The Heart's Eye

Dokdo

From a distance, the island of Dokdo is nothing more than a rock sticking out of the Sea of Japan. Steep cliffs rise up, interrupted by stubborn greenery that has found foothold in the rock faces. My boat swings treacherously as it approaches the small pier, making it feel like sheer luck when the two-men crew finally throw the dock line onto the horn-shaped dock cleat.

The ascent to the top of the cliffs is on foot. A local guide dressed in karategi garb leads the way along the rocky dirt road, pulling behind him a mule which in turn hauls my only suitcase. I struggle to keep the pace.

From the top, the view is different. Nestled inside the perimeter rocks lies a softly sloping valley, lush with fresh Spring grass and peppered with blooming orchards. A bright blue lake glistens in the center. Around it is a modest settlement, huddled abodes scattered around a few larger buildings in the middle.

We arrive in front of a minka, a traditional Japanese village house with a steep thatched roof and a flat wooden façade. There are no hotels in Dokdo. This island has no visitors. I was only able to book a room in a private residence owned by someone called Mrs. Nakamura.

My guide politely declines my offer of a tip, bows respectfully and trudges away with his mule. The checkered front door of the minka slides open even before I reach the wooden veranda. At the entrance stands a lady, dressed in an elaborate kimono, pink, with light green flowers, complete with a yellow obi tied with a light green rope.

"Nakamura-san?" I address her using the polite form. She nods and steps backwards into the lobby, letting me come in. I am greeted by a sweet scent of coconut and vanilla.

"Kindly remove shoes please."

She speaks softly, in accented English. I take off my army boots and follow her through a small living room with tatami mat flooring, outfitted with a low round chabudai table in the middle. My assigned quarters are directly across the living room, separated only by a sliding paper door.

The only furniture in my bedroom is a thin mattress on the floor with a neatly folded wool blanket. A curtainless window facing East overlooks a cherry orchard, lit by the evening sun which is setting on the opposite side of the house. Beyond the orchard is the blue lake.

"Mr. Black can rest from tiring trip," my hostess says. "Dinner will be ready in one hour if he pleases to join."

I lay on the mattress and stretch my limbs. The trip had indeed been tiring. The three-leg flight from New York to Matsue added a hefty jetlag to my prior hangover. The sail by chartered boat to Dokdo was rough and nauseating. Stormy seas surround the island. The climb by foot to the plateau on top was arduous, despite my reasonable shape.

It is not surprising that a controversial researcher, pushing the envelope in mind science, would set base here. This little island, a contested territory between Japan and Korea, has ensured its privacy by being hard to reach and having little to offer to visitors.

It is not just the physical challenge that has made this trip difficult though. An amorphous, hollow feeling of incompleteness has been my constant companion from the get-go. This is not the usual uncertainty that comes with the unknowns of a mission. There is something else which seems to be elusively slipping further away the more I try to grapple with it. It is both an enigma and a burden.

Violin music starts playing in the living room, my call to dinner, perhaps. The short description of this private lodging option boasted home-cooked meals in the company of the hostess herself. I get up and slide the paper door open.

In the evening dusk, the room is dimly lit. The chabudai table has been covered with a creme-colored tablecloth and filled with small plates, each offering a different treat. A bowl of rice sits on the floor next to the table.