Haikyo

When entering any school it’s only natural to expect a noisy greeting from the sounds of the students within, but not in Nichitsu mining town, as an ever-dwindling number of children due to the gradual decline of the area’s mining activities meant the community’s school was eventually forced to close its doors in the early 1970s — a decision that now makes the institution a very different place indeed, even before one actually enters, with no need anymore to change from outdoor shoes, to indoor ones.

And where kids once careered down the corridors.

Or clattered in and out of classrooms, regardless of the rules.

There is now only silence.

A silence that’s all the more noticeable due to the signs of so many sounds — especially those made by the students who once studied here.

Like drums left discarded.

Or pianos that are now unplayable, let alone unplayed.

Plus a varied selection of recorded music. In this case a nostalgic piece of vinyl that for some reason T.M. didn’t take home.

Instead choosing to leave it behind in a room that’ll never again have any festive cheer funnelled through its speakers.

And in Japan, where all manner of rules are continually, almost religiously, repeated, this discarded and slightly damaged megaphone seems especially subdued.

Silently suggestive of the sounds that were once an integral, and no doubt sometimes irritating, part of the school.

For those interested, there are my original posts on Nichitsu, covering the doctor’s office, dwellings and day to day life of those who once lived there, as well as a more recent visit to the now further decayed doctor’s place.

Despite exploring and photographing more than a few abandoned buildings, the majority of which have been thoroughly fascinating, making a return trip to any of them has never really seemed worthwhile — except that is for Nichitsu mining town. Not though to simply tread over previously trod ground, but rather to fully explore its old school building as, on our first visit, the light was almost non-existent by the time we got there, and then what little time we did have was cut short by an unexpected encounter with security.

A nagging regret that meant another journey out there was always on the cards, but finally deciding to do so inevitably led to one more look at the the almost legendary doctor’s office. So, the next instalment will be the school, but first it’s a final tour around the mining town’s now really quite horrific medical facilities.

A scene that was surprisingly serene at first, as the (relatively) reassuring recuperation room was just how I remembered it.

The rest of the place though was arguably even more grim than it was a year and a half or so ago, with time having taken a further toll on the facility. And, whilst more than a few things had been moved around, it didn’t detract too much from the sights that still do more than just hint at the dangers the miners one faced.

All the way from minor injuries,

to those that were much more severe.

Along with a variety of equipment,

to help correct any complaints.

Plus one or two other curiosities. A few of which were, and indeed still are, far harder to fathom.

Although the infamous brain in a jar that once accompanied this collection has now, totally inexplicably, been taken.

Part 2, the school, can be seen here, but for anybody interested, arguably even more sickening things in jars can be seen here. Or alternatively, here are pictures of an old medical facility that, in my mind at least, is even more melancholy.

With its conspicuously empty corridors,

and truly awful exhibits,

the Japan Snake Centre’s staggering abundance of ashtrays at least offer the smoker some sort of respite from the almost overwhelming miserableness of a barely-functioning-but-somehow-still-open-for-business facility and the horrible plight of its poorly housed alligators, wild boars and of course snakes.

But amazingly even this pales into insignificance when one enters the parts of the place that have actually stopped being used — as opposed to just appearing that way. And in particular, a room where, at least according to some of the letters left behind, a Mr Toba once worked.

A small, rather dark area that, despite its confined nature, is home to an absolute multitude of horrors, namely jar after increasingly sickening snake-filled jar.

In which some of the specimens are packed in.

Whereas others are left to lie alone.

With what relatively little light there was sometimes contriving to clearly display the containers increasingly disconcerting contents.

Samples that, despite the slight distraction of scientific stuff,

of some form or another, were simply impossible to ignore.

Especially as not only were they everywhere,

but some of them were quite a size too.

And yet even this nightmarish scenario wasn’t as bad as the room next door. An even smaller space stacked to the ceiling with unsealed plastic containers.

All full of the now horribly familiar.

Even the sink contained them.

A sight that whilst unpleasant, was nowhere near as repulsive as the smell — a stench so overpowering and putrid that I actually came very close to vomiting, making the return to Toba-san’s old room almost pleasant. Although not pleasant enough to consider a couple of cute-shaped cakes,

or, regardless of its apparent tastiness, some coffee.

For fans of horrible things in jars, there are other haikyo/abandoned building explorations on this site that feature a similarly contained brain, or, for the (arguably) slightly less squeamish, a mouse.

Due to its prime location right by a lake, guests at the Sansuisou Ryokan, in Saitama Prefecture, would have had the rather enviable option of a gentle saunter by the water’s edge before breakfast.

Plus, should they have felt energetic enough afterwards, maybe even a meander around the nearby mountains.

But whilst it may not look all that inviting now, at one time it must have been really quite welcoming.

And, along with its looks and location, it is also quite possible it played some kind of role in the local farming community, as the lake itself was built in 1935 as an agricultural reservoir in response to the Great Depression. Changing times, however, meant that despite its surroundings, the number of visitors slowly dwindled, culminating in the inn’s closure in the late 1990s. A situation that, combined with a relatively cursory clear up, has resulted in a fairly sparsely furnished haikyo, with not a great deal more to photograph than snake-like shower fittings,

and beds in which one wouldn’t really want to lounge about in for any longer than was strictly necessary.

But that said, like practically all abandoned buildings, it also contains a considerable number of chairs — pieces of furniture that were happily used by visitors during the hotel’s heyday to enjoy a few lively drinks,

or a decidedly quieter dinner.

The latter in particular once offering an ideal opportunity for guests to enjoy inobuta, the Ryokan’s speciality, which is a hearty hybrid of pig and wild boar.

Now, however, these chairs are either unceremoniously stored away,

or are left where they were last used.

Some of them still arguably suggestive of the conversations they once witnessed.

Whereas others, somewhat strangely considering they are merely functional pieces of furniture, look somehow rather lost.

And indeed lonely.

Almost as though they are silently waiting for someone to sit on them, or alternatively for something to happen.

Neither of which is the least bit likely.

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.