Along with millions around the world, I was horrified by the nuclear meltdowns in Japan that were caused by the 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami. My connection to the disaster was somewhat more personal than the average North American: hearing reports of radioactive “hot spots” in Tokyo, I was worried about an old friend who was stuck in the downwind megalopolis due to travel interruptions. My friend finally exited Japan—hopefully without serious radiation exposure—but my attention to the unfolding disaster continued in the subsequent months and years.

In December, 2014, I spent a week in the Fukushima Prefecture. I was working on a musical project called Sinfonietta Fukushima and I wanted to do first-hand research. Traveling from Fukushima City via Iwaki, I attempted to get as close to the disaster site as possible. First I explored Hirono, the village just outside the original "red-zone." It is now re-inhabited, though many former residents have chosen to relocate permanently, and operates mostly as a base for clean-up operations.

On my last day in the Prefecture, I trekked into the abandoned town of Tomioka, 11.5 km (7.1 mi) from the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. There was scant up-to-date information about Tomioka in the English-language press, and I could not establish the accessibility of the area, or the legality of visiting. Leaving before dawn, I took a Joban Line train to its final operating stop at Tatsuta Station and hiked three hours north to find the village. The countryside was desolate. Empty cottages were in disrepair and estates were overgrown, in sharp contrast to the typical fastidiousness of Japanese culture.

Tomioka was truly post-apocalyptic. Everyone wore masks and work suits and was involved in clean-up and official business. The area was divided into three zones with escalating contamination levels. Former inhabitants were allowed to visit their properties only during daylight hours, for three to eight hours at a time, depending on proximal radiation levels.

Tomioka’s main thoroughfare was open to automobile traffic, but egress was restricted to former residents. I slipped into a few forbidden (for me) residential areas and inspected houses damaged by the tsunami. Because I couldn't read any of the ominous Japanese-language signage, I was in a constant state of panic about police/security trouble. The scariest moment was when a helicopter abruptly diverted from its southwestern course towards my position. It hovered directly above for a few minutes, obviously interested in my presence as I hiked through abandoned remains.

After passing through Tomioka’s deserted business district, I found my way blocked at a river by pedestrian barricades at the bridge. I went back a few blocks and sat down to collect my bearings. Melancholy had overtaken and I didn't want to retrace my passage back through the wasteland to Tatsuta station. Almost immediately, a car stopped in front of me. 65-year-old clean-up supervisor Masao Nakahara was on his way back from a restricted area. He offered a lift to Hirono, where I could catch the Joban Line back to Iwaki.

I recorded an audio interview with Nakahara. He reminisced about hitchhiking in Czechoslovakia, described the decontamination operations, and gave his outlook on the area’s future. After I had left Japan, we exchanged letters. He thanked me for writing Sinfonietta Fukushima and bearing witness to the disaster’s aftermath.

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