How Volunteering in Japan shaped the way I travel
How it Began
Many would describe my experience a decade ago as a quarter-life crisis. At 24, I found myself questioning my future as a pastry chef. I felt a yearning to escape the confines of Singapore and embark on a journey of self-discovery — my own Eat, Pray, Love. I sought out budget-friendly long-term travel options, discovering platforms like WWOOF, Workaway, and HelpX, which were free to browse, though you had to pay to get more information. Eventually, I signed up for HelpX since it was the cheapest — about 30 euros for two years. There was a wide range of volunteering you could do, from gathering fruit to assisting with the construction of an Airbnb and everything in between.
Since I had already been studying Japanese for some time, I figured Japan would be a good place to start as it would provide me plenty of opportunities to practice speaking the language and get better at it. After hours of browsing, I settled on a farming experience in a small town called Murayama in Yamagata prefecture, three and a half hours north of Tokyo by bullet train. The photos looked great and the reviews seemed genuine, so I reached out to the host, left my full-time job at the pastry kitchen, and boarded a plane to Tokyo.
As I set out from the station, I realised I was woefully underprepared. With no mobile data, offline map, or even paper directions, I relied solely on my memory of the host's instructions. I hoped I had picked the correct path as I continued to walk indefinitely after he said something about the guesthouse being 300 yards from the station — a system with which I was unfamiliar. It also started raining, which didn't help as I dragged my suitcase over the tarmac, hoping to find anything similar to what I'd seen online. About twenty minutes later, I noticed a peculiar inn with the name written in Japanese. Alright, let’s do this, I thought as I rushed inside for shelter.
My First Friends | Farming and Farmer’s Markets
I was greeted by Tsukuru, the farm manager at the time (he is now a politician), and Oshima-san, who I believe was involved in marketing. They sat me down at one of the wooden stumps that ran the length of the room's live-edge hardwood table, and little did I know that this charming space, which served as a reception, lobby, kitchen, and dining area, would become the heart of countless memorable gatherings during my stay. While we exchanged greetings, I realised the Japanese they spoke was a Yamagata dialect that I wasn't used to because the words were different. It made things a little strange, but I was excited for this new, alien experience.
Soon, I was introduced to the eclectic group that would become my first friends in this unassuming town:
Nao-chan: A quirky, artistic lady in her 30s who co-managed the place
Yoichiro-kun: Nao's goofy workhorse of an older brother, also known for his superb driving skills
Ikumi-chan: Yoichiro’s powerhouse wife who preferred to lay low
Three boisterous japanese children
The loveliest French couple
And lastly, Sam, yes, just Sam, the guy I've been communicating with over email, the guy who came to Japan 8 years ago and found love. We affectionately call him Samu-kun
We wasted no time getting down to business on the farm in the days that followed. Arriving at the beginning of April meant embarking on a multitude of tasks, including germinating rice seeds, tilling and fertilising the soil with their secret recipe mix, building raised beds for watermelons and pumpkins, and putting up poly covers for the cherry trees. The days were full, stretching from early morning until late afternoon, and the sun, a constant companion, had turned me at least 5 shades darker. All thanks to Ikumi-chan, we always had hearty meals consisting of locally sourced ingredients (mountain vegetables in spring, yes please!), rice from the farm, and bread.
As I soon discovered, farming wasn't just about tending to the land; it was also about selling what you grow! The farm was bustling with activity beyond the fields, particularly at the local farmers' markets in Yamagata, where they sold crepes made from rice flour processed right on the farm. I found myself donning their branded T-shirt, headband, and apron, cooking up these delicious treats and filling them with cream and homemade cherry jam.
One of the most interesting events we participated in was the Cherry Boy Jamboree, held deep in a forest illuminated by fairy lights. The atmosphere was enchanting, and we arrived in style, driving up in a bright yellow farm campervan that would be our home for the night after the festivities. The festival itself was, I would say, a bizarre blend of music and tradition that culminated in a ritual where a group of virgin men (colloquailly known as Cherry Boys) ceremoniously thrust a log into a bonfire.
The Community
I had arrived at a fortuitous time when many locals in their twenties had chosen to return and revitalise their hometown. In this close-knit community, the guesthouse and farm quickly became a natural hub for social connection. Casual greetings along the street blossomed into genuine friendships, leading to introductions to the region's ALTs, a diverse group of international English teachers. My social circle expanded organically, revealing a previously untapped extroverted side.
The farm, in parallel, attracted a diverse group of international volunteers, with whom I worked tirelessly in the fields, and shared many meals and drinks. Meanwhile, the guesthouse welcomed a mix of travelers—from locals embarking on their own Tour de Japon, and international adventurers seeking authentic experiences off the beaten path to the weary traveller who just wants to slow down. I had the privilege of meeting individuals from France, the UK, America, Finland, and even the remote Faroe Islands. We would organise country-themed nights to share a slice of our cultures, and embark on late-night drawing sessions inspired by the lengendary Bob Ross. Our gatherings often revolved around lively barbecues, where we savored Samu-kun's homemade apple cider and indulged in conversations that lingered long into the night. It was a time when people were present and genuinely curious about each other—something I find hard to come by now where I live.
How I Travel Now
As the seasons transitioned and I had left and returned, we entered the vibrant harvest period. Days were filled with plucking cherries from the trees, meticulously sorting them into different grades, and harvesting the rice that had been planted just months earlier. I even learned to drive a small combine harvester in one of the fields.
However, this blog isn't about detailing the intricacies of farming in Japan (we can chat about that separately, or better, go experience it yourself). Instead, it's about how this experience profoundly shaped my perspective on traveling and experiencing destinations. In my role now as a Travel Planner, I often come across people who prioritise capturing the perfect photo, trying to replicate what they saw on social media, or simply wanting to check off a destination from their list. They rush from one spot to another, leaving them feeling exhausted and unfulfilled, and at the expense of deeper cultural immersion. This often reminds me of the Mandarin expression “上车睡觉，下车尿尿，回到家，什么都不知道”, which loosely translates to “Hop on, nap through, hop off to pee, and head home none the wiser”. All I can say is different strokes for different folks.
Immersing myself in the rhythms of rural life in Murayama taught me the value of slowing down, engaging with local communities, and appreciating the beauty of a place. It made me discover that the true essence of travel lies not just in visiting landmarks, but in embracing the culture, traditions, and daily life of the people who call a place home.
