Bonsai on the Ledge, 3

Sugar Cane

Welcome back to “Bonsai on the Ledge,” a story of espionage and deceit in 1990s Tokyo. You can find previous episodes here.

M. Mochizuki & Co. sent Kyle Wright on business across Japan. He was quickly developing into an effective bridge for Japanese clients with their global suppliers and trading partners. One destination in particular, the island of Tanegashima which housed the nation’s space center and launch complex, became more than an assignment.

On his first visit to the island, Kyle booked his travel according to sparse instructions that the firm’s general affairs department had left on his desk. He caught a flight from Haneda Airport down to Kagoshima on the western island of Kyushu. There he transferred to a waiting turboprop for a final 35-minute hopper flight to Tanegashima located 50 miles off the coast.

ANA was running a fleet of aging 60-seat YS-11s for those connecting flights. At the Kagoshima terminal, Kyle was thrilled to see the throwback YS waiting for him. It looked like a craft that men in fedoras and women in print dresses rode in 1940s B movies. A five-rung aluminum staircase, even, dropped from the plane to feed passengers into the craft’s main cabin door.

The YS was a growling, dirty beast developed in the late 1960s to be a Japanese replacement of the Douglas DC-3 which had dominated the nation’s routes since the end of World War II. Nobody back home, Kyle thought excitedly, would have ever seen one of these old iron birds, let alone had the chance to fly in it.

After passengers boarded, the YS’s propellor engines kicked to life, plumes of black smoke spewing to the rear of the plane. The airplane shook to life—the two engines coughing hard a few times as they roared and built torque. Kyle stifled a laugh at his predicament. “I sure hope coffee grinders can fly,” he whispered.

He buckled into the upholstered seat. Just as the plane began to roll, he noticed the window “shades” were actually hand-drawn wool curtains hanging from brass rods. “Fucking A, love this,” he said.

Only 10 minutes after reaching cruising altitude, the YS began its slow descent over the Pacific waters toward Tanegashima. His colleagues had already prepared Kyle to expect an island “with nothing except the airport in the north and the space center you’ll be visiting in the south.” He soon learned that when Japanese say “nothing,” what they really mean is no sprawl…no steel and glass trappings of a rushed modern life.

In fact, as the airplane circled into its final approach, Kyle could see from his window that Tanegashima is covered by lush sugar cane fields and ringed almost fully by undisturbed pearl white beaches. To Kyle, Tanegashima was the naturally picturesque Japan he would never see in or around Tokyo.

Mochizuki never mentioned accommodations, and Kyle too had not thought about where he would stay. He made a quick inquiry at an airline counter and learned the island had no hotels or inns. The staff pointed him down the airport’s short access road and said Nakatane Town was a 10-minute walk away. “You can find a few family-run minshuku rooms there,” a lady said.

Kyle grabbed his small suitcase and set down the road. All around him were thick cane fields, and a late afternoon breeze rustled the crops loudly. Although it was tropics hot and sweat dripped down his neck, the windy sounds cooled him.

He soon saw a small sign saying “Yano Minshuku” in front of a pre-fab beige home. Kyle knocked on the door.

The minshuku was run by Mrs. Yano, the family’s spry 70-year-old grandmother. Unprepared to find a foreign face on her doorstep, Mrs. Yano gave a small gasp and rocked back a half step as she opened the door. Before speaking, she leaned out past Kyle to peek cautiously up and then down the small road…as if to check if anyone was watching. Raising her eyebrows, she half whispered in English, “Rocket-o?” Kyle laughed and said, “Yes…in a way.”

He offered Mrs. Yano his business card, and she smiled approvingly when she read the M. Mochizuki & Co. name. “Very good company,” she said as she stepped out of the way to wave him in.

Mrs. Yano told him to take off his shoes at the entrance and then showed him upstairs to a clean but sparse tatami mat room with a window. There was a yellowing Sanyo electric fan buzzing in the corner. The toilet and bathroom were down the hall to be shared with the family.

The people of Tanegashima speak in a thick island dialect. With most Tokyoites unable to decode the islanders’ Japanese, Kyle was at even more of a disadvantage. He had to communicate with Mrs. Yano and other locals using gestures, dictionaries, and the occasional pencil sketch. Kyle asked the grandmother if he could borrow one of the two bicycles parked on the side of the minshuku to “go to Rocket-o Center tomorrow.” She said he would be welcome to use a bike throughout his stay as he wished.

On that first evening in Nakatane, Kyle walked a few minutes down the small road to the town’s main strip to find some dinner. He heard a few drunken laughs and shouts from the shadows as well as folk songs being slurred into karaoke mics from a purple-painted bar called “Miyako’s Fine.” The only traffic he saw that evening was the occasional farmer’s “kei” truck hauling cut sugar cane into town from the fields.

Many companies were present at the JASDA Space Center in late 1992, but Kyle Wright came to Tanegashima purely to meet Mochizuki’s client, Mitsubishi Heavy Industries.

The programs underway at JASDA were meteorological and navigational satellite launches, with Mitsubishi Heavy supplying much of the propulsion technology.

Kyle loved visiting the “Heavy” boys—they were demanding of the young American but quickly adopted him as one of their team. The crew was young, loud, and determined to have a good time, a bit of a wild aerospace bunch. But there was a dirty side too—the cigarettes for instance were out of control. The engineers smoked everywhere—overflowing ashtrays of Seven Star and Hi-Lite butts were on desks, in meeting rooms, and in hallways. “These guys smoke when they talk and eat…and likely when they sleep too,” Kyle once wrote to a friend Stateside.

Drinking was also a part of Mitsubishi Heavy culture, at least out on that island. Maybe it was the nation’s pressure on them to perform, eyes on their every decision, but by each late afternoon conversations turned to Murao-ranked shochu distilled on the island and to which bar the engineers would head.

Through the end of 1992 and into the new year, Kyle visited the JASDA Space Center regularly. Though the Heavy boys told him he was crazy, he continued to stay at the minshuku by the airport and each day ride a Yano bicycle down the island to the 9 million square meter launch complex in the south.

Cane is grown practically year-round on the tropical island, so Kyle rode past small clutches of farmers as he traversed the island. Because the sight of an American biking through cane fields to and from the rocket center was so odd, Kyle’s face became known quickly.

On a particularly muggy day, he stopped his bicycle for a rest at a small crossroads. He heard a rustle from a crop across the path and saw a young, darkly tanned Japanese man emerge. Roughly Kyle’s age, the slender kid carried two bushels of cut cane on his shoulders. He was shirtless and had on a floppy and torn straw sun hat to protect his head from the rays. His chest shined with sweat.

The young man met Kyle’s eyes, smiled broadly, and wordlessly nodded hello. His teeth seemed so bright. Kyle felt a rush, smiled back, and waved.

In early 1993 on his fourth visit to JASDA, Kyle received an unexpected internal phone call. It was from a Japan Self Defense Forces corporal also based at the space facility. “We sincerely apologize for the interruption, but we have been asked to contact you,” he said. “Today a senior U.S. Navy officer, actually the Commander of Atsugi Naval Air Station, is visiting the space center. He has asked to meet you.”

Kyle was stunned, but the JSDF corporal assured him this was simply a casual meeting. “Commander Westfield has heard there is a young American working here with Mitsubishi Heavy and just wants to say hi to a fellow countryman. We’re taking care of his visit—we’d sincerely appreciate it if you would stop by.”

Later that morning Kyle found Vice Admiral Willard B. Westfield out at the center’s West Launch Pad. Together with other Navy officers from Atsugi Base, he was being briefed on a launch coming up the following month. A rocket the height of a small skyscraper stood before them on the pad.

Kyle looked for an opportunity and quietly interrupted. “Hi, I’m Kyle Wright. I’m with M. Mochizuki & Co., the trading house,” he said stretching out his hand.

Commander Westfield turned from his briefing. “Yes, yes of course! Jesus, sorry to bother you. I hope you weren’t freaked out or anything by the Japanese military calling you!” He laughed. “Look, I see so few countrymen out here and wanted to meet.” The admiral looked back toward the rocket they had just been discussing. “I hear you’re out here fairly regularly, Kyle—you should come out next month to see this puppy fly. It’s a joint project between the Pentagon and the Japan Forces here.”

After some more pleasantries, Kyle realized the U.S. commander knew he was from California and that he had started with the trading house earlier that year. He also seemed to know that Kyle stayed at a family run inn near Tanegashima Airport.

Commander Westfield invited Kyle to join the entourage for lunch at the space center’s canteen. Walking together back to the main complex, he bumped Kyle’s shoulder and said, “This island is god damn beautiful don’t you think? Reminds me of Kennedy Center back in the day.” Looking out past the center’s fences, he added, “Too much fucking sugar though. What Tanegashima needs is golf! A few 18-holers and some clubhouses here, and I could spend more than an afternoon on this rock.”

Kyle laughed, imagining the “improvements” the Navy commander had in mind. Plenty of middle age guys in bright polo shirts and shorts, no doubt.

“My dad and I played a lot of golf when I was a kid in L.A.,” he said to the commander. “He dutifully brought me along, though I’m sure it was painful to see his boy never really pick it up well.” Kyle explained that through college and even now he never had the money to pick the game back up.

“Look. Next time you’re in Tokyo, drop me a line. I mean that,” said Westfield. “We have a great course on Atsugi Base and I’ll take you out for a round. If you like it, we can get you regular access I’m sure.”

He gave Kyle his card and said, “Come out on a Wednesday or Thursday if you can get Mochizuki to loosen your slave chains. There’s a few guys I’ll get to join us—we can grab some drinks too afterward at the Officer’s Club near the 14th hole.”

TO BE CONTINUED