Chikuho, Kyushu

筑豊

by
篠山紀信╱Kishin Shinoyama

It was a day of absurdly strong wind; my hair whistled as if it might be torn off. The sunshade umbrella flipped inside out. The doors of the deserted miners’ housing kept banging shut.

Then, for an instant, the wind died. With it, all sound vanished. The white clouds in the blue sky seemed to lift and stand out strangely.

There wasn’t a trace of living presence. Tch—annoyingly, it’s blazingly clear again today.

Suddenly, from a corner of the miners’ quarters I’d thought uninhabited, a child sprang out. The moment he looked up at my face, he said in standard Japanese, “Hello, mister.”