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Not your ordinary tour around a soy factory. Not your ordinary tour guide.
A sculpted pumpkin the size of a minivan, a restaurant constructed solely of beer cans—the islands of Japan’s Inland Sea all seem to be known for something. That summer, Lindsey, a fellow English teacher, and I had made it our quest to visit them all.
We went to Shodoshima—“little bean island”—for its two main attractions: cycling and soy factories. That morning we’d set out along a grueling bike trail that snaked among pale green hills and along the sandy fringes of the coastline before reaching our destination, the Marukin Soybean Factory. We weren’t particularly interested in soybeans, but the humongous vats of fermenting beans at this place were stuff of legend. The pamphlet promised free group tours daily at three o’clock.
But it was a long, hard trail, and riding through that thick August air was like pedaling through butter. By the time we’d walked our bikes up the steep drive to the Marukin building, my T-shirt could’ve used a wringing. Worst of all, it was five past three. In a land where trains are scheduled to the second, we worried we’d missed out. But in we went.
A young man in a suit glanced up sleepily from behind a reception desk. His eyes widened at the two scummy foreign girls standing before him. We said hello, and when I asked for the tour in passable Japanese, he seemed to relax.
He nodded. “Ah, yes. Come with me.”
I gave Lindsey a look that said, See? There was nothing to worry about. We’ll catch up to the group and everything will be just fine.
We followed him into an elevator. I sunk into a corner, hoping he couldn’t smell us. Finally, he said, in English, “My name is Hiroki.” The door opened and he led us down another hall into a small, empty theater.
“Moo-bee,” he said, bowing. Then he rushed out of the room.
I turned to Lindsey. “What happened to the group tour?”
“I think this is the group tour.”
The lights went out and the small projection screen at the front of the room came to life. The video, backed by good-natured folk music, tracked the factory’s soybean-processing history from the pre-war days. Apparently, a man with an unfortunate moustache moved to the island, saw lots of soybeans, and was inspired to build a processing plant. He passed the business onto his son, a savvy businessman whose mustache was equally appalling. The video made the place look respectable, clean, and efficient. I strained to keep my eyelids up.
Hiroki returned as soon as the credits rolled. He bowed again and made a grand gesture that we should follow him. We got back in the elevator.
In my most polite Japanese, I asked, “Will we see the real factory?” Hiroki pursed his lips and sucked air through his teeth. I pressed on. “We love soy sauce. We want to see the big…” I didn’t know the word for “vats” so I pantomimed with my arms a shape unmistakable as either “large container” or “pregnant ladies.”
His eyes lit up. “Ahhh souu,” he said, nodding. Then he sucked in some more air and said, “Today is a little…impossible.”
The door opened and we were back in the lobby. Hiroki held up his hand and told us to wait just a moment. Then he ran out of sight, the tails of his jacket flapping behind him.
“So much for the vats,” I said.
“There’s still hope,” Lindsey said, positive as always. “I can feel it.”
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