Japanese ruins, known as “haikyo,” are something which fascinate me. Not necessarily the sites which are hundreds of years old, but rather the semi-modern theme parks, love hotels, ski lodges, bowling alleys, and sometimes even entire towns. Abandoned, in the truest sense of the word. Left without further consideration. Personal items, business reports, clothing, photographs of loved ones, a cup of tea, all left inside these spaces “as is,” like the owner expected to come in to work the next day, but never returned. Ever. Add 15-20 years of nature reclaiming the space and these daily objects become wild artifacts.
In 2002 I travelled across Japan, mostly by local train, and saw a lot of interesting stuff. The Japan I had pictured (originally constructed in my head from various movie scenes, Nintendo games, robot toys and my own imagination) seemed close enough to what I actually saw, if you looked from the right angle.
On that first trip, in a mountainous area behind a shrine, I spied a Ferris wheel; the crown of a small, regional amusement park. It seemed so out of place, and me being a dumb and illiterate foreigner deep in the Japanese countryside, it was immediately something I could identify with. The sign at the park gates profoundly announced “CLOSE.” A clipboard and pen lay on a desk at the entrance booth, covered in a layer of dust. It was clear no one had been inside for some time. This was the first haikyo I explored, and the strongest impact came not from the dormant roller coaster or rides, but from a fleet of swan boats on a small lake, some half submerged, some drifting free. I felt a blanket of joyful sadness wrap around me, something I have experienced at each haikyo site since. For me, the appeal of this kind of exploration lies in the physical connection with the past and a silent detachment from the fast pace of modern Tokyo.
Recent years have seen many haikyo sites either redeveloped or demolished. One recently lost treasure is the Sportsworld waterpark (1988-1993), formally on the Izu Peninsula, about 2 hours southwest of Tokyo by train. It was a massive resort complex of waterslides, wave pools, a bar/gym/hotel and a selection of other water themed amusements, all heavily overgrown while the hotel was still fully furnished with beds and television sets. Locals referred to it as “skate paradise” due to the vast cement expanses in the park, referring in particular to the dried out rapids section. I had first explored the site in May of this year, expecting to be climbing fences and avoiding security, but found nothing like that; just curious looks from the locals on my walk from the station and a knee-high rope across the park’s entrance.
Once inside I noticed that vandals had knocked out most windows and upturned this and that, which is typical at many haikyo, but they had not really removed anything. Next to the change rooms and gift shop, was a large office block, complete with outdated computers, photocopiers and pretty much everything else that was needed to run the place. I walked through room after room of boxes, filled with employee records, novelty items and park paraphernalia. One room had sketches for what Sportsworld could have potentially looked like, with a few insane additions; would a 30 floor hotel have saved things? Maybe. But the most amazing discoveries were the hundreds of original photos of the park in albums strewn about the building. These albums were filled with imagery from the past; a wave pool full of people, some kind of swimsuit contest, staff training days, construction of the slides and an opening ceremony. The park of that era looked so vivid and necessary in comparison to the bleak apocalypse I had spent the afternoon exploring. Where did everybody go?
I watched the sun set from the gym roof, then headed home to Tokyo, vowing to return.
It was October when I finally made it back to Izu, excitedly strolling through the town towards Sportsworld like I was visiting an old friend. Approaching the entrance, I found a uniformed man directing trucks in and out. Peering beyond the newly installed security gate a heavy sense of dread filled me. It was clear that 17 years after the close of business, demolition had finally begun.
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Mark Drew is an Australian graphic artist living in Japan. He is co-founder of Sydney’s China Heights Gallery and ran the clipboard for 6 years before making the move to Tokyo. Activities and interests include family restaurants, zines, early to mid 90s rap and walking around.
