Maui Thirty Magazine

Sometimes a stop at one place can lead to a great adventure in another. From an art gallery on Maui to an entirely unexpected experience at a sacred place across the ocean…

In 2012, the Schaefer International Gallery at the Maui Arts and Cultural Center had a ceramic exhibition by contemporary Japanese female artists, “Soaring Voices: Recent Ceramics by Women from Japan.” It was described as pushing boundaries and conveying an internal energy. The works that fascinated me the most were from Shigaraki.

I have wanted to go to Shigaraki, Japan ever since, imagining I would see much more of the beautiful styles of ceramic work that had intrigued me at the gallery. The unique pieces in the show had calcium deposited in the clay. Large, raw, unglazed pieces.

This year, I booked a trip to Kyoto with plans to explore more of the artwork and temples I had looked for on previous visits. This time, I would make my way to Shigaraki. I got up early on a Monday morning and waved goodbye to the front desk at the hotel. I asked one last time, “Are you sure the Ceramic Cultural Center is open on a Monday?” The desk clerk waved back, “No problem, have a good time.” So off I went.

Planning my route, I had looked up the bus and train schedules and both looked complicated. I didn’t want to take the Tozai line and switch to the Keihan Railway to Hamaotsu and from there take the Ishiyama line to Ishiyama train station. Trains didn’t run after a certain hour, so if I missed the last one I would be in trouble. No thanks. I decided a taxi from Ishiyama would be the easiest way to get there.

I got on the subway and went from Gojo to the Kyoto Train Station. At the train station I purchased a ticket to Ishiyama. Hardly anyone was on the train. I got off at Ishiyama and walked out to find a taxi. Grabbing the first one in the line up, I asked him if he would take me to Shigaraki. He was surprised…“Shiga?” I said, “No Shigaraki”. He asked again, “Shigaraki?,” then he sat in silence before asking one more time, ”Shigaraki?” I thought, what is going on? What’s the problem? “Yes, Shigaraki,” I said.

We drove off, headed to Shigaraki. The route was a narrow curvy road into the mountains. The taxi driver didn’t speak English, and I only understand and speak very basic Japanese. We didn’t talk as he drove, I just looked out the window. Halfway to Shigaraki, we came to the famous Miho Museum. He pulled in and asked if I wanted to go there. “No thank you,” I said. “No thank you????,” he repeated, puzzled. We got back on the road and kept going.

Finally, we got to an area with houses and I could see chimney stacks. This must be Shigaraki, I thought. No English signs welcomed me, but I could see many large ceramic pots on trucks and in the distance on the ground near houses. I was getting excited. We’re here!

He pulled up the driveway to the Ceramic Cultural Center and there was a huge gate across the road. He got out of the car and rattled the gate, then got back in and seemed very upset. He quietly pointed to the gate and crossed his arms, making an X. Then he shook his head and said, “No,” and I understood. I had picked the wrong day to see the center. It was Monday, and they were closed. I just gasped. Why wouldn’t they say that on their website? We had driven a long way and my taxi fare was up to $100 at this point. But there was nothing we could do. Disappointed, I told him it was okay and that we could just go back to Ishiyama.

Heading down from the driveway, he got excited and pulled into another tiny museum parking lot. They were closed too, but he could see someone inside so he ran up to the front and banged on the door, asking them to let me in. They all spoke in Japanese, but I could understand some words and read their body language to interpret the conversation. “We have come all this way and the Cultural Center is closed. Just let her come in for a few minutes before we go back to Ishiyama.” The workers agreed, “Well, okay, but we’re closed today.” They flipped the lights on and my driver motioned for me to hurry. “They’re going to let you in,” he smiled. So I walked through the museum as fast as I could. I was a potter for twenty-five years, so as I looked at the works I was ticking them off in my mind…high fire (cone 9-10), wood fired, slip glazes, salt fired, reduction…nothing was really extraordinary, but at least I had seen some ceramics.

As we were leaving town, the driver spotted a café gallery where someone was watering potted plants. He pulled up into their parking lot. Again he ran up to the woman and asked her if we could come in because the Ceramic Cultural Center was closed and we had driven all the way from Ishiyama. She said, “Come back in an hour. I am not open now (she meant her cash wasn’t there so she couldn’t make any sales).” He insisted, “The least you can do is let her come in just to look.” Okay, she agreed. I ran in, checked off my list…electric fired, reduction fired, slip covered reduction pieces, ash glazes, electric fired hand painted pieces. I got back in the cab.

The driver apologized for Shigaraki being closed on a Monday. I said, no, it’s okay, not your fault. He simplified his Japanese and I used few English words, but we accepted what we could understand.

We got back on the road. In silence, he drove the curvy mountain route to Ishiyama. As we got closer to the train station, he said excitedly, “I’ll take you to my church.” I thought, oh no. Your church? I don’t want to go to anyone’s church. Now it’s going to get weird. Oh boy!

He drove into a large parking area, stopped the taxi and got out. This time, he spoke in English and very slowly said, “Please, Ishiyamadera, famous temple, no meter, go.” So I ran out and thought, did he say Ishiyamadera? I’d been wanting to go to Ishiyamadera, but because the directions were so complicated I hadn’t done it. And there I was!

Ishiyamadera is this rare massive rock monument. At the bottom of it is a cave. I think it reminded those who saw it early on of the cave that Amaterasu (the sun goddess, a Shinto deity) came out of. A stream circles the monument like a moat. It’s very impressive. I could feel how the first people who saw this place must have thought, “We have to build our temple around this.” The whole area feels sacred, and I could imagine the many people who had come there over the decades since the temple was founded over 1,265 years ago. It was awe inspiring for sure.

I ran back to the parking lot after about twenty-five minutes and there was my driver waiting for me. I got in and he asked, “Train station?” I said, “Yes, please (onegaishimasu).” When we arrived, he got out to open my door. With his two hands out and his head bowed, he presented a gift to me…a beautiful pink furoshiki (a traditional Japanese wrapping cloth) with a woman painted on it. He had purchased it from the gift shop at Ishiyamadera while waiting for me. What a sweet man. I was beside myself! I thanked him and he giggled.

I wished I could have told him that going to Ishiyamadera was the highlight of my trip. Shigaraki was okay, but Ishiyamadera was WOW! And he made it even more special by being so kind and considerate. My visit was filled with the unexpected. Like the ceramic works that had led me from Maui to Japan, this trip was about pushing boundaries and experiencing the energy of the people and places around me.

In a couple of months I will begin my 20th year on the island of Maui.  Not unlike many others, I came here for a vacation and I ended up staying.  When I arrived I expected to find a tropical paradise, most folks do, and that it is…but what I didn’t expect is that it is also as country as anyplace in my home state of Tennessee.

On an island only a little larger than the county where I’m from, there exists most of the Earth’s climate zones, and a significant portion of the island looks like much of Tennessee.  Pastures and farmland and woodlands all resembling my home state, and folks in pickup trucks who wave when you pass.

But there are equally as many places here that satisfy the “tropical paradise” description of Maui.

Cowboys, farmers, and surfers all sharing this wonderful place.

People who are from here talk about “island (or rock) fever,” which means you feel like you have to go somewhere else and get away because the island is so isolated and, in many ways, quite rural.

I have never experienced that feeling.

Going on 20 years and I still have not seen anywhere close to all that Maui has to offer, and if I have 20 more I will still not have experienced all of the island’s beauty.

I’m not a fan of witnessing Pele (Hawaiian Goddess of fire) in action.  I think she does a great job of being the fire goddess and I think she is supposed to scare us mortals.

I grew up on the Big Island in the 50’s. The only excitement there was eruptions.  Didn’t matter where it was or what time of the day or night, I recall it was a must-see-immediately situation.  When I was five, I was playing with my friend when her father heard of an eruption in the Puna area and he wanted to pile his family into the car and drive over there…in a hurry.  In those days they had volunteer “Watchmen” who acted as the police in an emergency, and her dad was one of them.  Sometimes he was given notice ahead of the general public on things like the newest eruptions. In this case he was told of an eruption in the Puna area.  Her parents asked mine if it would be okay to take me along.  “Sure, Wilma will probably enjoy the ride.”

It took less than an hour to drive out to Kapoho where the eruption was.  When we parked the car we could see in the distance a house slightly tilted to the right, as if it was falling into a hole.  Not many people were there to see the eruption because it wasn’t made public yet.  The unusual thing about this one was it was taking place in an area that was not inside a crater.  No one there had seen anything like this before.

We were able to drive quite close to the house.  On the right side of the house was a small fountain of lava spewing out.  The ground was rumbling and the vibration traveled up your legs and into the pit of your stomach.  A five-year-old does not forget how that felt.  We were parked in a large field.  We got out of the car and walked as close as we could to the house.  I could see cement steps leading up to the front door.  Plants along the walkway on either side were still alive.  Everything looked pretty normal, so normal that it looked like it could have been our house.  I thought about how we had the same plants and the same color house.

When the adults were done looking at what we had come to see, we started walking back to the car.  I remember it looked like we parked in a wide, open field.  We could see the car, but now my neighbor couldn’t figure out how to get back to it.  The ground had more cracks in it than it had earlier, and we couldn’t jump across them…we were five.  So we took another route to the car and then discovered we couldn’t go that way either.  I remember wondering if we were ever going home again.  I sensed that my friend’s dad was getting worried. Finally after walking for what seemed like a very long time, we made it to the car and left.

The next day my father announced that we would all go to see the newest eruption.  “No,” I said.  I didn’t want to go.  I wanted to stay at home.  My parents ignored my panic…“of course you’re going.”  I was very upset.  I didn’t want to return to the very hot lava fountain and its rumbling sounds, and most of all I didn’t want to repeat that scary experience of not being able to get back to where we had parked.

Everyone in my family piled in to the car except me.  I hung on tightly to the front door, then the car door, all the while screaming that I was staying home.  No one understood what I was doing.  Five-year-olds do not have the language to express fear…I was acting it out.

When we got to the eruption we were far away from the house with the lava fountain.  By this time the house was tilted even further and the lava was still spewing.  Civil Defense had cordoned off the house with yellow tape.   We couldn’t park anywhere near that house, but I still refused to leave the car.  Eventually, my story came out.  I told my Dad that I had walked very close to the house.  I told him that the lady had plants like we did (anthuriums) and then we had a hard time getting back to the car.  He asked me to point out where we were when we had seen the eruption the day before.  When I showed him how close we’d been, he got very upset.  He agreed it was not a safe viewing spot.  We should never have been that close.

When we got back home, my dad had a word with our neighbor.  The whole experience felt so dangerous and volatile, and that kind of eruption outside of a crater rattled everyone.  We all felt vulnerable that if it could happen there, it could happen anywhere…including our house.

I have never liked the sounds that Pele makes when she is in full production.  She’s impressive alright, and to a small child the memory of being stuck out there so close to her fury made for many sleepless nights.