early atomic warfare - including some US politicians and militaries who believe that Japan would have surrendered even without this demonstration of force. Back on the surface, as we exit the museum there’s a small park marking the hypocentre (the impact site), with various sculptures referencing the ravages of the bombs, all decked in garlands of origami cranes - a symbol for peace inspired by the story of yet another delayed victim of radiation.
The Peace Park itself contains more abstract sculptures donated by countries from all over the world, and we sit down for a bit in the sun to contemplate the large, blue centrepiece and process our visit. The overwhelming message here is “This should not happen again. We want peace for all, everywhere.” Which is a reassuringly positive, forgiving takeaway from such violence. But we also have the added context of our trip through nine other East Asian countries, who almost universally suffered (sometimes great atrocities) at the hands of the warmongering Empire of the Rising Sun. And it’s telling to see how much conflicts escalated before this peace was finally reached.
Still digesting this rather history-heavy day, we take the tram back towards our hotel to spare ourselves another hour-long walk. We’ve had quite enough excitement for today, and after a quick stop at the station to buy our eye-wateringly expensive train tickets for the next leg, we just grab a quick meal at a combini and head up to our very comfortable room for a break. Tomorrow, we continue on to Hiroshima - another darkly famous city.
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