Exploring the eerie beauty of Japan's abandoned villages

Swatting away an army of insects drawn to our sweat-soaked attire, photographer Johan Brooks and I trudge our way up a steep, winding hill in Urayama, a region known for a dam by the same name. I’ve already led Johan in the wrong direction twice: First to a dead-end, and then to an old mountain trail where the vegetation had grown into an impenetrable thicket. Google Maps, apparently, isn’t to be trusted out here in the wilds of Saitama Prefecture.

After walking past a water supply facility and a roped-off campsite, we finally discover a path bordered by a dense forest of cedar and cypress that offers some respite from the scorching sun. We’re looking for Take, one of many small, abandoned settlements that can be found in Chichibu, a mountain-ringed city some 80 minutes by train from Tokyo.

In this particular corner of the country, the deserted communities are concentrated in Chichibu’s Urayama district. Back in the late-1980s, around 50 households in the area agreed to move elsewhere for the construction of one of the largest dams in the Kanto region, an event that accelerated the pace of an even greater exodus.

After a few minutes along the path we spot the first signs of a past life: On our right stands a dilapidated two-story shell of a house.

“I think this is Take,” I tell Johan.

Nature is clearly in the midst of reclaiming ground ceded to previous efforts at human expansion here. Outside the house is what must have once been a colorfully striped sofa covered in mold. Lying near the home’s entrance amid the dirt and weeds is a weathered 1965 issue of the monthly Denki Keisan magazine, a trade publication for electricians.

Before embarking on this trip, I met with Akio Asahara, who is arguably Japan’s foremost expert on haison (abandoned villages). He told me that compared to 25 years ago, when he began seriously investigating abandoned communities, “the number of deserted homes has soared due to rural flight and the rapid aging of the population.”

The term “haison” has since entered the lexicon, he says, and the empty carcasses of what were once thriving neighborhoods are no longer a rare sight, “but something we can now observe throughout the Japanese countryside.”

In fact, the phenomenon is so widespread that exploring and admiring decaying haikyo (ruins) — be they hotels, hospitals, theme parks, railroads or tunnels — is a subculture of its own. The most popular of these destinations might be Hashima Island, or “Gunkanjima,” in Nagasaki, which was used to film a scene in the 2012 James Bond film “Skyfall.”

What’s the appeal? Likely a sense of nostalgia, maybe a bit of curiosity, fascination or even fear. Coming face to face with objects and structures that have been left to the ravages of time can produce profoundly existential responses. For now, though, the summer humidity is getting more of a reaction out of Johan and me, so we continue on down the path into Take.

Urayama, where Take used to be located, was its own village of 1,250 or so residents before being annexed by the nearby town of Kagemori in 1956. Its population began to fall during Japan’s economic boom years as people flocked to urban centers like Tokyo for work. The construction of Urayama Dam, completed in 1998, dealt a further blow, and by 2015 the number of registered residents in the area had sunk to around 100. That number is expected to be roughly halved by 2040.

In 2002, Asahara, who works at a vocational training firm in Tokyo for a living and has visited more than 1,000 haison to date, was asked by an acquaintance in the gaming industry if he could take a group of producers on a day trip to research some abandoned villages. They were scouting a setting for a survival horror game for Sony’s PlayStation 2 console that was released the following year under the title Siren.

He took them to Urayama, beginning the tour in Take, whose last resident moved away decades ago. A few traditional wooden homes dot the former community, which sits on a narrow plot of flatland clinging on the side of a valley leading down to the Urayama gorge. Records indicate forestry and sericulture used to be the primary means of livelihood for its residents.

Curious trekkers still visit the area, though, often drawn by its reputation for inspiring Siren, which spawned sequels, a film and is now considered a cult classic. Contrary to the dark, occultish image conjured by the game, however, there’s a peaceful, even serene ambience when walking under the centuries-old trees lining the moss-covered paths that connect the crumbling homes.

A gentle breeze stirs the air in what used to be a kitchen in one of the two-story wooden houses. Left on the counter are a rusty rice cooker, frying pan and stained cutting board. Outside, an old, corroded blue bicycle lies in the undergrowth.

But not everything is left to fade. There’s a row of six small stone jizo statues standing under a makeshift roof supported by a foundation of concrete blocks. Single-serve pull-top sake cups are neatly arranged in front of them — a sign that parishioners still visit this chapter of Japan’s past.

In fact, Take is home to Junisha Shrine, whose torii gates and inner sanctuary are well-maintained, and where an annual summer festival still takes place. A wooden signboard says the shrine was founded by a shugenja, or mountain ascetic, who practiced at nearby Mount Buko, a 1,304-meter peak considered to be a sacred symbol of the region.

“The village was abandoned after the younger generation began commuting to the city to avoid work in the mountains, and eventually deserted their homes,” wrote the late Tama Saito in a book she co-wrote with her husband titled “Chichibu Urayama Gurashi” (“Life in Urayama, Chichibu”).

“Following the grassy paths, you may come across a magnificent cemetery with wilting flowers and other offerings made by former residents during the Bon festival and higan,” she continues, referring to the Buddhist holidays that fall in mid-August and during the spring and fall equinoxes, respectively.

A folklorist hailing from Yamagata Prefecture in northern Japan, Saito moved to Take in 1972 and lived near the settlement for 28 years as she watched its residents leave one by one. Her essays offer a unique glimpse into the lives led by villagers of the area and the folk traditions and customs they used to abide by.

I came upon her writings when researching for information pertaining to Urayama and its deserted hamlets — which turned out to be more difficult than I’d imagined, with only scant resources available.

That’s one aspect that Asahara worries about. When visiting these forgotten communities, he makes it a point to listen to the stories of former residents whenever he can and take notes on the lives they have led.

“I don’t want their memories to disappear like their communities,” he says. “Many former residents have become quite old, though, and time is running out.” Meanwhile, the pace of extinction among these rural outposts appears to be hastening.

According to a report by the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, there were 61,511 settlements in depopulated areas of Japan as of 2019. This number was down by 349 compared to a previous study conducted in 2015, which means some were merged into other municipalities while others disappeared completely. Meanwhile, the ratio of these settlements with more than half of their residents age 65 or older jumped by 10 percentage points to 32.2%.

After paying respects at Junisha Shrine, we decide to visit Chadaira, or Chadēra as it’s known in the local dialect, another haison several kilometers away. I initially considered taking an old path known as the Uwago-michi, which was used by villagers to travel between mountain communities back in the old days. However, I ditched that plan after reading online accounts from other hikers describing how the trail hasn’t been maintained.

Instead, the photographer and I head back down to Route 73, the main road running along Urayama, walk through the Yusukudo Tunnel whose namesake hamlet was consumed by the reservoir, and take a left after coming out of the other end. The remnants of the Chadaira community appear after a roughly 10-minute hike up a slope running by a stream.

Unlike Take, whose quiet, deteriorating homes give off an antique feel, some of the houses in Chadaira feel more modern; the vestiges of recent human life still apparent.

Looking through the broken windows and doors — and we’re careful not to trespass, some of these properties may still be privately owned despite their condition — we can see futons and blankets stuffed in closets, clothes and shoes scattered everywhere, and even portraits side by side of what appear to be deceased family members, smiling — a sight that gave me the chills. I come across a cookbook from 1977 lying outside a sliding door, as well as a copy of “Obatarian,” a popular comic book series from the 1980s and ’90s that featured an obnoxious middle-aged housewife.

Near the entrance to another house, I discover a photo album lying on the ground, its pages open and showing images of what appear to be family outings and school events. Right beside it, among the weeds, are postcards — the names and addresses of its recipient, a woman, still discernible. The same surname written on them is inscribed on a black stone grave standing in a corner of the community.

According to a booklet published in 2017 by the late Shuji Kodama, a former school principal and independent researcher who has studied the region’s hamlets, around 18 communities existed in Urayama until the mid-1960s. Ten of them, however, dissolved during and after the construction of the dam. “The vanished settlements were all far from the prefectural road and shared the inconvenience of commuting to work, school and shopping,” he wrote.

“The region has undergone a remarkable transformation. Many settlements have disappeared and people who were familiar with Urayama have passed away, a missed opportunity for us to record and photograph the area.”

In Chadaira’s heyday, he writes, there were around 10 homes standing on both sides of the stream, filled with many children. Now, though, the place is more popular with mischief-makers and even looters since being deserted, an issue I learn has become a perennial headache for locals and officials. In 2013, for example, three abandoned homes in Take burned down after a man in his mid-20s set fire to one in a suicide attempt.

“Unfortunately, people have been drawn to hamlets like Take since they became famous for being the model for Siren,” says Satoru Ito, an official of the cultural property protection division of Chichibu’s Board of Education. He was the one who referred me to Kodama’s book when I contacted him to learn more about Urayama’s history.

“Locals, I hear, aren’t too happy about the somewhat notorious reputation they have developed,” he adds.

Search for haison or haikyo in Japanese on YouTube, and countless videos will show up, posted by aficionados across Japan venturing into abandoned places and documenting their experiences. Take and other settlements in Chichibu are among those that are frequently featured.

“There’s a haikyo boom every decade or so,” says Shigeo Katori, who, like Asahara, has written books about ruins and operates a blog where he chronicles his journeys. “I think we’re seeing one now, fueled by social media and video-sharing services like YouTube.”

But most, he continues, are “lite” fans who simply enjoy watching other people visit these locations. And even among those who actually make the trip, many go just to take photographs, drawn to the aesthetics of the abandoned and dilapidated architecture. Others may be interested in seeking purportedly haunted locations.

“I think people like myself and Mr. Asahara, who are interested in the history of these places, are rather rare,” Katori says.

Living in Gifu Prefecture, Katori mainly visits locales in central Japan, although he occasionally travels to destinations farther away. His expertise isn’t limited to ruins, he also explores bad roads — those that are too narrow, poorly lit, bumpy or twisting.

“I can’t think of a life without ruins or horrible roads,” he says. “As we grow older, we tend to get lost in the mundanity of everyday life. But visiting these places gives you a sense of adventure — they can sometimes be dangerous, but oftentimes they’re full of new discoveries.”

Katori isn’t wrong. There’s something thrilling about staring at the map, breathing in the forest air and wandering off the beaten path in search of lost communities left behind by modern society.

For the last leg of the trip, we briefly visit Bushidaira, another settlement that’s deserted save for one household. Walking up the hill leading to the community, we find a small, abandoned shrine, its torii gates rotting and crooked, no-longer able to stand on their own — just like the deserted settlements we’ve already passed through. It has been a long day, though, so Johan and I decide to make our way back to civilization. As tranquil as it seems, we don’t want to be caught out here after sundown.

Upon returning from the trip, I dig up an old phone directory for Chichibu, and find the name of the woman written on the postcard I saw in Chadaira. While she must have relocated elsewhere, I thought the landline might still be active if she still lives in the same municipality. Perhaps I could learn what had happened to the community.

I call the number, and a familiar automated female voice answers: “The telephone number you have dialed is no longer in use.”

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