Haikyo

Arriving at the long-abandoned IK Hospital on a bright and unusually mild winter morning, the faded wooden buildings of the main hospital on the left, and doctors’ surgery on the right, were surprisingly welcoming.

In the shade and the surgery, however, it wasn’t quite so appealing. The entrance immediately suggesting the interior would be very different.

Which the horribly dated and incredibly dreary waiting room quickly confirmed.

A decidedly gloomy atmosphere that the wall hangings and random ornaments completely failed to dispel.

Opened in 1951, the hospital specialised in internal medicine, paediatrics and obstetrics/gynaecology. And being very much on the small side — with only 8 or so rooms in the hospital, and half that in the surgery — it’s easy to imagine it being a relatively quiet, close-knit institution. Particularly so as it served a fairly rural and sparsely populated area.

But now it merely serves as a reminder, and similarly there are lots of them in regards its former function, with a whole host of medical equipment and paraphernalia strewn about the place.

Along with more administrative details such as memos and phone numbers.

Not to mention the means of communication.

Time and the elements, however, have really taken their toll. Subsidence is presumably a major factor, which has left some parts almost completely intact, and others in an absolutely dreadful state.

A fair bit having fallen down completely, with other sections rapidly heading that way.

Taking, as they go, even more reminders of the past.

And it’s the past that in many ways makes the hospital so unique; something that is generally a factor with most haikyo/abandoned buildings. Whether it be a once opulent politician’s house, remote mountain village or memory-filled school — they all have stories to tell. Yet none of them are as shocking as the one belonging to the IK Hospital.

Back in 1992, for reasons undocumented, it’s reported that the head doctor went berserk, killing both the staff and patients — each and every one of them. A truly nightmarish event that obviously meant the immediate closure of the facility, and in turn its abandoned state today.

Details are unfortunately scarce, with numerous mentions on Japanese sites never linking to an actual news report, but it is assumed the murders occurred in the main hospital building — a structure that these days gives little away in relation to the horrors that went on there.

It too has suffered some pretty severe damage over the years, but unlike the surgery, it’s empty, with nothing in the way of hints about the murders, except perhaps this sad, solitary picture.

Long-abandoned homes aren’t uncommon finds in Japan, but western-style ones are another matter altogether. In fact the only one I’ve ever had the pleasure of exploring was a wealthy politician’s house. A building so grand and beautiful that it more than made up for never finding anything even remotely similar. Or at least it did until I became aware of the villa below.

Built in 1922, it’s fascinating to imagine how truly unique it must have been. A little bit of Europe amidst the rice fields and wooden structures of rural Japan.

But that was then and this is now. The wooden structures and rice fields are still there, but the villa itself is looking decidedly worse for wear. The ground floor especially is in an incredibly forlorn state, although not quite as sorry looking as this unidentified beast that greeted us upon our arrival.

Empty, staring eyes that are also on display inside. Quite fittingly in both a western form.

And a much more traditional one.

Plus there are the faces of the people who once lived there.

Or if not the residents, then at least their relatives.

Strangely personal items that only add to the silence made all the more noticeable by the home’s now defunct forms of entertainment.

A slightly gloomy set of items that the battered surroundings only add to.

But upstairs it’s a very different story.

There’s so much more light, plus nature hasn’t taken quite the same toll. And just like downstairs, there are reminders of the people who once lived there.

Things that they took.

Took pleasure in.

Or perhaps tried not to.

A fascinating couple of rooms that still hint at the building’s former grandeur.

Not to mention the eclectic tastes of its one-time residents.

Their interests too, as there is also a small, still well-equipped darkroom.

But these things haven’t been used or looked at by anyone actually living there for years. Surprisingly there are records indicating a presence in the house as late as the early 1980s, but that’s still 30 years or so ago. A period of time that has seen a huge amount of decay. So much so in fact that a fairly hefty earthquake or simply a few more years of dealing with mother nature could conceivably see the whole thing collapse. And yet despite all the debris and the dodgy floors, the upstairs balcony still looks like the perfect place to relax on a bright, sunny day.

For more haikyo, Tokyo resident and all-round good bloke, Jordy Meow, has just released a book covering some of the incredible number of abandoned buildings he’s visited in Japan. Details and a preview of which can be found here.

Tokyo’s sprawling, concrete laden expanse often seems to go on forever, but when one does finally escape it, the scenery can change quite dramatically. Like this tiny village a few hours drive from the capital. A small group of houses nestled on the slopes of a tree covered mountain. An environment a whole world away from that of the nearby capital.

Hired by the forestry department, the residents lived a very different life compared to their city dwelling compatriots. Relatively isolated, food supplies and the like would have required forward planning, popping out for a bite to eat an impossibility and bears, rather than crime, a real concern. But regardless of the hardships, life there went on. Or at least it did until the late 1980’s. Then, presumably due to a lack of work, everyone simply left.

And when they did, they also left a good deal of their lives there, resulting in rooms that are now time capsules of sorts, offering a fascinating look at the tastes of the people who lived there — not to mention the times they lived in.

A period long before the internet and smart phones.

And even before Shintaro Ishihara became the loathsome, openly racist former Tokyo governor he is today. His youthful face masking at least some of the malice contained within.

But politics aside, what’s most striking of all is the sheer amount of stuff left behind. The location most likely making travelling light a necessity — both logistically and financially. Meaning at times it’s almost like the people just disappeared. There one minute. Gone the next.

An element that, whether it be an abandoned school, hotel or house of the rich, exaggerates the silence. A quietness even more noticeable in a room once filled with music.

This track by Shinkawa Jiro being one of the records found with the turntable above.

listen to ‘Song from an abandoned house’ on Audioboo

And yet despite such music, the reassuring company of television was even more sought out. The central focus of such technology in each and every living room proving what an important part of life it was. Presumably both as company as well as a connection to the wider world.

But these TVs haven’t been used in 25 years or so. Just like this rather forlorn looking favourite chair.

The same goes for these old toiletries.

And a load of clothes now forever unworn in the wardrobe.

All of it set to be left for another 25 years. The only possible visitors being people like me and the occasional bear.

But there definitely won’t be any more callers.

Situated in the western reaches of Tokyo, the Okutama Ropeway has been abandoned for nearly half a century.

Opened in 1962, the plan was presumably to tap into the massive population located a relatively short journey away, but the visitors never materialised. Or certainly not in the required numbers. The ropeway’s short, 600 metre, 6 minute hop from one seemingly random spot on a reservoir to another, clearly not enough to draw the crowds. And so, just 4 years later, it closed, leaving the two cable cars to sit where they were left on that very last day — silent and forever passenger-less.

Beautiful.

Strangely peaceful objects.

Objects that in their secluded, now very natural settings, make for lovely sights. And despite the massive financial losses the project must have suffered. Not to mention the disintegration of at least one persons dream. They are, unlike many haikyo/abandoned places, genuinely nice spots to visit.

With Japan’s population rapidly ageing, it’s really not surprising that so many abandoned schools exist. Plus combined with the equally rapid migration to the cities, it’s even less surprising to find such places in isolated areas and mountain regions. Locations that are feeling the full force of Japan’s changing demographic, resulting in the end for countless small communities, and also Sazuka Elementary School.

Situated next to a tiny, and now equally uninhabited village, the school closed way back in 1977, but remarkably it wasn’t declared officially shut until March 1990. A decision that, along with its back of beyond location, perhaps explains why so much has been left behind.

As such, it is still packed with reminders of school life. Things that were studied.

Played.

Used.

And possibly just marvelled at.

Being a good way from anything even remotely resembling civilisation, there’s also a small living area that housed a couple of male teachers. A setup that must have been more than a little cozy to say the least, consisting as it does of just one room and a kitchen.

The only obvious form of escape, besides books and magazines, being a now very battered TV.

That’s not to say the school’s female teacher had it any easier, as she often stayed with a student’s family rather than make the long trek back to wherever it was she lived.

But like most abandoned schools, the most striking thing about the building is its silence. Where once there was music.

Of which there was clearly quite a lot.

There is now very noticeably none. Which, while we were there, only magnified the sound of rain from a slow moving storm hammering down around us.

All of which seemed to emphasise the inexorable passage of time, along with the enormous changes that have taken place in the world.

And the complete lack of them at Sazuka Elementary School.

Abandoned hotels are undoubtedly the most common form of haikyo in Japan; structures that starkly expose the folly of the country’s bubble era, or perhaps more commonly the gradual decline of once popular tourist destinations. And the Fujiya Hotel in Shimoda is no different, situated as it is in a city that has undoubtedly seen better days.

Shimoda’s biggest claim to fame is that Commodore Perry and his fleet of ‘black ships’ arrived there in 1854, resulting in the opening of the first American Consulate in Japan. Plus far more significantly, the port (and eventually the whole of Japan) was opened to foreign trade.

But within 5 years this pivotal role had been handed to Yokohama. The consulate was relocated. And the city’s decline arguably began.

To be fair though, it’s not all doom and gloom — far from it in fact. Shimoda has some genuinely lovely beaches. Not to mention a wonderfully craggy coastline. Making it a popular spot in the summer, particularly so with surfers and the like. A situation that is ideal for small guesthouses and rental homes, but not necessarily big hotels. Meaning that despite a myriad of guests during the region’s more clement months.

The phone presumably didn’t ring much at all during the far longer off-season.

A sorry state of affairs that, like previously mentioned, has been a common occurrence all over the country. And just like many of the others, the Fujiya contains some interesting things that got left behind.

Dolls.

Chairs.

The obligatory vending machines.

Plus a rather forlorn-looking photo of an unnamed woman, although it could be Okichi, a former geisha from the city whose story is far sadder than the decline of a mere hotel.

And just like other such places, the Fujiya has room after identical room, which can get rather tedious. The hope for something interesting behind the next door almost always dashed by yet another semi-furnished interior just like the last.

This time, however, there were at least a few surprises.

Some rooms are in a truly shocking state.

Although far more interesting is that nature has started to take back a few of the others.

Creating wonderfully atmospheric scenes.

Something that is also repeated in the hotel’s bathing area — a presumably popular feature due to the area’s natural hot springs. As such it’s probably fair to assume that most guests would have gone down these stairs in anticipation of a soothing, restorative soak.

An element that the brochure was understandably keen to emphasise.

But that was then, and this is now. And just like the rooms, nature has begun to make considerable inroads, giving the baths a very different look indeed.

As well as endowing the building with real character. Ironically far more than it probably had when open.