In search of hidden Japan (1)

A conversation with Alex Kerr

Oku-Noto, Noto peninsula, Ishikawa Prefecture

Dear readers, I’m temporarily getting off the Yamanote train to post a two-part interview with author and respected Japan expert Alex Kerr. In his latest book, Hidden Japan, Kerr embarks on a quest to uncover the wonders that still exist around Japan. He travels to numerous isolated and lesser-known locations where remnants of traditional culture can still be found.

I recently did this interview for my magazine, but the article is only coming out in June, so consider this post as an exclusive preview for Tokyo Calling readers.

Also, don’t forget the special 80% discount on annual paid subscriptions.

$30 → $6 (see link above)

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I'd like to start with what I find a very interesting point in your book. You sort of warn your readers that your book is not a typical guidebook. In a sense, I would even call it an anti-guidebook or anti-travel book. I'd like you to tell me a little bit about the message you want to convey and why you originally wrote your book in Japanese.

Hidden Japan is part of an ongoing series I’ve been working on with a Japanese publisher. One of our earlier collaborations was Theory of the Japanese Landscape—a book that, though only available in Japanese, explores the kinds of landscape issues I’ve long been interested in.

For Hidden Japan, the publisher proposed something compelling: “Why don’t we choose ten unusual places and write about them?” For me, it was a dream project. I’d long wanted to create a modern update of what Shirasu Masako had done in the 1960s and ’70s—particularly in her iconic book Kakurezato (Hidden Hamlets).

Shirasu was an important mentor to me, but her writing—deeply scholarly and steeped in classical references—can be a bit dense for contemporary readers. My aim was to craft something more accessible and more attuned to the present moment.

In some cases, I literally followed in her footsteps, revisiting the same locations she once wrote about. In others, we selected entirely new places. That was the genesis of the book. All told, it took about two years to travel to and write about each of the ten sites.

Shirasu’s book focuses on places overlooked by large tour groups and the typical tourist—locations so tucked away they might never be discovered without intention. That was the spirit I wanted to revisit, but I also hoped to go further.

It wasn’t just about pointing out another picturesque temple or a lovely garden. I wanted to ask: What are these places, really? What do they tell us?

In the major tourist destinations, the deeper meaning is often lost—diluted by crowds and commercialism. But in these forgotten, out-of-the-way places, untouched by time, something essential still lingers. That's where the original spirit survives.

In your book, more than once, you warn your readers about the dangers inherent in tourism. You say, okay, you are reading about these places but don't go! And then you add, think twice or maybe even three times before you choose your destination.

I believe we need a new philosophy of tourism. Much of what I teach at the university in Kyoto—and what I explore through my writing, lectures, and restoration projects across Japan—is grounded in the idea of sustainable tourism.

On one side, you have rural towns and villages struggling with depopulation. They’re in real trouble, and tourism—when done thoughtfully—can offer them a lifeline. That’s the potential upside. But then there’s the downside: the unchecked chaos of over-tourism, which is becoming one of the defining issues of our time.

It’s not just Japan, of course. We’re seeing it everywhere—from Venice to Barcelona, even Machu Picchu. There was even a traffic jam at the summit of Mount Everest, with climbers lining up on the peak—and some of them died. That, to me, is the symbol of what’s gone wrong: people will go anywhere and everywhere, leaving trash in their wake and diminishing the experience for everyone else.

The difficult truth is that the people causing this damage are us—because we’re there too. I’m a tourist, just like anyone else. We're all part of the problem.

That’s why tourism needs to be approached from two sides. When I advise those struggling towns and villages I mentioned earlier, most of what I focus on is how they can shape a form of tourism that’s sustainable—how to attract visitors without harming what makes the place special. But there’s another side we often overlook: the responsibility of the tourist.

What should our standard for travel be? In the past, we simply went wherever we pleased, and that was considered fine. But today, we need to ask different questions. Instead of “Where do I want to go next?” we should be asking, “Where am I needed?” or “If I go there, will I be part of the problem?”

Take the Galápagos. I’ve always wanted to visit, but I won’t—because I don’t believe my presence would contribute anything meaningful. In fact, I’d only be adding to the strain. Instead, I’d go somewhere like the Iya Valley in Shikoku or other remote areas facing depopulation and economic decline. These are places where a thoughtful visitor could make a difference. That’s what this book is, in part, about: highlighting the kinds of places that could benefit from our presence.

Among the places included in your book, is there a place that impressed you particularly, for whatever reason?

There is a beach on Amami Oshima, an island located between Kyushu and Okinawa. It’s called Katoku Beach and it looks like one of those flawless beaches on a South Pacific island. The locals call it Jurassic Beach because of its pristine quality. Yet, even this isolated place is threatened by Japan’s “construction state.” There’s a plan to build a massive concrete embankment stretching the length of the beach, which is absurd because the place is so isolated and doesn’t need any protection. I only got to know it because I was contacted by Jean-Marc Takaki, a local guide who is fighting to save Katoku Beach.

Katoku Beach, Amami Oshima (Earth Island Journal)

In your book, you wrote something like, “So far the damage to Amami’s environment has been contained, but you can never be too optimistic.” As far as you know, have there been any changes in this respect?

Oh, yeah. Construction is continuing, it has not been stopped. They will build it. They are building it as we speak. They're still in the early stages, but this is an ongoing construction process and it is happening. It’s unstoppable.

I checked the place on Google Earth and it looked like the real work hadn't been started yet.

Yes, but there are huge rows of concrete blocks on land just behind it, ready to be installed. So this is going to happen. It's not a matter of if but a matter of when because they are bound and determined to do it. The Prefecture wants this to happen. At the moment, they've slowed it, to Takaki-san’s great credit. They really have done their best. I mean, Takaki-san is a national treasure, you know. But they are going to ruin that beach.

I also heard that the coast of Kakeroma, a smaller island just to the south of Amami Oshima, has already been completely covered in concrete.

That’s right. Nearly every small harbor has already been paved over. It’s happening everywhere—the entire coastline of Japan is being systematically covered in concrete.

Take Sadogashima, for example. It once had a rugged, rocky shoreline, but now, harbor by harbor—and sometimes even just short stretches of coast—it's all being sealed in concrete. One after another, the natural edges are disappearing.

It’s as if Japan is determined to cover every last natural surface in concrete.

One interesting thing Takaki said during last year’s press conference at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club of Japan is that a lot of people on the island are actually in favor of all this building because it's a source of jobs for them.

That’s true across Japan—because these projects bring money to contractors and workers. There are really three forces at play.

First, there’s a basic indifference. Many people simply don’t care if a beach or natural landscape is buried under concrete. Whether it becomes ugly or degraded doesn’t matter to them.

Second, for a lot of people, concrete still symbolizes progress. I’ve often said that Japan is a developed country with a developing-country mindset. New concrete—bright, clean, and freshly laid—is seen as a sign of advancement. It’s a kind of 1950s logic: when a new bridge or dam was built, there were flags waving, drums beating, and celebrations. It stood for prosperity, wealth, and development.

The problem is, while much of the world has moved beyond that mindset, Japan remains stuck in it. So every new project isn’t just seen as economic gain—it’s seen as civilization itself, proof that Japan is modern and moving forward.

Third, construction does bring real wealth—but mostly to a select group: the construction industry and the politicians connected to it. In my previous book, Dogs and Demons, I went into detail about how public works money often finds its way—through a maze of opaque mechanisms—into the pockets of bureaucrats and officials who help create these plans.

That’s why it’s so difficult to get local resistance to these projects. The fact that a number of residents are actively working to protect Katoku Beach is not just admirable—it’s rare.

One of the saddest things about this situation is that these small towns and rural places are addicted to public construction largess, and it seems to me that the government and big business – the construction business and nuclear industry, for instance – specifically target those places because they know that they need the money and can’t afford to say no.

Yes, exactly. Japan has spent vast amounts of money on things it didn’t need, while neglecting the things it truly does—like burying power lines, modernizing sewage and water systems, and building hospitals.

There are real, pressing needs in places like the Iya Valley—and none of them have to do with roads or dams. What these areas desperately need is new residents, people willing to move in from the outside. But basic infrastructure is missing.

Up in the hillsides, there’s no public water supply. Residents have to drag plastic hoses three kilometers up the mountain just to get water. That’s not something someone coming from the city can or will do.

The government could invest in those kinds of essential services. If they did, people might actually move there—because it’s stunningly beautiful. But right now, it's simply impractical. You could build five more roads into that village, and it wouldn't make a difference. If the basics aren’t there, no one will come.

The problem is that government construction funding remains locked into projects that are well beyond their relevance—projects no one truly needs anymore.

One urgent need, in fact, is the removal of old, silted-up, or disused dams—many of which are actively damaging their environments. In countries like France and the United States, dam removal is happening on a massive scale. Hundreds have already come down, including some very large ones. Japan, by contrast, has removed just one that I know of, in Kyushu. Beyond that, I’m not aware of any other major efforts.

And to circle back to something you mentioned earlier—when we work on restoring old houses in Iya, the people doing the rethatching, carpentry, and restoration are often the very same workers who, the following month, put on helmets and head off to build roads. For them, the task doesn’t matter—whether it’s rebuilding a farmhouse, installing a water system, or pouring concrete. As long as the paycheck comes, it’s all the same.

(End of Part 1)

You can read Part 2 here.

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