Haikyo

Western Village first opened its doors back in the early 1970s. Originally quite a modest affair known as Kinugawa Family Ranch, the Wild West theme park did well and gradually expanded, hence the name change. Yet despite such success, changing times resulted in changing fortunes, and in 2006 it was forced to close — meaning that the park now sits empty and forlorn by the side of the road. An odd, wholly unexpected sight in a relatively sparsely populated area a few hours north of Tokyo.

Increasingly battered by the weather and years of neglect, it nonetheless still retains the look one would expect.

Visiting at the end of a politically tumultuous 2016, however, it wasn’t these out of place structures that made an impact. Instead, it was the park’s haunted looking residents and their unintended, yet no less terrifying depiction of a world turned utterly upside down. The world in which we currently live in, basically.

Considering its theme, and the period in which Western Village opened, it’s perhaps not surprising that one particular, distinctly larger-than-life personality was chosen to front it.

And, as a follicly challenged right winger with a weirdly orange complexion, such a choice seems disturbingly prescient.

So now, instead of an innocent recreation of all things cowboy-related, this celebrity led world feels like a truly disturbing vision of a potentially very near future. One in which the inner machinations and ulterior motives of those pulling the presidential strings are very much to the fore.

While those set to benefit blithely carry on — wilfully ignorant of the slow, piecemeal disintegration of everything they are supposed to stand for.

And such blatant disregard for procedure and accountability is cynically carried out while the masses are kept mostly in the dark by complicit organisations happy — or at the very least content — to peddle untruths and create distractions.

Leaving those in opposition vilified, confused and increasingly isolated.

Rendering them utterly unable to stop the legacy of a once proud party being completely desecrated.

The whole horrid state of affairs culminating in a genuinely great country being reduced to nothing but its greatest fear(s).

Completed in 1936, northern Japan’s Esashi train line ran for a scenic 42kms. Stretching from coast to coast, it served small, inland villages — offering a service that must have once been nothing short of essential. The combination of motorisation, better roads and a decreasing population, however, gradually left the route with an ever-dwindling number of passengers. A situation that meant by 2011, only 6 far from busy return services a day were in operation. And while presumably still relied upon by some, in strictly financial terms, it simply wasn’t viable. So 12 months later, the decision to close the line was announced, and on May 11, 2014, the last trains trundled along the tracks.

Fast-forward a little over 2 years, and the photographs below show what’s left: a small selection of unique, abandoned and wonderfully quaint local stations. Unfortunately a couple of them have already been destroyed or repurposed, and down to nothing but sheer good fortune, a demolition crew arrived at another one just as we had finished photographing it. There were ominous signs the rest would suffer the same fate too. So these images are a personal reminder of a wonderful day, and rather unexpectedly, also a document of what will soon sadly cease to exist.

Faded and rundown resort towns are plentiful in Japan; incredibly forlorn looking places that say a lot about the country’s past, and maybe even more about its future.

Once populated by scores of couples and young families on short breaks, they are now far quieter, with shuttered up shops hinting at businesses that once were, but almost certainly never will be again. And just as shops and the like suffer, so do hotels, with the inevitable decline in occupancy hitting profits hard; money that in part would have been used to upgrade the rooms and facilities to keep them competitive. A vicious circle that makes such accommodation increasingly less appealing, which in turn further hits earnings and makes any kind of refurbishment more or less impossible. The inevitable outcome of which is closure.

Hotel Omiya closed its doors some time in the early 90s, although rather oddly the final nail in the coffin was apparently a lift accident — the resultant fine proving too much for the presumably ailing business to pay. But even back then the whole building must have been terribly dated, and now, after considerable acts of vandalism and years of exposure to the elements, pretty much any sense of its former grandeur has gone.

That said, the aforementioned wanton destruction and weather have resulted in the unexpected beauty of nature beginning to take the place back — a factor that’s very noticeable on the higher floors, with carpets now better described as lush.

In more sheltered spots the invasion isn’t anywhere near as pronounced, but the slower process is still just as appealing.

Elsewhere, like so many abandoned structures in Japan, there are left behind signs of former life.

Along with a scene that suggests someone was actually living there at some point. For what appeared to be quite a while too.

But now — as it has been for most of the last two decades or so — there are no people. No noises either. Just an unnatural, sort of muffled silence, if that makes any sense.

Along with the far more common sensation of long lost memories.

At its peak in the 1960s, Nichitsu mining town was home to about 3,000 people, and boasted a school, supermarket, clinic etc. Basically everything the isolated mountain community needed to survive. But when the work disappeared, so did the inhabitants, leaving behind the buildings, along with glimpses of the lives once lived in them.

Time and the elements, however, have really taken their toll on what remains. As have countless visitors like myself. But on a hot summer day, it was a wonderfully peaceful place to be. There were deers foraging around the dilapidated structures, and not a single soul to be seen or heard. Just a rare, welcome silence, and now and again occasional moments of melancholy. Elements of which hopefully come through in the photos below.

Pretty much all abandoned buildings have a distinct character and atmosphere, but schools — especially the older, wooden ones — have a silence all their own. A surprising serenity that the likes of homes, villages and most certainly clinics, don’t always have.

And E Elementary School, tucked away in a rural community a few hours drive from Tokyo, was no different.

Established in 1872, the school underwent various changes, both in an administrative and structural sense — including a fire in the early years that completely destroyed the fledgeling institution. The final, and now slowly crumbling building was completed in 1957, but 28 years later its last ever students graduated; the merger of 6 elementary schools the cause of its demise.

Unfortunately a clearance of sorts occurred then — or at least some time later — as several of the rooms are empty, whereas others are packed full of desks, chairs, books etc. But luckily there are still enough things left in place to provide a sense of what the school was once like. Or at least what it was once like minus the usual succession of classes and activities.

Not to mention a complete lack of children.

And like most schools of this kind, the aforementioned silence was further exaggerated by remnants of sounds that once echoed round the rooms and corridors — both of the played, and recorded variety.

The latter now only playable digitally, rather than on the turntable below.

listen to ‘坊ちゃん音頭’ on audioBoom

Plus in a similar nod to changing technologies, there was the welcome treat of a couple of wonderfully retro TVs. Reminders of a time when screens weren’t black, flat and ubiquitous.

But without a doubt the real treat was the life-size anatomical figure whose body parts and internal organs were liberally scattered about the building’s most interesting room.

A fascinating presence that somehow still felt in keeping with the school’s faded atmosphere:

One that clings firmly to the past.

While at the same time still watches over the present.

In rural Japan, ramshackle wooden structures are commonplace, but few of them are as interesting as the long-abandoned H-Clinic.

Details are relatively scarce about when it was built, but the general consensus seems to be somewhere around the end of the Taisho period, or the beginning of Showa — so probably some time in the 1920s. And walking through the building’s decaying wooden rooms really is like stepping back in time. Perhaps not quite as far back as the 20s or 30s, but most certainly the post-war era.

There are the medical concerns.

Along with the medicine and apparatus used to treat them. Some of which are fascinatingly archaic.

Whereas others seem more akin to a laboratory than a clinic.

Although this photograph leaves no doubt about the building’s use, and the occupation of its owner.

Like the structure itself, little is known about the doctor, but as well as running his own medical facility, his old business card states he also held a position at a Red Cross hospital.

And as far as personal details go, we do know that he lived in the clinic with his wife and daughter. The deceptively large structure doubling as both a home and medical centre.

Upstairs there are now only simple, sparsely decorated bedrooms, although the way up there isn’t anywhere near as secure as it once was.

There was perhaps also a study of sorts, as there is still no shortage of books.

The downstairs living quarters, however, still give a real sense of how the doctor and his family lived. Decor-wise, the kitchen, like the clinic, is very dated.

The living room on the other hand is a real mishmash of eras and design. And in this area in particular, the sense of quietness and the slow passage of time that is so much a part of exploring abandoned buildings — whether they be once opulent homes, mountain schools or whole villages — is most apparent.

No noise from the TV.

No chatting either.

Plus like many Japanese homes, there is a butsudan, or Buddhist altar, where respects were once dutifully paid to ancestors and lost family members.

This also has further significance, as the wife was a committed devotee of Soka Gakkai, a lay Buddhist group with huge political and financial clout. The certificate on the wall offering gratitude for efforts in spreading the word, and the portraits are of the current president, and founder of Soka Gakkai International, Daisaku Ikeda.

Interestingly, in the same photograph, the calendar on display is from 2002. A surprisingly recent date considering the distinctly rundown nature of the building. Other, slightly contradictory reports, have suggested that the old lady and her daughter lived there until about 20 years ago, but even then it’s still hard to imagine someone being resident in the mid 1990s.

What is for sure, however, is that nobody lives in the clinic now, and the building is slowly going the way of its former owners, and indeed all other things.