探访核废城

    南相马位于日本福岛县，从东京往北约150英里，人口7.1万。平日里，这座太平洋沿岸的小城熙熙攘攘，热闹非凡。

    海啸灾难发生前，该城的多数居民都在沿街的小商店或小作坊里上班：美容院和银行、小饭馆和咖啡馆、快餐连锁店、一家面包房和两座大型超市。这儿还有两家大型工厂，其中一家生产厨房用具，是该市最大的雇主；另一家日立电子（Hitachi Denshi）工厂生产汽车电子产品。但是，小生意才是该市经济的生命力所在。

    这是一座再普通不过的日本小城，唯一的例外是：眼下，企业无论大小，全都关闭了。今天，坐车穿行于南相马的主要街道，你会发现，几乎所有小买卖铺都拉上了窗帘。

    勿庸赘言，现在并非平日。在今天的南相马，即便支付车费这样再平凡不过的举止，都会令出租车司机落泪。这座城市的最近端仅位于福岛第一核电站（Fukushima Dai-Ichi power plant）北侧20公里，而后者正是切尔诺贝利核事故以来最严重的核危机的事故现场。可以想见，该市恰好位于如今已是一片显眼的核不毛之地的地理中心：近三周来，日本政府给居住在离福岛第一核反应堆20~30公里范围内的居民的“指导方针”是：他们可以选择留在城里，但应该待在室内，否则会冒呼吸核辐射气体的危险。

    上周末，我跟我的同事、常驻东京的自由记者高山秀子乘车在南相马市四处转悠了一圈，拜访了这座核废城。当地政府表示，上周六上午八点的核辐射水平完全处于正常范围内。因此，我们决定冒险进城。事实上，该市市长樱井胜廷曾在YouTube上呼吁新闻记者们亲临南相马，亲眼目睹这场核危机给这座小城带来的灾难性影响。

    我们驶过了一个又一个街区，街上见不到行人，只有屈指可数的几辆车匆匆驶过。两三只走失的狗在街上闲荡，在绝望地四处觅食。勿庸赘言，位于小城商业中心的那些小店铺，如今全都关张了。答应载着我们四处转悠的出租车司机名叫雄一，他所效力的小出租车公司共有四辆车，平日里通常能收入约4.5~5万日元（约合550~610美元）。雄一说，昨天，四辆车总共只拉了一趟活，收入680日元（约合8.30美元）。

    南相马的商业中心远离海边（约4英里），因而得以在海啸中幸存。但是，在离海岸较近的居民区，情形就截然不同了。这些地区与从北部的岩手县到南部的福岛县的所有沿海小城一样，遭受的破坏之严重，简直难以形容。

    度量损失

    当我们到达市政厅，海啸对这座小城的破坏程度之大，便显得更为触目惊心了。这儿是小城里唯一有生命迹象的地方，南相马的政治领导人和官僚们在想方设法平息灾难导致的混乱和恐惧。几名房屋或者公寓已被海啸摧毁的居民一窝蜂涌进来填表，以证明他们现在已无家可归（即便在这场史无前例的灾难中，官僚作风依然盛行）。楼上，就在市长办公室外面，有块告示牌，上面记录着最新的统计数字：截至上周六傍晚，已确认共有301人死于海啸，1,173人“失踪”（尽管官方仍然不愿意公开承认，但这些人已被假定为死亡），共有1,800座房屋被毁。

    再上到三楼，便是樱井市长的办公室。小城的官员们在这儿听取负责搜寻尸体的搜救队的汇报，获取最新消息；尽力调配送往城外疏散中心的食物和水等物资，该镇的许多居民眼下都躲在疏散中心；还要实时跟踪东京电力公司（TEPCO）核电站的活动情况。尽管从市政厅无法看到核电站，但它却无时无刻不出现在小城官员们的心里。

    市长眼下正与救援队的成员开会，我们就坐下来，与他的主要助手攀谈起来。这位助理名叫安倍晋三，在南相马市政府已经干了30多年了。他的多数同事都用小小的白色棉口罩，护住了鼻子和嘴。在日本，在过敏和流感季节，这样做纯属稀松平常。但是，安倍坦承，现在他们戴着口罩可不是为了防过敏或者流感。“他们担心的是辐射。”他直言道。

    口罩是个安全防护层，戴上它，人们心里的安全感会增加许多。即便远在东京的几百万人如今也整天戴着口罩，那可不是因为他们担心会染上流感。但是，如果有谁觉得，戴上它，就能高枕无忧，不必再担心会呼吸到辐射性气体，那简直是滑天下之大稽。安倍本人就没戴口罩。

    他告诉我们，自从日本政府宣布，居民可以留下，但只能待在室内，不得外出后，该市7.1万名居民中，已经有近5万人离开了这座城市。安倍还介绍说，尤其是对老人来说，这条法令纯属扯淡：“如果他们不能出门去商店的话，又怎么能填饱肚子？”

    尽管多数人不顾一切地选择了逃离此地，该市不久还是开通了公共汽车运营服务，驶往位于30公里区域外的几家超市。离开的人要么搬去与在日本其他地区的亲戚同住，要么躲到了疏散中心。本地设有多家疏散中心，用于收留那些受到地震/海啸/核危机灾难影响的人们。安倍表示，离开的人随时可以回来，事实上，已经有少数人开始陆续回到城里。但是，还是有越来越多的人搬走，因为他们无法确知，即便有盼头的话，到底哪天，才能够重返家园，正常过活。

    准备不足

    安倍面露疲惫之色，这一点也不奇怪，而且，像所有日本人一样，他是那么彬彬有礼；但是，随着谈话的深入，他的义愤填膺也变得昭然若揭。他既生东京电力公司的气，也生日本政府的气。他表示，在自己服务于南相马市的30多载里，无论是东京电力公司还是日本政府，谁都从未说过，提前为可能发生的紧急核事故做准备，才是上策。因此，一旦意想不到的灾难突然降临，他们既没有经历过疏散演习，亦不知如何召开商讨对策的市政会议。什么措施都没有。

    “什么措施都没有？”我追问道。怎么会呢？所有人都知道，这里可是地震带， 而地震会引发海啸，还有核电站就建在海边。不仅如此，这里可是日本，一个以注重细节、人民服从指挥而闻名的国度……

    安倍打断我，从紧闭的牙关里崩出一句话：“什么都没有，什么都没有。他们从未给过我们任何指导或者指令。”他激动难耐。

    那么那些离核电站更近的城镇呢，他们平时是否有演习？“我想有些有，但也不能肯定。”安倍表示。（事实上，上周早些时候，我曾在南边的一个疏散中心内，采访过双叶镇的一名官员。双叶镇紧挨着福岛第一核电站。那位官员表示，在双叶，每年一次，居民们都会集中到当地体育馆，接受“如何使用灭火器”的指导。）尽管南相马市的居民们偶尔也进行防火演习，却从未针对核事故进行过任何准备。“东京电力公司从未表示过，有可能发生眼下这类灾难。”他扼腕道。

    正当我们步出市政厅时，看到了古怪而滑稽的一幕，不禁哑然失笑。在一楼大堂，有个外国人全副武装，穿着看似核防护服的东西：从头到脚一身雪白，头戴兜帽，脚踩白色软底短靴。我不免纳闷：这位是何许人呀？据说法国已派出若干名核工程师，帮助控制福岛所受到的破坏。难道这位是法国核工程师？他是否曾进入核电站内部？我得跟他谈谈。

    我们四目相对，走向彼此。他根本不是核工程师，只不过是常驻东京的电视记者，也是来采访南相马市长的。我伸出手去，摸了摸那衣服的面料，感觉像是棉的。我方才明白，他穿的根本不是核防护服，因为那类东西通常都是用橡胶、或者塑料合成材料或者是两者做成的。“这有用吗？”我半信半疑地问道。有用，他毫不犹豫地说，当然有用。

    这时，一个满脸绝望的摄像师拖着沉重的脚步走进了市政厅，身上穿着牛仔裤和轻便外套。在战时或重灾区，一名电视记者试图将人们的注意力吸引到自己身上来，生活中鲜有比这更荒谬的了。我使劲控制着自己别笑出来。不知为何，彼时，我脑子里想到的只有伍迪•艾伦的经典影片《安妮•霍尔》（Annie Hall）中的一句台词。艾伦扮演的角色一路飞奔到洛杉矶，其友麦克思（由托尼•罗伯茨饰演）开车到机场去接他，身上穿着核防护服。当他们坐进车里，麦克斯脱掉兜帽，摘下眼罩，艾伦目不转睛地盯着他，问道：“麦克斯，我们要开车经过钚辐射区吗？”

    我迫不及待地想对那个电视台的家伙重复这句台词。可就在此时，我突然想到，谁又说得清呢？也许那天的空气指数级别报错了，也许我们真的在开车穿越钚辐射区，那我们所有人可能都应该穿上地地道道的核防护服了。

    空荡荡的午餐桌

    在采访市政府官员时，我们曾问出租车司机雄一，能否在赶往下一个目的地前，先在附近找个地方，喝杯咖啡，吃个三明治。我们从市政厅出来时，他激动地告诉我们，事实上，这座城市里就有家咖啡馆在营业呢。这个，我们一定得眼见为实。

    憩咖啡馆坐落在市中心附近。它所在的街道，除了一条流浪犬，整条街都空荡荡的。我们进去时，店内已有两位客人。一位年长的男子坐在柜台边喝着咖啡；一张桌子边上，一位年迈的妇人独自坐在那儿享用午餐。店主吉田美智夫妇也在。在这座核废城，我们就看到这么四个平头百姓没有老老实实地待在家里。我问71岁的吉田，既然政府已经客气并坚决地提出要求，任何决定留在城里的人都应该待在家里，为何他的咖啡馆还在营业。

    他回答说，起初他们夫妇二人也都撤离了。“我们待在离城很远的一个疏散中心。我们是周三到那儿去的，那天是16号，前一天日本首相菅直人刚发表了电视讲话，称核问题将日益严重。”他们在那儿待了两周。但是，吉田受不了了。“整天待在那儿，什么事也干不了。我闷得快疯了。”他说。“此外，我们把狗留在家里了。我们根本不知道这种情形会持续多久。无论政府还是东京电力公司，都从未告诉我们，修复核电站需要多长时间。我开始担心狗会饿死，于是我们就在31号那天回来了。”

    他接着说道，次日，他决定咖啡馆恢复营业。“除非辐射程度糟到忍无可忍，我们不会撤离。”他表示。“那时我就想，为何不让咖啡馆恢复营业呢？也许会有客人来呢。”

    这天，他的一位客人就是83岁的Sumiko Oya。她坐在我们前面的雅座上，一边吃着酱焖鱼，一边抽着烟。（鱼是从本地市场买来的，但是在福岛第一核反应堆的放射物开始泄漏到海里之前就买回来并放到冰箱里冷冻起来的。）

    Oya身着绿色短外套，上面别着硕大的金色胸针，头戴时髦的黑色筒状圆帽，就连脸上的的妆容和口红也透着优雅。眼下这里正经历核灾难，但就在南相马市中心，这位年迈的妇人身着盛装，俨然去参加夜晚狂欢一般。

    或者，就今天的情形来说，是白日狂欢。我们不禁问了她同样的问题：你到底到这儿来干吗？她大笑，熄灭了手里的香烟，又点燃了一支。“我才不管政府怎么说呢，”她说道：“我已经83岁了，还有什么能吓倒我的？如果我待在这儿，10年后我可能患上癌症，还是怎么的？”她又大笑起来，这回笑得更厉害了。我们也都笑了。说得在理。

    她住的地方离咖啡馆只有5分钟的路程。灾难发生之前，她几乎每天都到这儿来吃午饭。海啸和核事故发生后，她依然留在自己的公寓里。“我女儿住在北海道，她在电话里冲我大喊大叫，让我过去跟她同住。但是，北海道那儿老下雪，我们这儿从不下雪。我喜欢这儿。”

    过去3周里，她是怎么解决吃饭问题的？“我吃得不多，我在家里存了足够的食物，帮我挨过过去几周。”我问她当天是否是走到咖啡馆的。

    她一脸被辱的样子，“当然不是！我开车来的。怎么，你觉得我83岁了就不能开车了？”她的朋友们呢，他们撤到别处去了，还是有些也像她一样留下来了？“我刚给一个邻居打过电话，我已经有两周没见过她了。我问道：‘你在哪儿呢？’她回答说：‘我住在新泻（位于南相马正西100多英里的一座城市，靠日本另一侧海岸线）的一个疏散中心。’我又问：‘你在那儿干吗呢！？’这回她冲我吼道：‘你还留在南相马干吗？’”

    Oya又笑起来。“你知道，先夫两年前去世了。我们搬到这儿，全都是因为这儿的气候好。我们喜欢这儿的气候，至今不变。我哪儿也不去。”

    一次难忘的出租车搭乘经历

    我们付了饭钱，离开了咖啡馆。我请司机雄一载我们去20公里禁区的近端。我们驱车穿过一条条空无一人的街道，终于驶进一条四车道的开放公路，朝着海边和福岛核反应堆的方向直开过去。但是，差不多在整20公里处，公路被封了，没有任何路障，也没有日本自卫队（Japan Self Defense Forces）把守，甚至也没有国家或地方警察示意我们停车。（千真万确，这儿见不到一个人。）

    阻止我们（以及任何人）前行的，不过是一条细细的警戒线，从路的一侧拉到另一侧。上面甚至没有任何标识，连老鼠药瓶上常见的吓人的骷髅头也没有。看起来就像警方匆忙用警戒线隔离了犯罪现场，然后就一溜烟地撤离了。虽然剪断警戒线继续前行易如反掌，但我们没有。

    我们根本不想那么干。雄一朝着西边的山开去，然后一直向南。下午五点左右，高山跟我在南边还要进行另一个采访，那里远离核辐射区。到达目的地后，我们跟雄一结清了车费，共付给他3.4万日元。他收下钱，向我们道谢。这是三周来他头一回拿到像样的车费。

    就在此时，就要动身返回位于南相马的家中时，雄一的眼里满含泪水，他开始哭起来。

    译者：大海

    FORTUNE -- In ordinary times, Minamisoma ("south" Minami) is a bustling little city of about 71,000 that sits along the Pacific coast line in Japan's Fukushima prefecture, about 150 miles north of Tokyo.

    Most of the town's citizens used to work in the small shops and businesses that line its streets -- beauty parlors and banks, small restaurants and coffee shops, fast food joints, a bakery and a couple of big supermarkets. There are a couple of large factories -- a plant that makes kitchen appliances is one of the largest employers in town, and there's a Hitachi Denshi factory that makes electronics for the auto industry. But small business is the town's economic lifeblood.

    It's as ordinary a Japanese town as you could find, except for one fact: these days, small or large, all the businesses have one thing in common: they're closed. Ride through the Minamisoma's main streets today, and you'll see shades drawn in the windows of nearly all the small businesses.

    These are not, needless to say, ordinary times. Minamisoma today is a place where the simple act of paying a cab fare reduces the driver to tears. The city, at its closest point, lies just 20 kilometers (12.4 miles) north of the stricken Fukushima Dai-Ichi power plant that is now the site of the worst nuclear crisis since Chernobyl. As such, the town sits at the geographic core of what's become a strange, nuclear never-never land: for nearly three weeks now, the Japanese government's "guidance'' to those living 20 to 30 kilometers away from the Fukushima Dai-Ichi reactors is that they can remain in town should they so choose, but they should stay indoors or else risk exposure to radioactive gases.

    As such, to cruise through Minamisoma, as I did this past weekend with a colleague, Tokyo-based freelance reporter Hideko Takayama, is to visit a nuclear ghost town. Radioactivity levels at 8am Saturday, according to the local government, were completely normal, so we decided to venture in. The town's mayor, Katsunobu Sakurai, had actually issued a plea on YouTube for reporters to come and see for themselves the devastating impact the ongoing nuclear crisis is having on his little city.

    For block after block, there are no pedestrians on the streets, and only a few cars in transit. A couple of stray dogs roam, looking desperately for food. The small merchants whose stores and shops comprise the commercial heart of this little city are, needless to say, getting crushed. Yuichi, the taxi driver who agreed to ferry us around, works for a small company that has a fleet of four cars and usually takes in about 45,000 to 50,000 yen a day ($550-$610). Yesterday, he says, the four taxis had one fare between them. It came to 680 yen ($8.30).

    The commercial center of Minamisoma lies far enough away from the ocean (about four miles) that, physically, at least, it survived the tsunami. That is not true of the residential areas closer to the coast, where the destruction, as in town after town up and down the coast, from Iwate prefecture in the North down through Fukushima in the South, is all but indescribable.

    Tallying the damage

    Just how destructive the tsunami was to this particular town becomes very specific when we get to city hall, the only place in town where there is any sign of life. There, Minamisoma's political leaders and bureaucrats try to cope amidst the chaos and fear. A few residents whose houses or apartments have been destroyed troop in to fill out the paperwork recording that they are now homeless (even amidst a catastrophe of biblical proportions, bureaucracy grinds on). Upstairs, just outside the Mayor's office, there is a sign with the up-to-date statistics: as of late Saturday afternoon, there were 301 confirmed deaths from the tsunami, 1173 people were "missing" (and, though officialdom still won't say so publicly, presumed dead), and 1800 houses had been destroyed.

    Up on the third floor, where Mayor Sukurai's office is, city officials take updates from search and rescue teams hunting for bodies, try to coordinate getting supplies of food and water to the evacuation centers outside the city where many of its residents are now holed up, and keep track, minute-by-minute, of the activity at the TEPCO nuclear plant, which is not visible from the town hall, but is uppermost in their minds.

    The Mayor is meeting with a rescue crew, so we sit down with his chief aide, a man named Sadayasu Abe, who has worked for the Minamisoma government for more than 30 years. Most of his colleagues are wearing the little white cotton facemasks that cover the nose and mouth, a commonplace in Japan during the allergy and flu seasons. But, Abe concedes, that's not why they're wearing them now. "They're worried about radiation," he acknowledges.

    The facemasks are a security blanket, something that provides the illusion of increased safety. Millions of people as far south as Tokyo are wearing them these days in Japan, and not because they're worried about getting the flu. But the idea that they help protect anyone from exposure to radioactive gases is, of course, a joke. Abe himself doesn't bother wearing one.

    He tells us that of the town's 71,000 residents about 50,000 have left, since the national government said it's okay to stay, but only indoors. For elderly people in particular, Abe says, this edict was untenable; "how were they to get anything to eat if they can t go out to shop?"

    After a while the town began running buses to supermarkets outside the 30-kilometer zone, but the majority of people chose to get out anyway. They're either staying with relatives elsewhere in Japan, or are holed up in one of the many evacuation centers set up to house those affected by the quake/tsunami/nuclear crisis. They can come back at any time, Abe says, and a few have started to trickle back into town. But most continue to stay away, unsure when -- if ever -- it will be safe enough to return and live anything resembling a normal life.

    Lack of preparedness

    Abe, not surprisingly, looks exhausted, and like all Japanese, he has the politeness gene. But it also becomes clear, as we talk, that he is angry. He's angry at Tokyo Electric Power, and he's angry at the national government. At no point in the 30 years he has worked for the city, he says, did TEPCO or the government say it would be a good idea to prepare for a possible nuclear emergency. No evacuation drills, no town hall meetings to discuss what residents might do should the unthinkable happen. Nothing.

    "Nothing?" I ask him again. How can that be so? This is an earthquake zone -- everyone knew that -- and earthquakes cause tsunamis, and the plant sits right along the coast. And this is Japan, a nation that pays attention to detail, whose people famously follow instructions, who...

    He interrupts me, and through gritted teeth says, "Nothing. Nothing. We never received any guidance or instruction from them." He's boiling.

    What about towns closer in, did they have drills? "I think some did, I'm not sure," he says. (In fact, earlier in the week, at an evacuation center farther south, I spoke to a city official from the small town of Futaba, which literally sits in the shadow of Fukushima Dai-Ichi. He says that once a year the residents of the town would go to a local gymnasium, where they would be instructed on "how to use a fire extinguisher.") The townspeople of Minamisoma occasionally had fire drills, but never was there any preparation for a nuclear accident. "There was never any communication from TEPCO that something like what's happening now was even possible," he sighs.

    As we make our way out of the building, there's an odd moment of comic relief. In the main lobby on the first floor I see a foreigner wearing what looks to be a Hazmat suit: he's in white from head to toe, a hood on his head and little white booties on his feet. Who the hell is this, I wonder? One of the nuclear engineers France has sent to help try to contain the damage at Fukushima? Has this guy actually been inside the plant? I need to talk to him.

    We make eye contact and approach each other. He's not a nuclear worker at all. It turns out he's a Tokyo-based television journalist. He, too, has come to interview the Mayor. I finger the material of the suit, and it feels like cotton. I realize there's no way this is a Hazmat suit, which are usually made of rubber, or a plastic synthetic, or some combination thereof. "Does this help?" I ask him, a bit skeptically. Oh yes, he insists, of course.

    Then, as if on cue, a forlorn-looking cameraman comes trudging through the entrance of the town hall. He's wearing jeans and a light jacket. There's little in life more preposterous than a TV journalist trying to draw attention to himself in a war/catastrophe zone. I try not to laugh. For some reason all I can think of at that moment is a line from Woody Allen's classic film Annie Hall. Allen's character has flown out to Los Angeles, and his friend Max (played by Tony Roberts) picks him up at the airport... dressed in a Hazmat suit. As Roberts pulls the hood and visor down over his eyes as they get in the car, Allen stares at him. "Are we driving through plutonium, Max...?"

    I desperately want to repeat that to the TV guy, except then it occurs to me. Who the hell knows? Maybe the day's atmospheric readings are wrong. Maybe we are driving through plutonium. In which case we probably all should have been wearing real Hazmat suits.

    The lone lunch counter

    We had asked Yuichi the cab driver to see, while we were interviewing the city officials, if there was anyplace in the vicinity to get a cup of coffee and a sandwich before pushing on. He excitedly tells us as we come out that in fact, there's one coffee shop in the city itself that's actually open. This we have to see.

    The Ikoi Coffee Shop (it means "relaxation") sits near the center of town; the street it's on is deserted, save for the presence of yet another roaming dog. When we enter, there are two customers present -- one, an older man, sits at the counter having a coffee. At one of the tables, sitting by herself, is an elderly woman, eating lunch. Also present are the owner of the café, Yoshitomo Yoshida, and his wife. These are the only four civilians we've seen out and about in the nuclear Ghost Town. I ask Yoshida, 71, why in the world his shop is open when the government is politely but firmly suggesting that anyone who decides to remain in town should stay indoors.

    He says he and his wife originally got out entirely. "We stayed at an evacuation center well outside of town. We got there on Wednesday, the 16th, the day after [Japanese prime minister Naoto] Kan went on TV and said the nuclear problem was going to get worse." They stayed for a couple of weeks. But Yoshida couldn't stand it. "There is absolutely nothing to do there. I just got bored out of my mind,'' he says. "Plus, we had left our dog at home. We had no idea this would drag on so long. Neither the government nor TEPCO gave us any indication of how long it would take to fix the nuclear plant. I began to get afraid our dog would starve to death. So we came back on the 31st."

    The next day, he said, he decided to open his shop. "We'll stay unless the radiation readings get really bad," he says. "I figured, why not open the shop? Maybe I'll get some customers.''

    One of his customers this day is 83-year old Sumiko Oya, who sits in the booth in front of us, eating fish stewed in soy sauce and smoking a cigarette. (The fish come from a local market but had been bought and frozen before radiation started leaking into the sea from the Fukushima Dai-Ichi reactor.)

    Oya is wearing a green jacket with a big gold broach, a stylish black pillbox hat, and has tastefully applied both makeup and lipstick. Here, in the middle of Minamisoma, amidst an ongoing nuclear drama, is an elderly woman who has dressed up as if for a night on the town.

    Or, in this case, a day on the town. We ask her the same question: what on earth are you doing here? She laughs, stubs out a cigarette and lights up another. "I don't give a damn what the government says," she says. "I'm 83 years old, what do I have to be afraid of? What, that I might get cancer ten years from now if I stay here?" She laughs again, this time ever harder. We all do. It's a fair point.

    She lives just five minutes from the coffee shop -- a place where she is used to coming almost every day for lunch. She had stayed in her apartment after the tsunami and the nuclear accident. "My daughter lives up in Hokkaido, and she was yelling at me to come up there and stay with her. But it's too snowy there. We never get any snow down here. I like that."

    How did she feed herself for the past three weeks? "I don't eat a lot, and I had enough food stored at home to get by these past few weeks." I ask if she had walked to the coffee shop that day.

    She looks insulted. "Of course not! I drove. What? Do you think because I'm 83 that I can't drive?" What of her friends, did they leave, or did some stay, like her? "I just called one of my neighbors who I hadn't seen in a couple of weeks. I said, `where are you?' She said, `I'm in an evacuation center in Niigatta [a city more than 100 miles due west, on the opposite coast of Japan].' I said, 'what the hell are you doing there!?' And she yells back at me, 'what the hell are YOU still doing in Minamisoma?'"

    Oya laughs again. "You know, my husband and I -- he died a few years ago -- we came here because of the climate. We liked it here. I still do. I'm not going to leave."

    A cab ride to remember

    We pay the bill and leave. I ask our driver, Yuichi, to take us to the closest point we can get to the 20-kilometer no-go zone. He drives through the empty streets of town and eventually gets on a four lane open road, heading straight for the coast and the Fukushima reactors. But at 20 kilometers almost exactly, the road is blocked off. Not with barriers of any kind. Not with Japan Self Defense Forces, or national or local police waving us down. (There is, make no mistake, NO ONE around.)

    Preventing us (and anyone) from proceeding any farther is but one thin strip of police tape, stretched from one side of the road to the other. There isn't even a sign of any sort, no scary looking skull like on a can of rat poison. It's as if they had cordoned off a crime scene -- and then got the hell out of dodge. It would have been easy enough to just cut the tape and drive on.

    We wanted no part of that. Yuichi heads for the mountains to the west, then due south, where Takayama and I and are due for another interview late that afternoon, well out of the nuclear zone. When we arrive at our destination, we settle up with Yuicihi. We pay him 34,000 yen for the day's work. He takes the money -- by far his first decent fare in three weeks -- and thanks us.

    And that's when, just before heading back to Minamisoma, his home, tears well up in Yuichi's eyes, and he begins to cry.