Hokkaido diary: the Camellia Line to Busan

2/7:

6:54 a.m. The Kodama 857 leaves at 7:11 a.m. for Hakata. I didn't even bother getting a ticket this time. I'll just sit in one of the non-reserved cars (1-4, 7, or 8). The only thing a ticket would have told me is what time the train arrives in Hakata. 

Last night was certainly the low point of the trip. Just before midnight I stepped out of Shin-Yamaguchi Station. I noticed three things. One, everything was slick and spit-shiny with recent rain. Two, there were hotels everywhere. Three, it was COLD—not the relentless 0-degree chill of Sapporo, but something worse—a creeping, drafty, moist cold that seeped through my clothes—every layer—and into my bones. 

The station was closed from midnight to 4:40 a.m. (4:40 - 0:00, the sign said, showing the Japanese trend of reading right-to-left and the NE Asian one of using military time.) There were no Internet cafés. There was one izakaya, but it was only open until the three and you had to take your shoes off. The first train to Hakata didn't leave until 6:27 a.m. So I started checking hotels. The Hotel Active, Hotel Amuze and Toyoko Inn were all full. I didn't even bother with Yamaguchi Station Grand Hotel—looked way too rich for my blood. I walked a bit further west and saw a familiar sign blinking at me in the distance—McDonald's! Lame to spend six-and-a-half hours there in a foreign country but any port in a storm. Stepping through puddles I made my way up to the door. It was locked. A sign on the door said something about the place being closed between midnight and 5 a.m., despite the big garish sign out front advertising "24H OPEN." 

I made a semicircle about the southern entrance of the station, looking for an Internet café or a comfy place to park my ass and finding none. I wandered the silent, dark, empty streets. I had just finished reading Theroux's Ghost Train in which, as the title suggests, he compares himself to a ghost, traveling unseen. I now felt the same way, like a lonely ghost seeking a warm building to haunt. I settled on a convenience store with tables and chairs inside—no wi-fi but at least light, warmth, and nourishment—but when I'd finished buying snacks I saw that a chain barrier had been strung around the tables and chairs, invisible from outside. Demoralized, I sat on the steps of the dark Japanese restaurant next to the Hotel Active and ate, watching a lone cab sit fruitlessly in front of the station. It was cold and the frigid tiles beneath me wicked all the heat away from my body. I drank the warm coffee I'd bought (not knowing why I'd bought it) and was on the point of heading into the izakaya when I saw a pedestrian bridge sneaking under the tracks. I took it. It was stark and bleak with high chain-link fences acting as suicide prevention. It could have been the setting for any hard-boiled Japanese crime novel or film, especially on this cold, damp night, steam flying from the actor's mouths whenever the [sic] speak. Beyond the bridge were three more hotels. I picked the shabbiest, oldest-looking of them all and got a quote—¥5,500 yen. A bit steep, but worth getting out of the weather. I paid up and went to my single smoke-scented room, tearing off my clothes and collapsing into bed. It was one-fifteen in the morning. 

Here's where that hot can of coffee I'd drunk began to bite me in the ass. 

In the end I was SO tired and So desperate for a rest that my brain overrode the buzzing caffeine and went to sleep anyway. The bed was the softest, most comfortable one I'd slept in (apart from the Karasuma Hotel in Kyoto). 

I woke up at 6:30 (let myself sleep in a bit), washed my hair, threw on my clothes and skipped out. The sky was dark purple, illuminating the jagged, silver-edged, pine-clad hills surrounding the town, as well as more of its ugly buildings and jumbled streets and alleys—rather like Korea, especially under overcast. I could see my breath. The hills had received a light dusting of snow. The damp spots on the pavement had turned to black ice. I hurried to the station, flashed my pass at the agent, and arrived on platform 12 in time to see the 6:49 for Hakata pulling away from me. I felt a bit mad at myself. I had a ship to catch. Dawn was coming and this ghost needed to flee. Should have woken up earlier. 

Oh well. The time is now 7:35 and we've passed Asa and Shimonoseki. I'll be there in time. I think we just entered the tunnel to Kyushu. 

7:50 a.m. Definitely on Kyushu now. Next stop is Hakata. I'd forgotten how pretty this place was, even under gray skies—lofty green mountains wreathed in fluffy cloud boas, everything looking moist and damp, even the people and their tiny houses with multicolored tile roofs. Like Jeju Island, but roomier. 

8:26 a.m. Eating another breakfast sandwich in another McDonald's in Japan. Excessive? Well, you can't beat the availability—or the price. I don't much feel like paying ¥500 for a bowl of ramen this morning. 

The train pulled into Hakata just before 8. I crossed the road and headed to the bus stop to check what bus I need—88, it seems. That rings a bell. I'll just stop at a combini (convenience store) to grab supplies for the six-hour Camellia Line ferry ride and then I'll head for the port. 

9:26 a.m. At the ferry terminal. I must be getting tired. I put my ¥500 coin into the change slot (instead of the fare hopper) and thought I'd paid. The bus driver had to hold me up and pluck the coins (¥220) from my open and clueless hand. 

I decided to skip buying snacks. The terminal has shops, and the ferry I'm taking is so huge that they'll have convenience stores and even a few noodle shops aboard. I'll probably be sleeping the whole time anyway. Already bought my ¥500 terminal use ticket (what a racket) and my ferry fare is prepaid ($90) so now I'll just have to pay the fuel surcharge at the check-in desk and head upstairs to the departure lounge...when the check-in desk opens at 11:00, that is. 

10:32 a.m. Checked in. Much smoother this time now that I know what to do. Fuel surcharge was only ¥1,200—barely more than $11.40! (Check my math.) The Camellia Line is six hours in duration but man, the price is right. I'm now sitting in the exact same terminal (2F) on the exact same gate (11) which I took last time. Only difference is that I took the JR Beetle, a Boeing 929 Jetfoil that reaches Busan in 2.5 hours, and it was summer and the weather was hot, muggy and sunny. Now it's cold and rainy and I'm eating the last of my Sapporo Beer Crackers and am anxious to be away. Exchanged money and got ₩188,000 back. 

The New Camellia car ferry. From Wikimedia Commons.

11:46 a.m. 24 kilometers per hour, 522 people and 20,000 tonnes. That's how much this vessel steams, holds, and weighs. The whole damn ship smells like piss, except the lavatories—they're fresh and clean. I'm in Room 439 on Deck 4. This being a ferry between Korea and Japan, there are no berths—just 10 alcoves with space to stick small bags, valuables, and hang coats. We'll lay out pads, lay our heads on the brick-shaped green vinyl pillows, pull a thin comforter over us, and snooze the crossing away on the brown-carpeted floor. Our shoes are in the requisite compartmentalized shoe-cubby seen in all the more civilized restaurants, bars and houses. Looks like there's six of us so far. I'm the only foreigner. The deck and rail are visible outside the porthole, and the roof of the ferry terminal with its enormous trombone-shaped glass canopies, and the dreary town of Fukuoka sitting sullen under the wind and drizzle. My iPod is charging. I trust Koreans enough not to molest it in my presence (it's 3 cubbies away from me). Almost 12 now and we'll be leaving in 30 minutes. I hope I sleep the whole way. 

 

 

Final glimpse of Japan.

  1:32 p.m. Trying to sleep, but I can only manage a light doze. It's hard to believe those whitecaps out there could make this big ol' boat rock 'n' roll so much. I'm not sick—never been seasick except that one time in 2008—but I just can't get used to the swaying, rollicking motion. It's like trying to sleep on a camel's back—moving and yawing and pitching and rolling on 3 axes. It doesn't help that the lights in here are all on, the TV is blaring softly (inexplicably showing the 2010 Olympics on SBS) and this ship is warping and twisting so much that the portholes and bulkheads are making clicking, snapping, creaking noises. I tried the light switch, but it either doesn't work or it isn't a light switch. I'd put in earplugs but I want to hear an abandon ship order if there is one. Best I can do is pull my hoodie over my eyes, pretend I'm in a howdah on an elephant's back in India, and pray the next 4 hours fly by like the howling wind outside. 

3:00 p.m. No such luck. Still can't get to sleep. My iPod is charged though, so I sneaked off to one of the lounges—by the staircase on Deck 5—to watch the rollers and troughs and crests. The sea is gunmetal grey as far as the eye can see, with streaks and flashes of white everywhere. The sky looks like old snow. Hard to believe wind and temperature and currents can create such force. This is like being in a big honking Winnebago going up and down hummocky hills. Still not sick, but I think my stomach believes I should be by rights, and is making inroads. We'll hit a big hillocky wave and go up, up, up...but what goes up must come down, and down we go with a gut-wrenching drop and what must surely be a huge gout of white spray. That in itself wouldn't be too bad, except that the waves are coming at us on the perpendicular, so as we rise and fall, we're also rocking from side to side (why I compared it to a camel's gait, actually). The fun part is—apart from staggering drunkenly down corridors, floating down staircases, and watching the great swells rise and fall as over the backs of unseen Leviathans—is that it's still drizzling outside and there are several pearlescent drips clinging to the railings just beyond my porthole. As the ship rises and falls, these droplets slide back and forth on the undersides of the rails, looking for all the world like bubbles in a carpenter's level. 

I think I'll step outside, get a breath of fresh air, and try to find the observation deck (up top somewhere, probably). 

3:39 p.m. As I figured—the doors to the outside deck are locked tight. Makes sense. They wouldn't let anybody go outside in these seas. No more of these rough winter crossings for me. Can see land to the west—must be Tsushima. Means we're getting there. 

5:07 p.m. Land ho!

I went back to my cabin and slept for a while. That beat back the impending nausea. I woke to see several cargo ships and the gray-green mountainous shores of K-Land in the distance. I also saw the JR Beetle passing us. He left two hours after we did—no surprise the little hydrofoil caught up—but he must have had to slow down due to the conditions. Looks like he's getting jounced around out there plenty. 

And so ends February 7th. There's one correction I should like to make: the New Camellia did indeed have berths with bunks, but they were in the first-class cabins. My paltry second-class cabin had the accommodations depicted above. 

Tune in tomorrow for the final chapter of my Hokkaido diary.