The Adventures of Tin Toys

Posted on 21/02/2015 by Luke

Yesterday, as I was walking around Yokohama, I noticed many interesting things on the numerous maps that adorned the streets. Having visited Yokohama only once before, I decided to stay the night and spend a second day exploring this historic city. While staring at the points of interest on the signs, one thing genuinely excited me: the Tin Toy Museum.

I begin my exploration by walking through the Yamate area. This place is characterised by interlocking stone pathways that bend and crawl at various steep degrees, reminiscent of my hometown with its steep hills and Western-style houses. Despite being a popular spot for tourists, locally known as ‘The Bluff,’ I am surprised to find that most maps in this hilly terrain are in Japanese. Needless to say, I get lost and eventually stumble upon a random Spanish-style house.

There is no charge to enter the house, but upon entry, I am required to remove my shoes. Inside, I find a woman playing the flute, accompanied by another woman on the piano, seemingly without any apparent reason. While I recognise the melody, I struggle to put a name to it. As I wander around, I am afforded the opportunity to explore a genuine Spanish kitchen, complete with old cutlery. It surprises me to learn that the house was built by an American but designed by a British architect, adding a layer of complexity to its Spanish theme that I can’t quite comprehend. The Bluff is dotted with many houses of diverse styles, allowing visitors to freely wander and experience the architecture of different countries. From the balcony window, I catch a glimpse of what locals refer to as the ‘British House’ in the distance.

I make my way into the dining room, anticipating tables and chairs, only to be surprised by the presence of strange artwork that clearly doesn’t belong in this space.

I leave the house, resuming my quest for the Tin Toy Museum. I meander through a cemetery for British soldiers and emerge on the other side. Stumbling upon the oldest wooden Christian church in Japan, I find it of little interest and continue walking for about an hour through maze-like streets. Finally, I locate a map in English. The Tin Toy Museum is on the opposite side of The Bluff, close to the house I visited earlier. I navigate steep hills and winding alleyways, and after another half-hour, I arrive at the museum, half-expecting it to be closed today.

At the entrance, I pay ¥200 and race inside.

As I step inside the Tin Toy Museum, I’m greeted by the sound of The Beatles’ album ‘Help!’ playing from the speakers—an unexpected but delightful touch. The exhibition showcases over three thousand miniature toys produced in Japan between 1890 and 1960. Most of the toys, ranging from cars and rockets to robots, form the extensive personal collection of Teruhisa Kitahara, a man with a passionate affection for all things toy.

A sign next to some rather unsettling clowns reads, “Clown and circus toys are highly comical, perfectly capturing the lively movement of the circus. They are popular for their acrobatic flair.” Inside the museum, there’s a second exhibit called the ‘Mini-Mini Museum.’ Included in the ticket price, this small shoe-box-sized exhibit initially seems like a pointless distraction. However, as I explore, I discover it features even smaller toys than I could have imagined were possible to create.

Back at the main exhibition, I find that JAXA astronaut Naoko Yamazaki has visited here too, and she appears to have forgotten a signed postcard of herself, left amongst Atomic Rockets and Space Ship X-7’s. I feel tempted to buy a remote control alligator for the price of a month’s rent, but I instead opt for a wind-up robot for ¥1242; quite expensive, but full of nostalgia, and I like robots.

I leave the museum and the Yamate area, heading for Yamashita Park. The park, situated on the waterfront, is unfortunately cast in shadow by the massive Hikawa Maru, an ocean liner that blocks the sunshine and seems unnecessarily colossal. Nowadays, it serves as another museum, overshadowing the park inconsiderately. Nevertheless, the reason for my visit to this park was sparked by a sign pointing to another point of interest that intrigued me – the Statue of the Guardian God of Water.

It’s no secret that I enjoy irony, so I find it incredibly amusing that the statue here stands within a construction site, placed in a small pond filled with bricks and completely devoid of any water whatsoever. I can’t imagine the statue is pleased with its surroundings.

My final stop in Yokohama is also within Yamashita Park – the Statue of the Little Girl with Red Shoes On. I didn’t have specific expectations, but the description on the sign proved accurate. The girl represents a children’s song from 1922 called ‘Akai Kutsu,’ written by Ujo Noguchi, translating to mean ‘Red Shoes.’

A young girl with red shoes, was taken away by a foreigner.
She rode on a ship from Yokohama pier, taken away by a foreigner.
I imagine right now she has become blue-eyed, living in that foreigner’s land.
Every time I see red shoes, I think of her.
And every time I meet a foreigner, I think of her.

I’m not too sure what the song is about, and the only explanation offered by the sign is that Yokohama City wants this statue to become a cherished landmark for its countless visitors. Sadly, most visitors seem to just walk along, not giving the statue a second glance.

I decide that there is little else to do in Yokohama; despite having enjoyed two nice sightseeing days, it is time to head back to the reality of Tokyo. I take the train over to Shibuya. As I leave the station, I navigate through crowds of photographers capturing images of what once was and still is – just a crossing. The bright lights of Shibuya act as a neon reminder of what I was expecting Japan to look like before I arrived here nine months ago.

I wander aimlessly for a while through the busy nightlife before feeling overwhelmed by the lights and sounds, eventually making me feel dizzy. After a tiring few days, it’s time for me to go home. I buy some takeaway food for the train, taken away by a foreigner, and head back to Minowa.

Wig Trouble in Little Chinatown

Posted on 20/02/2015 by Luke

I am a little way outside of Tokyo, in Yokohama. The area was once a quaint fishing town where nothing much really happened. After the Americans came with their ships, Yokohama opened Japan up to the world of foreign trade, and these days, Yokohama has become one of the major ports for trade in Japan.

My first stop is the site where the Japan-America Treaty of Amity and Friendship was concluded. The treaty, also known as The Treaty of Kanagawa, was signed in 1854 on this very piece of ground and effectively changed the way Japan dealt with people from other countries. The signing also gave birth to the flourishing city of Yokohama. A memorial made up mostly of mirrors is here now, and uneven ground at the centre of this historic spot has become the ideal place for rainwater to collect.

With so much history in the area, Yokohama features many foreign buildings and places and is heavily influenced by various different cultures. It is one such culture that brings me here today – the Chinese. Today is, of course, Chinese New Year, so I thought the ideal place to celebrate would be in a city with its very own Chinatown.

Marking the entrance to Chinatown hangs a brightly coloured gate. The first thing I notice is that beyond the gate, the rows of Chinese restaurants and shops no longer resemble Japan. Tucked between two such restaurants sits a branch of Starbucks Coffee, instantly shattering the illusion that I might actually be in China. I make my way through the crowds and arrive at a temple.

Yokohama Kanteibyo is a Taoist temple dedicated to the Chinese general Guan Yu, now recognised as the god of war and victory. Built in 1871 by Chinese migrants, the temple has been destroyed four times but always rebuilt, a common theme in Japan regarding temples. These days, the temple symbolises good luck and good fortune in business, attracting a crowd of Chinese residents and tourists celebrating the Chinese New Year.

Inside the temple, people queue up to pay ¥1000 for a piece of scented wood. The lit incense is then placed into a pot. Burning the first incense of the New Year is considered especially important in Chinese culture, with participants believed to invite prosperity for the upcoming year.

After the incense, people retrieve their fortune, following a tradition similar to that of Japanese temples and shrines. Common themes emerge between the two cultures, such as celebrating the New Year by visiting a temple or shrine, offering the first prayer or burning incense, and enjoying traditional food. The notable distinction today is the upcoming Lion Dance.

I exit Yokohama Kanteibyo and step into the lantern-lined streets. Drawing in twenty-one million visitors annually, Yokohama Chinatown is the largest in Japan, boasting over six hundred shops and restaurants crammed into this compact area. Today, it seems like all twenty-one million have converged here, as both sides of the streets are teeming with people. The congestion makes it challenging for me to move freely.

I find a decent spot in the crowd and wait. Despite the imminent Lion Dance parade, the road remains open for vehicles, creating a potentially dangerous situation. A traditional Chinese vehicle labelled ‘Family Mart’ manoeuvres through the throng, coming perilously close to running over someone. Each time a vehicle passes, a man with a megaphone urgently urges everyone to step back, causing chaos. Additional delays occur due to a problem with the head of the lion costume, pushing the Lion Dance to start an hour later than scheduled, finally commencing at half-past four.

Firecrackers, louder than the Big Bang, shatter the silence. The abrupt explosion of sound startles me, eliciting frightened cries from children in the vicinity. Soon after, a man adorned in a lion costume emerges, prompting cheers from the crowd. Accompanied by the rhythmic beats of drums, the lion commences its dance. I manage to observe the lion’s performance for approximately four seconds before it vanishes into a Chinese restaurant, presumably continuing to dance around inside.

As the lion re-emerges from the restaurant, its head is removed, and the drumming ceases. This anticlimactic moment leaves me wondering if there’s more to come. I linger for a while, hoping for additional excitement, but the crowd has largely dissipated. The firecrackers echo once more, leaving the air tinged with a gloomy white smoke, and the lion resumes its dance into the next Chinese restaurant. Bored with the spectacle, I decide to bid farewell to Chinatown in search of something more intriguing.

Strolling around for approximately an hour, I stumble upon something of historical significance. In 1871, shortly after the signing of The Treaty of Kanagawa, a street named Nihon-O-dori was constructed. This street holds historical importance as the first modern street ever built in Japan. Originally, it was established as a division between the settlement of overseas migrants and the Japanese population.

The signboard reads, “This street presents the best opportunity to enjoy glimpses of Yokohama’s past.” I stroll along the entire thirty-six metres of the concrete street, attempting to savour glimpses of the past. However, my usual lack of enthusiasm is once again disrupted by the sight of a giant Ferris wheel looming in the sky above.

Journey to the Centre of the Buddha

Posted on 30/01/2015 by Luke

It has gotten very cold as of late, but today offers rare blue skies and a warm winter sun. Today might be the last day hot enough to do anything practical before spring, so I decide to make the most of it with a day trip out of Tokyo. My destination is a little over two hours away by train: the city of Kamakura.

Outside Kamakura Station, I am approached by a poorly dressed Japanese man speaking in English with an American accent. He is banging on about Buddhism, or something. When I mention that I have things to do, he looks a little disappointed before wandering off to talk to some new people just off the train.

I wander through the city, its streets lined with souvenir shops, gift shops, and stores selling various mementos. At this point, I realise I haven’t taken a single photograph in Kamakura, so I decide to walk up to the first temple I see.

Shu Genji Temple doesn’t exude much happiness. It was once the residence of Shijo Kingo, a renowned Nichiren Buddhist skilled in medicine. Following Nichiren’s death, Shijo Kingo attended the funeral but ultimately chose to end his own life to demonstrate his unwavering faith in the religion.

A little further from the temple, I spot a strange machine covered in stickers. The ‘Happy Capsule’ machine costs ¥100, and each capsule contains at least three prizes. I try to resist, but as if possessed by some demon from another world, I find that I have already inserted a coin.

My capsule contains a small glass fish statue with fried eggs randomly painted on each side, a colourful ankle bracelet with a small relic in the shape of an ice cream, and a teddy bear with the word ‘Love’ written on it. I also receive a ‘Lucky Sticker,’ which I am free to add to all the other lucky stickers that litter the machine. Noting the sign for ‘No Garbage,’ I take another look at my happy prizes and stand for a moment, enjoying the irony.

Eventually, I arrive at the place I came here to visit, Kotoku-in Temple. It is home to a giant Buddha, the same Buddha featured in Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘The Five Nations.

A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold,
The meaning of Kamakura?

I pay ¥200 to enter the grounds of the temple and stand for a while in awe. The Great Buddha of Kamakura was housed within a wooden temple three times. It was destroyed by strong winds twice but rebuilt on both occasions. Eventually, in 1498, it was destroyed for a third time by a tsunami and was never rebuilt. The Buddha survived and now sits outside in the cold of winter, patiently waiting for the seasons to change.

As I walk around the statue, I notice two windows located in its back. There is a sign in Japanese emphasising the importance of showing deep respect when walking around inside the Great Buddha. A man sits half asleep at a small booth, and a sign above displays a price of ¥20. For such a low price, I would be a fool not to enter. I squeeze my way into a small hole in Buddha’s side and take the steps up into his massive belly.

Inside the Great Buddha of Kamakura, the acoustics are fantastic. I speak softly to myself and find that my words are thrown around by the bronze interior, echoing off into infinity. However, a bit of graffiti inside slightly spoils the experience — a complete lack of reverence by some.

I exit the Buddha and leave the temple. On the way out, I spot a sign warning about a particular type of bird in the area that likes to steal food from tourists. I start heading back toward the train station, stopping off at a small food shop to enjoy a sweet potato croquette. All the while, I keep my eye out for the hungry birds. Unfortunately, the birds don’t materialise, which is a shame.

I decide to take a different route for variety, and eventually, I spot some steps that sweep up a mountain. Intrigued, I take a little detour to see where they might lead.

I find myself standing in front of Amanawa Shinmei Shrine. The place is deserted, seemingly untouched for years, presenting a stark contrast to the other places I have seen in Kamakura. This shrine, founded in 710 AD, is the oldest Shinto shrine in the city and is dedicated to Amaterasu, the goddess of the sun and the universe.

The view from the shrine is stunning, offering a different perspective of the area. In the distance, I see mountains, old houses, and multiple temples and shrines. From the top of the steps, I can also glimpse the sea. As I am about to leave, I spot a small path carved into the side of the mountain above, and with nobody else around, I decide to investigate.

As I climb, the path is relatively easy to follow, twisting around the mountain and becoming less obvious. I have to brush away cobwebs from my face as I follow the steep approach. With every step, I am careful not to lose my footing as the mud gets wetter and the path becomes steeper. After about five minutes of climbing, the overgrowth becomes too much, and I can’t continue. I stop and take a look around, taking in my surroundings, and realise that this was probably not a good idea.

I struggle to get back down, having to crawl a little to ease my way down from the path that has clearly not been used for years. I use my hands on the rocks as I work my way back to safety. I am slightly disappointed that I couldn’t find where it leads, perhaps to the sun goddess, or maybe just an escape route lost over time. There’s nothing for me to see, though, and eventually, I am back at the shrine, taking the steps back toward the main road.

I wander down deserted side streets that are full of old houses, some with massive gardens, others with disproportionately small ones.

Back at Kamakura Station, I get ready to endure another two hours sitting on trains. Day trips are fun but rather exhausting at the same time. It’s nice to escape, though, and see places that offer a difference. I think about climbing up that mountain path, feeling completely free for a short time—free from anything but my own eagerness to explore, or perhaps to escape altogether. I decide that my next day trip will be to a mountain of sorts, a place unlike those I have been discovering of late. Somewhere new and exciting, where I can rekindle my sense of adventure. A place flowing with natural beauty.

As I arrive back in Tokyo, a chill consumes the air. Above, thick clouds made of snow hover over the skyscrapers, lying in wait—almost ready to unleash their flakes of misery over the city.

Inoue Sake Brewery

Posted on 27/09/2014 by Luke

Today I meet with Naoto, the English speaking organiser of the sake tour. I am the only person to sign up. Not wanting to waste his whole day, I ask whether we should still go on the tour. It turns out Naoto is still quite eager to visit the brewery. Naoto is passionate about sake, and wants to spread the word about this traditional Japanese drink, which dates back to two thousand years ago. So off we go.

We head to Tokyo Station, before taking the the Tokaido Line to Kozu Station. The journey takes about ninety minutes. We have to wait at Kozu for a while; the trains here appear just twice an hour. Eventually a train comes, and we take the Gotemba Line to our destination, Kami-Oi Station. From the train I can see the sea.

Kami-Oi Station is deserted, it is so quiet that there is no ticket gate. “What, so we just walk out without paying?” I ask.
“This is the countryside,” is the explanation Naoto gives. I am still confused. The area is definitely the countryside, mountains and the sea. Rice growing everywhere. The air is clean. We leave the station and head to the Inoue Sake Brewery.

The cedar globe outside serves as a symbol for the current year’s sake production. When the new batch is made in late October, the globe will be replaced. Its changing colour from green to brown as the sake matures is a visual representation of the sake’s aging process. It’s a lovely tradition that mirrors the transformation of the drink itself.

Inoue Sake Brewery’s rich history since its establishment in 1789 during the Edo period is remarkable. Mister Inoue’s humility and passion shine through as he shares insights into the sake-making process, its history, and the diverse range of sake types. The tour of the brewery kicks off promptly, and Mister Inoue highlights how the cold Hakone air plays a crucial role in sake production. He emphasises the use of locally sourced rice and pristine water from a depth of 150 metres underground. Tasting the water confirms its anticipated qualities: cleanliness, freshness, and clarity.

Sake production resembles wine production, yet it involves an additional step before fermentation. Starch from the rice is combined with Koji, a diastatic enzyme that aids in breaking down the rice and converting its starch into sugar through a process called saccharification. Following this, sugar and yeast are added to commence fermentation. In contrast, grapes used in winemaking naturally contain sugars, so only yeast is added to initiate fermentation. Despite this difference, the subsequent processes in both sake and wine production follow a similar path.

We visit the room where the Koji is added to the rice and see the large tanks used for steaming, storage, and the mashing process. I’m surprised to learn that all these procedures are performed manually. For instance, the mashing process occurs in enormous 8,000-litre tanks. The masher stands atop a precarious-looking wooden platform above the tank, vigorously pounding a massive stick into the rice for four days.

The outcome is a liquid derived from starch. Subsequently, multiple parallel fermentations occur. The mixture rests for up to 32 days, enabling simultaneous saccharification and fermentation. Afterward, the sake undergoes pressing through cloth, filtration, and enters a pasteurisation phase. Finally, the sake ages for up to six months, is bottled, and eventually reaches the consumer for sale.

The sake is sold in 1.8 litre bottles, or 720 ml bottles. A much smaller bottle is also sold, however, the other two sizes are the most common. After the tour we sit down and try a few varieties of sake. My favourite is the gold-medal winning Hakone-yama Junmai. Junmaishu is a traditional style of sake, and often has a mellow bouquet with a rich, smooth flavour.

Hakone-yama Junmai offers three different serving options: room temperature, cold, or hot. Initially, we try it at room temperature, finding it good with a subtle flavour. When served cold, it becomes much nicer, boasting a smoother texture. Lastly, the hot variety also impresses; the flavour expands, and the scent intensifies, offering a delightful experience.

After the tasting, I am given a masu as a souvenir, a small wooden box which was originally used to measure rice, but these days it is used as a container for drinking sake. Impressed with what I have seen and tasted today, I decide to buy a bottle of sake for ¥1200. After that we say goodbye to the owner and return to Kami-Oi Station.

From the train station I can see the base of Mount Fuji.

Pot, Kettle, Snack

Posted on 27/08/2014 by Luke

Today, I take the Toei Asakusa Line for the first time in my life. Each time the train starts, it sounds as if there is music coming from beneath the carriages. It turns out that the music is the scraping of the train on the tracks; it does sound rather tuneful, though, perhaps this is the intention. It reminds me of an experience I often have on the Tokyo Metro Ginza Line; between Aoyama-itchome and Gaienmae, the train intermittently makes the sound of a dog being strangled.

I change trains at Shinbashi Station and depart in the direction of Yokohama. The journey time is an hour in total, and I arrive in Yokohama at 10 o’clock sharp. Outside the station, it is 21°C, cold in comparison to what I am used to. I search desperately for a Seven Eleven so I can update my maps using the free wireless Internet, but it seems Family Mart has the monopoly here. I eventually find a sketchy map and head toward Yokohama Bay.

There is a theme park here, Cosmo World. I contemplate riding the giant Ferris wheel (not pictured) to get a decent view of the area, but I remember that I am alone, so decide to give the solitary capsule ride a miss. I head to Yokohama F.Marinos MM21 Training Centre, the stadium for the football team ‘Yokohama F.Marinos’. Outside the stadium, two of the star players sign autographs for a small queue of fans.

The reason I came to Yokohama today is to visit the Cup Noodles Museum. For no reason that will ever become clear to anyone, a dinosaur stands guard at the entrance to the museum, a Deinonychus. This is the type of dinosaur that the raptors were based on in the movie Jurassic Park. I sneak past the Deinonychus and head to the ticket office. “How many people?” a young woman asks me. It is painstakingly obvious that it is just me.
“One person,” I say, looking around me for answers, “I think,” I add, deadpan. I pay the ¥500, and I am given a rather glossy museum guidebook.

Inside the museum, I am given a cardboard hat featuring a cartooned yellow bird, presumably a mascot of sorts. There is every packet of instant ramen and every type of Cup Noodle that has ever been created, arranged in a huge timeline. Just to clarify, this museum is for the brand of cup noodle called ‘Cup Noodle,’ made by Nissin; it is not a museum of cup noodles.

Momofuku Ando invented chicken instant ramen in his shed in 1958. With the overwhelming success of his chicken noodles, he went on to invent the cup noodle in September 1971. Not satisfied with his achievements, at the age of 96, he invented the first ramen that can be consumed in space. There is a wonderful exhibition of his life, a model replica of his famous shed, and loads of crazy noodle-based artwork here too.

There are noodle workshops where I can make ramen noodles from scratch or create my very own products. I pay an additional ¥300 and join the queue. I wait forty minutes, and eventually, I am given the opportunity to design my very own brand of Cup Noodle. First, I am given a blank Cup Noodle cup and am free to write or draw whatever I want. I graffiti the front of my cup, so where it once said, ‘Cup Noodle Museum,’ it now says, ‘Cook Pass Babtridge.’ I find the available pens to be of slightly poor quality, which spoils the whole experience for me.

Next, I get to choose the broth and toppings. A sign boasts that there are a total of 5,460 flavour combinations. “Gotta mismatch ’em all!” After toppings are added to the noodles, the lid is sealed in place, and the cup is vacuum-packed. After I finish making my lunch, I go to the top floor of the museum and check out the restaurants. No prizes for guessing what is on the menu.

After the museum, I stumble across a rather odd-looking building down some rather old-looking stone steps. It looks like a set from a science fiction movie; perhaps it once was.

I head into a Yodobashi Camera store. The place is silent; no crowds, no people shouting at me to buy their stuff. It is the complete opposite of the store in Akihabara. On the sixth floor, middle-aged men are queueing to buy AKB48’s 37th Single, ‘Senbatsu Sousenkyo,’ which was released today and will most likely be number one in the Billboard Japan Hot 100 chart by the weekend.

Outside, I grab a can of Suntory Black Boss coffee from a vending machine and make my way back toward the station. On the way, I pass a huge ship that looks amazing. It is actually part of the Yokohama Port Museum, sadly not a museum of fortified wine. The ship was built in 1930 and is used for training exercises. Even though there is a massive ship here, it doesn’t look out of place.

At the station, I take three different trains, and an hour later, I arrive back in Asakusa. I am actually completely exhausted but can’t sleep. I play video games for a while, then head out at six for a Dal Vindaloo at my favourite Indian restaurant. As I eat, I remind myself that I am in Japan and should maybe try Japanese food once in a while.

After food, I head to the hostel bar to conclude the day. A young Australian woman tells me that I sound like Russell Brand. I strongly disagree.

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