The Golden Reptile

Posted on 13/10/2014 by Luke

With a new home comes a new train station. Today, I head to the nearby Minowa Station and take the Hibiya Line. At Kayabacho Station, a man runs out of the train as the doors close, trapping his foot. He falls over, smashing his face on the platform. The doors re-open, he gets up, and walks away calmly, as if it didn’t happen. The train is also full of screaming babies, which is endlessly annoying. I much prefer the calmness of the Ginza Line. I remain on the noisy train for as long as I can stand; which happens to be twelve stops later, at Hibiya.

“I’ve never been to Hibiya before, but the area seems to take its name from a train line, so I’m hopeful I’ll find something interesting here. Inside the station, the yellow area information map presents a world of endless possibilities. There’s the Passport Centre, the Imperial Hospital, or even the Diet Building. Instead, I opt to explore Hibiya Park. As I approach the park’s entrance, a group of marathon runners rushes past me. In the distance, I hear the sound of megaphones. Inside the park, a festival.

Today marks the 21st Railway Festival. On the main stage, a big yellow mascot, shaped like the front of a train, dances around energetically. Market stalls are brimming with train-based information and souvenirs. Adults form queues, eager to have their photographs taken with various images depicting trains through the ages.

A crowd of people stands silently, engrossed in taking photographs, so I head over to investigate. A man holds up a sign that reads ‘On Air.’ A complete film crew is present, recording for a channel called Ch.546. They are filming a segment focused on the railway festival, featuring what seems to be a Japanese idol displaying a remarkable enthusiasm for trains.

The bustling stalls attract a steady stream of people, children brimming with excitement, and families enjoying picnics. Despite the event being a railway festival, the only physical trains in sight are on a miniature track featuring characters like Thomas and Percy from Thomas the Tank Engine—a ride that children happily pay an overpriced fee to experience.

Deeper into the festival grounds, a queue of over a thousand people forms for a live music event. I decide to continue my stroll through the park, which turns out to be quite charming with its fountains, ponds, and well-tended gardens. After a while, feeling a bit bored, I decide to leave and make my way to Ginza. Here, I indulge in the familiar tranquillity of the Tokyo Metro Ginza Line until I eventually arrive at Ueno Station.

Today marks the 31st Kappabashi Kitchen Festival. I start my journey from Ueno towards Asakusa, walking through the bustling Kappabashi Kitchen Town. The place is crowded; too many cooks.

This area is a hub where all the kitchen shops in Japan are clustered together. It’s the primary destination for purchasing kitchen products in the country. The festival serves as an avenue for shopkeepers to sell off their summer inventory at discounted rates, making room for their winter stock. Prices have been significantly reduced, resulting in a rush of shoppers clamouring for bowls, knives, pans, and even shop signage. Meanwhile, the enticing aroma of delicious food from various small stands fills the air.

I swim through bustling crowds until I spot a group of people capturing photographs of a statue—a golden kappa.

The kappa has evolved into the official mascot of Kappabashi Street, although the reason might not be immediately apparent. One story suggests that ‘kappa’ translates to ‘raincoat’ in Japanese, as many merchants used to hang their wet raincoats out to dry on a nearby bridge. Another tale revolves around a merchant named Kappaya, who supposedly constructed a canal in the area to manage floodwater. Consequently, the street was named after him to honour his contributions. However, as time passed, these origins faded into obscurity, and now the street is simply associated with the homophonically named kappa—a mythical frog lizard—replacing historical roots with legend.

At the Asakusa end of Kappabashi Street, I make a brief stop at Cafe Byron Bay for a radio interview with the Japan FM Network, discussing vending machines. Interestingly, the interview won’t be broadcast until next month, and despite being recorded in Tokyo, it’s to be aired everywhere except here.

Turning the corner from the cafe, I’m greeted by the commencement of festivities—traditional Japanese taiko drums echoing through the air.

As I finally depart from the festival, the resonating beats of the drums linger in my ears. Heading back towards Minowa, the rain begins to fall—another typhoon approaching. Quick to act, I grab some snacks from Seven Eleven and opt to seek refuge in my apartment for the evening, bracing for the impending storm.

There Will Be Flood

Posted on 06/10/2014 by Luke

Typhoon Phanfone is making its miserable way toward Tokyo and is expected to arrive this evening. I can’t wait. It’s already raining today, and judging by the state of the pavement outside, it seems like it has been raining all night. To avoid getting soaked, I walk for one minute to reach the nearest station and take the somewhat aptly named Tsukuba Express Line (pronounced ‘scuba’), before transferring to the Yamanote Line at Akihabara Station.

My destination today is Meiji Shrine. The train ride takes thirty-one minutes to reach Harajuku Station. While on the train, the telescreen has taken a break from displaying the usual dull advertisements and, instead, is showing the current position of the looming typhoon.

I leave the station and make my way through the pouring rain towards Meiji Shrine.

There’s a weird festival happening called Ningyo Kanshasai, centred around setting fire to broken old toys. This unique event is a way to express gratitude to dolls and is held annually at Meiji Shrine. It originated in 1989 and this year marks its 26th anniversary. In Japan, there’s a belief that a fragment of your soul resides within your possessions. Consequently, the practice of giving used gifts isn’t very common here, as it’s believed that a part of your essence accompanies the second-hand object.

Today, this Shinto exorcism ceremony serves as a method to purify the doll, releasing the part of your soul believed to be encapsulated within the inanimate object—a means to attain a liberated spirit for a healthy mind. For a nominal fee of ¥3000, you can include your dolls in the extensive collection along with others, granting your soul its liberation. The spirit of the doll is elevated through the Haraikiyome (purification) ritual performed by the priest, involving a cleansing ceremony known as Oharai conducted on the dolls.

Last year, over 7,000 people donated a staggering 44,000 dolls for purification. The assortment of dolls is incredibly diverse, encompassing Japanese traditional dolls, Western dolls, and popular stuffed animals this year. The rain has somewhat subdued the turnout, but there’s still a plentiful display of dolls. Inside the main hall, two women in splendid costumes are conducting a captivating and beautiful ritual. According to the official website, this solemn festival is highly recommended as a must-see.

I depart just before the distribution of the ‘sacred sake.’ Despite the shelter provided by the numerous trees within Meiji Shrine, I am still soaked by the storm outside. Determined to seek refuge, I make my way across the road to Yoyogi Park, only to discover yet another event taking place.

This weekend’s event is ‘The Road of Hokkai-Food,’ a celebration dedicated to Hokkaido cuisine. Interestingly, like the previous festival, this event also commemorates its 26th year, despite appearing unrelated. Here, there are almost ninety stalls selling a variety of snacks, inexpensive meals, trinkets, cheeses, and beer. The tightly packed stalls, accompanied by the pouring rain and the tantalising aroma of food, create an energetic atmosphere akin to a lively music event.

Some of the foods on offer include, Ishikari-nabe (salmon, stewed vegetables, and tofu in a miso broth), Yakitori (grilled chicken on a stick), various types of seafood, and plenty of Sapporo beer. The only thing missing is the people; it would be fair to say the event is a complete washout. There’s a woman dressed in a smart white suit giving a talk on the stage for an event advertised as ‘Sapporo Presents …’; however, she speaks only in Japanese, and my language skills are still lacking.

I leave the festival and head over to Shibuya. Today marks the final day of an art exhibition I’ve been planning to visit, so while I’m in the area, I decide to drop by Bunkamura—a venue encompassing a concert hall, theatre, and museum. ‘Visual Deception II: Into the Future’ is a trick art exhibition focusing on shadows, silhouettes, mirror images, optical illusions, and anamorphosis. Admission costs ¥1500, providing a nice respite from the weather. The display of peculiar artwork can only be described as mind-boggling. As usual, photography is not permitted.

After the exhibition, I opt to head home before potential train cancellations. At my hostel, preventive measures have already been taken to tackle potential flooding: staff members cleaned out the drains and placed a row of bricks in front of the steps where flooding occurred last month.

Back at the hostel, I order Glastonbury Festival tickets and spend some time writing before heading out for a few drinks at a nearby bar. The rain persists. As I eventually leave the bar, I find the pavement outside flooded with rushing pools of water.

The forecast predicts the rain to persist throughout the night, intensifying at 3 a.m. as Typhoon Phanfone hits Tokyo. I doubt I’ll witness the full impact of the storm; I’ll likely be asleep by then, unless the howling wind wakes me up amidst the chaos outside.

Swings and Sound and Boats

Posted on 13/08/2014 by Luke

My hotel offers a ‘classic’ help-yourself breakfast, so I opt for a bowl of rice, pickled cucumber, a pot of natto, a salad, and a couple of croissants. Natto for breakfast—enough to wake even the dead! I add mustard to rid myself of its abhorrent taste.

The day is gloomy with the threat of rain, yet curiously, I can’t seem to locate my umbrella—this is becoming a regular occurrence. The rain halts, I absentmindedly leave my umbrella outside a shop, and upon exiting, it slips my mind entirely. Now, sans umbrella, I’m left fervently hoping the rain stays at bay. But as expected, the very instant I step out of the hotel, the rain begins to pour.

Today, I only have two things on my sightseeing list, and they’re quite a distance apart. Given that I’m in Japan, the journey between them is sure to unveil something intriguing along the way—perhaps even a shop shaped like a boat.

I head into Arc City and visit the Hamamatsu Museum of Musical Instruments. It’s the largest municipal museum of musical instruments in Asia and was the very first of its kind to open in Japan. The museum boasts an incredible display of 1,200 musical instruments. Admission costs just ¥400.

Most instruments come with two sets of headphones. I thoroughly enjoy examining each instrument, studying its unique shape, and imagining how it might have sounded in use. I then choose a pair of headphones to listen to its actual sound—A great way to kill a morning.

The museum showcases instruments from across the globe, with expansive sections categorised by continent. Here, I delve into a wealth of musical knowledge. My particular fascination lies with transverse flutes, shakuhachi flutes, and Japanese taiko and tsuzumi drums. Moreover, I uncover an intriguing fact: the very first Japanese-made piano originated here in Hamamatsu. This revelation perhaps accounts for the abundance of music shops, Romantic-era traffic lights, museums, and two concert halls.

In the ‘hands-on room,’ I indulge in playing a variety of instruments, but the spinet piano steals my heart as a favourite. Lost in the museum’s captivating exhibits, time slips away unnoticed, and I find myself leaving after two or three hours.

Outside, the cicadas persist in a symphony of their own, undeterred by the torrential rain. Amidst the deluge, there’s at least one person seemingly relishing the downpour:

Seeking refuge from the weather, I find solace inside Hamamatsu Station. Ascending seven escalators to the 8th floor of the shopping complex, I reach a bookshop. In Japan, lingering or sitting down to read books in a bookstore is perfectly acceptable. Similarly, spending hours browsing magazines in a convenience store is considered normal. I pass fifteen minutes here before descending, only to discover that the storm has worsened.

Everyone at the station appears as ill-prepared as I am. Umbrella-less, they huddle together, patiently awaiting the rain’s cessation. I hastily make my way to Seven Eleven, purchasing my sixth umbrella for ¥540. The surrounding buildings are shrouded in a white mist of cascading water—an unexpected sight, especially considering my plans to visit the beach today.

As time passes, I find myself seated on the only bench in that deserted shopping arcade. With several hours to kill due to hotel cleaning schedules, I contemplate. During a storm like this, I can’t help but wonder if the safest haven might just be a shop shaped like a boat.

After a while, the rain subsides, prompting me to stroll to the beach, a journey of about an hour. This beach holds significance due to the Nakatajima Sand Dunes, and it serves as a conservation area for the nesting Loggerhead Sea Turtles. Every summer, these turtles come ashore to lay their eggs on this very beach.

“Prazer em recebê-los!” says a drawing of a Loggerhead Sea Turtle in fluent Portuguese.
“Nice to meet you, too!” I reply, in fluent English.

These sand dunes rank among the three largest in Japan, and the wooden fences stand to protect their conservation. A warning sign sternly advises, ‘Do not damage the fences!’ The wind, notably stronger in this area, renders my umbrella ineffective—unless I’m keen on turning my sixth umbrella inside out.

By the time I reach the sea, I am completely soaked. I was really hoping to see a turtle, but I sadly can’t find any; not too surprising really, they are a rare and endangered species. After the beach I head into a nearby park. There is a big man-made hill in the park built specifically as a tsunami evacuation point. There is also a windmill and a set of swings. I rest my legs for a while.

swing

On my walk back to the hotel, I pass a pachinko parlour called, ‘God’. I also pass dozens of construction sites promising modern skyscrapers; office blocks and apartments. It seems that the southern part of Hamamatsu is the last and latest to be developed, perhaps in four or five years this place won’t seem so desolate.

The rain stops just before I cross the river.

After walking for an hour, alone, my thoughts begin to wander and I drift off into daydream.

Upon returning to the hotel, I realise I can’t recall the journey here, yet here I am. After drying off, I dedicate some time to researching my trains for tomorrow. It appears I have yet another four-and-a-half-hour local train marathon to endure. However, I don’t mind; after forty-eight days away, I’m finally heading back home to Asakusa.

Nothing Happens Until Something Moves

Posted on 11/08/2014 by Luke

I have to walk ten minutes from my hotel to a different hotel with my laundry. The rain is heavy; a super typhoon has hit, making the rain and wind stronger than any I’ve ever experienced. However, I need to do my laundry. The sky outside is the darkest grey. Eventually, I find the other hotel. Fortunately, the coin laundry is accessible directly from the street, saving me the awkwardness of entering a hotel where I’m not staying just to use their facilities.

The laundry room is accessed through a shutter door currently pried open by what looks like a rotten plank of wood, which is a little worrying. Outside, noisy construction work is taking place despite the weather. The noise makes it rather difficult to concentrate on my book. I plan to spend as little time as possible outside today, so there is no point traipsing back through the storm just yet.

Inside the coin laundry, the room is dirty. The old vending machines no longer dispense detergent; luckily for me, I bought a ¥28 single-wash-sized pouch on the way here. I sit reading, waiting for my clothes, occasionally glancing up at the dirty walls.

With the laundry done, I head back to the hotel as fast as I can. On the way, I notice abandoned inside-out umbrellas dumped on the street. I observe people ducking and diving into shelter, and I see areas of the pavement completely flooded. Meanwhile, the sound of sirens fills the air.

Back at the hotel, I sit by the balcony on the second floor of the lobby, quietly reading my book. I don’t mind rainy days, actually; I quite like the peace of sitting in silence and reading. It appears that a lot of people are holed up in the hotel today. Every now and then, someone walks to the window, sees that it is still raining, and then goes back to sit down. We are all waiting for the typhoon to pass.

At 3 p.m., I am allowed back into my room. As I use the hairdryer on my shoes, I keep an eye on the news. After a short while, I hear the words, ‘Nagoya Station.’

There on the news is the train station, with taxis parked outside and rain falling. The typhoon has moved north, but the backlash of rain still falls. The bullet trains have all been cancelled.

Japan’s biggest broadcaster NHK seems to love this sort of stuff; for the next two hours, all they talk about is the typhoon. Cut to: Windscreen wipers frantically moving back and forth. Cut to: Drains overflowing. Cut to: Businessmen trying to juggle briefcases and carry an umbrella, only for it to whoosh inside-out. Cut to: All the bicycles blown over by the wind. Cut to: Rivers overflowing. Cut to: Trees shaking in the wind. This is about all I see for twenty minutes, then the footage repeats, and then repeats.

Outside, the rain looks like a white sheet being hung over the skyline. The wind is stronger now, blowing the rain sideways, making it very difficult to see the buildings in the distance. The last super typhoon I experienced passed miserably through the night; I never really got to see the chaos that it caused. Sitting here, I realise just how gloomy and grey today has been.

Eventually, the rain stops, and the wind dies down. At 7 p.m., I head out to the twenty-four-hour supermarket. On the way, I pass a sign about littering: a ten million yen fine and five years’ imprisonment. Inside the supermarket, a digitally transposed version of ‘Dreams’ by the Cranberries is playing. I buy some cheese and a small bottle of wine. At the self-service checkout, I scan the wine; a message pops up, ‘Are you over twenty? Yes/No.’ I press ‘yes’ and then finish and pay. There’s no one around to check, just press ‘yes.’ Honesty is the best policy.

On the way back I pass a restaurant with a full set of Christmas lights. The full works.

Back at the hotel, I Skype with a friend from England. After that, I get deep into my reading until I finish my book. At 10 p.m., I head out to my nearest Family Mart to pick up some food. Inside Family Mart, that same Japanese song with the nice melody is playing. I can just make out a few words; hopefully, it will be enough to find out what it is.

When I return, I turn my attention to Japanese pop music. I listen to the top 30 songs in this week’s Billboard Japan Hot 100 chart. Oddly, Pharrell Williams with ‘Happy’ is at 29th. At 9th and 10th positions are two different songs from the same artist. A song from the anime Sailor Moon is in the top ten. AKB48 sister-band, SKE48, is number one. The song I am trying to find is nowhere to be heard.

Instead, I find myself staring at this sign in my hotel room:

I do eventually find out the name of the song I keep hearing. It turns out to be a cover version of the other song I’ve been hearing, the one from Disney’s Frozen: ‘Let it Go’. It’s a Japanese version played on the piano, sounding very different from the English version—and a lot better, too. I spend the rest of my evening listening to various Japanese versions of ‘Let it Go’ on YouTube but can’t find the particular version I like. Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that, though. I cannot bear the responsibility.

O Browser, Where Art Thou?

Posted on 05/08/2014 by Luke

Today, I am leaving Kyoto. However, before I depart, I decide to visit the roof of Kyoto Station, specifically the sky garden known as ‘Happy Terrace.’ It requires ascending nine consecutive escalators to reach the top, where I can admire the breathtaking views of Kyoto for free. As I descend back on the endless escalators towards the train platform, I take a moment to appreciate the roof.

At the platform, a helpful staff member asks if I need any help. I tell him I’m okay and thank him. “Where are you going? Osaka?” he inquires. I nod. He points at the train I’m waiting for, saying, “This one is faster,” seemingly checking off his good deed for the day in his mind. I thank him again and resume waiting for my train. This has happened four times this week in Kyoto—staff members or strangers offering help. I guess I should be more grateful.

At 12 p.m., I board the JR Kyoto Line to Shin-Osaka. The 23-minute train ride costs ¥560. Osaka, the capital of Osaka Prefecture, is Japan’s second-largest metropolitan area. Over one-seventh of the Japanese population lives here, ranking it as the third largest city in Japan by population. I wander around the Osaka area for a while, passing time before I can check into my hotel.

Outside Shin-Osaka Station, I see my first real piece of graffiti:

At 2 p.m., I check in. I’ll be staying in Osaka for three nights. I selected this hotel based on a quote from their website: ‘For warm smiles, fastidious service, and first-class hospitality.’ Interestingly, the hotel also boasts another blatantly inauthentic motto: ‘The happiness of our guests is our happiness.’ The person checking me in hands me a breakfast ticket for a Japanese breakfast tomorrow morning. It’s odd because I don’t recall paying for any breakfast.

I am staying in Shin-Osaka, which Google says is a one-hour walk from Osaka Station. I opt to take the train to Osaka Station and walk back to my hotel, thinking it will be a pleasant way to explore the city. I stayed in Shin-Osaka two years ago, so I am familiar with the area around this station. In Osaka, people walk on the left and stand on the right side of the escalator, unlike almost everywhere else in Japan.

The train ride takes just six minutes with no other stops, and it costs ¥160. Exiting the station, I notice a sign indicating that cycling on the pavement is prohibited. Outside, the temperature is cool, hovering around 25°C, with a gentle rain falling—nothing to worry about, no need for an umbrella. At the foot of the station steps, there’s an outdoor beach volleyball game underway. It’s a Japan Volleyball Association match, likely being filmed, possibly for live television broadcast.

I continue my walk away from the station. To the left, there’s a massive construction site that seems to stretch for several kilometres. On the right, ‘Grand Front Osaka’ stands—a colossal building self-described as a ‘New town in a natural environment.’ Essentially a skyscraper housing numerous shops and restaurants. Adjacent to it, there’s an artificial river that spans the length of the building; it’s not exactly what I’d label a natural environment. However, concrete stepping-stones along the river add a touch of excitement.

I continue my walk through the chaotic Osaka roads. I’m accustomed to cities where streets form a grid-like pattern, always straight and easy to navigate. However, Osaka seems like someone picked it up and gave it a good shake—the city and its streets have turned into a tangled mass of concrete. The roads are chaotic, and the pavements strangely devoid of people. Suddenly, it starts raining hard—nothing to worry about, no need for an umbrella.

Since leaving Osaka Station, I haven’t come across a single convenience store, and I’m in desperate need of buying an umbrella. At this point, a considerable amount of time passes. I spend a good fifteen minutes attempting to reach the bridge that crosses the Yodo River, but inexplicably, an endless train platform obstructs any access. There’s no tunnel beneath it, no bridge over it.

Completely soaked and frustrated, I eventually find the way to the bridge. The rain appears to be intensifying with every step, my shoes now full of water. It takes me another ten minutes to cross the Yodo River. I realise that all I’ve done since this morning is kill time. I have days like this every now and then—nothing happens at all.

As I wander along with my wet clothes and my thoughts, I start to wonder if I’ll even have anything to write about today. Osaka Day One: Nothing Happens. I can already see the title. It’s 5 p.m. when I finally cross the bridge into Juso. A heavy sigh of relief escapes me as I spot, in the distance, the green and white lights of a Family Mart. A second sigh of relief follows at the sight of some neon. However, the path is somewhat spoiled by a single piece of rubbish on the ground.

I purchase an umbrella from Family Mart along with a single banana. Convenience stores appear scarce in this area, but at least I can buy just one banana. Osaka feels like a different country—people here act differently, there’s more litter on the streets, fewer bicycles around, and the locals also speak differently, using their own special dialect.

Drenched from the rain, I stroll down a street named ‘Happy Street,’ feeling as though the sign mocks me as I pass. After making a few turns, I decide to take a rest on a bus stop bench. I estimate that I’ve been walking for about two hours. Consulting the GPS on my camera, I realise I’m close to Nishinakajimaminamigata Station. It’s just one stop away from Shin-Osaka Station, so not much farther to go.

Near the station, the nightlife scene comes alive. Memories flood back as I navigate the interlocking streets filled with restaurants, bars, and neon signs. I decide to check if a bar I fondly remember, called ‘Meets,’ still exists. Finding it easily, I’m disappointed to see it closed today, or perhaps permanently shut down—I can’t discern which. It’s still early, though. Disheartened, I spot a Seven Eleven and opt to purchase a can of 5% Suntory whisky highball. Seven Eleven is the only convenience store I know that sells the 5% can; the other shops only offer the stronger 7% and 9% cans.

Upon returning to the hotel, intending to write about my day, I find that the two computers available in the hotel lobby are relics of the past. One of the machines operates on the Windows 98 operating system with an outdated Internet Explorer as the default browser, bombarding me with messages to update. It prompts for a password whenever I attempt to do anything. I try to download Google Chrome but face the same password requirement. Attempting to write becomes an exercise in patience as the machine’s slowness causes each typed letter to lag about five seconds before appearing on-screen. Frustrated, I abandon the effort and retreat to my room.

Exhausted, I fall asleep before 8 p.m.

Into the Belly of a Whale

Posted on 25/06/2014 by Luke

I am filming the rain as it slowly sweeps toward me. The rain is just a bit further away on the other side of the road. It’s heavy, two weeks worth of rain all in one go. As it passes through me my umbrella goes up with the flick of a button. Flick. Swoosh. Patter patter. At Tawaramachi Station, I see a member of the hostel staff. He doesn’t have an umbrella. I walk him the five minutes to the hostel holding my umbrella above us both, much to his delight.

On the way back to Tawaramachi Station, the path is already flooded. The thunder sounds like a drum, a big booming drum. It starts from behind me and roars across the sky travelling above me and away into the distance. One fell swoop. I stand for a while watching the lightning over the Sumida River, it dances around Tokyo Skytree, a giant lightning rod on a day like today. I wait with my camera, poised for the shot that never comes. Ten minutes pass and I decide ten minutes is long enough to wait.

I grab the train to Shinagawa, via Nihonbashi for a ¥300 orange and ginger smoothie. Outside Shinagawa Station a thick grey blanket of cloud covers every inch of the sky, casting rain and darkness across the city. Street lights have come on and it’s only 10 a.m. I go to the Tokyo University of Marine Science and Technology. There is a museum here about fishing methods. There is also a big round pond for the turtles to swim around in.

The highlight for me is something you won’t find in a guidebook. A full size skeleton of a western gray whale. There is a sign saying ‘open’ but there is not a sole in sight. I enter the room housing the giant whale skeleton. It is incredible. The way the exhibit has been put together allows you to walk inside its rib cage, into where its stomach would have been. I contemplate spending three days and three nights in the belly, like Jonah, but the smell of the bones is quite potent. Like a rotten seaside smell. I take a few photographs, but the whale is so big, I can’t fit it into a single shot.

I wander around the rest of the university campus. I find it interesting to get a perspective of what it’s like here at a university in Japan. They have tennis courts, surfboards, labs, classrooms, a whale skeleton, boats, dormitories, and an outdoor swimming pool brimming with rainwater. I leave impressed. In Tokyo, every train station has its own theme tune for each train line, and the Tokyu Toyoko Line does not disappoint.

Back at the hostel I think about moving on. A hostel in Beppu claims that: “If you are tired while you are traveling, Beppu is the best place to relex! [sic] Beppu is blessed with abundant nature for trekking, soaking in natural hot springs, or playing in the ocean. You can choose what you want depending on your mood. There are eight different kinds of hot springs, depending on the area you go to.” The hostel having its own hot spring bath making the decision very easy for me, and I book a two week stay.

Outside the rain has just about stopped, so I go to hire a bicycle. Bright green, my favourite. Yesterday I wanted to buy my own bike, I even went to the bike shop. The guy told me I can’t buy a bike unless I have a permanent address. Apparently, to prevent theft, all bicycles in Japan have to be registered to an address and all bicycles are stamped with approval. Each cyclist has a card with their name and address and a number matching the number stamped to the bike. If stopped by the police you can prove the bicycle is yours. If a bike is abandoned the police know who it belongs to and will charge you to have it sent back.

On my bright green hired bicycle I cycle to Ueno. There is an expedition on today at the Tokyo National Museum. It is art work from Taipei and has been big news in Japan for all the wrong reasons. The Japanese billboard advertising the Treasured Masterpieces from the National Palace Museum in Taipei had omitted the word ‘national,’ an act that was perceived by the Taiwanese government as undermining the nation’s dignity. The exhibition was almost cancelled until a last minute correction was made and an apology from Japan was given. Unfortunately, the famous ‘Jadeite Cabbage’ was left back in Taiwan amidst the controversy. I came here solely to see The Cabbage, so perhaps it was a wasted journey. Outside the museum, I eat green tea ice cream while gazing in, saving my ¥1600.

The time is 19:11, so I head to Seven Eleven. I buy Inarizushi (sushi rice wrapped in deep fried tofu). I also buy an egg sandwich, a box of natto, and some hot chilli flavoured Potato Chips, for the natto. At the counter, chopsticks and a mint tipped toothpick are given to me in a handy little bag, complimentary of course. I head to my hiding place on the 4th floor of the hostel and read. The packaging for my sandwich thanks me for eating its contents. I eat natto until I run out of Potato Chips.

I decide to cycle around Asakusa looking for something to do. Outside Senso-ji Temple, I spot a television crew and TV presenter Kazuo Tokumitsu. He is with a female singer who’s name I haven’t yet discovered. She sings a few songs, her voice sweet, her smile sweeter. She thanks a few members of the crowd and then everybody leaves.

Back at the hostel, I plan on an early night. My early night doesn’t quite happen though and somehow I’m in a bar with three guys from the hostel. For some reason, I can still recall the stench of the whales bones. I stay to watch the first half of the Uruguay game, before giving in to slumber at around 2 a.m.

The Mountain: a story about climbing Mount Fuji

Posted on 05/07/2012 by Luke

It is Wednesday 4th July 2012 and it’s very cold. I am at the top of Mount Fuji, 3,776 metres above sea level, and there is a fierce blizzard going on. Winds that appear somewhere between gale force and hurricane force on the Beaufort scale. Snow on the ground and snow falling fresh from the sky combined with freezing rain that can only be described as freezing rain. Then there is the thick cold fog that makes it impossible for me to see my hand in front of my face, despite the incredibly bright headlamp that for some reason can’t penetrate thick cold fog at a distance greater than 15 centimetres. Legs aching. Face aching. Losing count of the amount of times I’ve fallen over. Here we are at the top of the highest mountain in Japan. We’re contemplating waiting here until 4:40 a.m. to see the sunrise. There is however another problem …

We don’t have a clue what time it is.

Three days ago I couldn’t sleep. The excitement of visiting a foreign county often has that effect on me. Travelling across time zones, navigating planes, taxis, and a relentless journey left me smiling at an airport on the opposite side of the world, yet internally adrift.

I meet my friend Sean at the airport, we hop on a train for 2 hours, and finally arrive in Shinjuku. It’s lunchtime in Japan. I’ve been awake for about 31 hours, and we can’t check into the hotel for another four. After some sightseeing and food, it hits around 4 p.m., so we head to the hotel. I crash in my room and quickly fall asleep.

Tuesday rejuvenates my spirit, restoring me after what feels like the best sleep ever. Tokyo calls for exploration, and after a few trips on the Yamanote Line, it starts pouring. The sky darkens as massive clouds block most of the sunshine on what was a relatively hot July day. The rain pounds down, the air thick with humidity. Buying an umbrella becomes a solemn act, seeking shelter beneath it as if seeking refuge from the downpour of life’s uncertainties. We head back to the hotel a bit early to dry off and snag some extra sleep for tomorrow’s adventure: climbing Mount Fuji.

After some struggle finding the bus, finally, at 11:27 a.m., we’re ready to set off. The ¥2700 highway bus takes us through Japanese countryside, across bridges and valleys, until, a few hours later, we reach Mount Fuji Fifth Station—the starting point for climbers. There are ten stations in total, the tenth being the summit.

Here at the Fifth Station, the sun shines, and the mood is upbeat. Restaurants, souvenir shops, and gear stores line the area. I forgot warm clothing, so I grab a nice fleece for ¥6000. After a satisfying Japanese meal, it’s time to climb. We rent a coin locker and leave everything non-essential at Station Five, setting off promptly.

The hike to Station Six is pleasant, perhaps taking forty minutes or even less. We rest, snack on Kendal Mint Cake, then resume climbing. What’s heartening as we ascend is the warm greetings from every person we pass—each offering a smile and a ‘konnichiwa!’

Somewhere between Station Six and Seven, there are dreadful steps. Loads of them, sweeping from left to right, hindering progress. We take a break and chat with an American couple descending the Mountain. They joke that it’ll take another ten hours to reach the top. Hilarious, I hope.

A few hours pass since Station Six, and we arrive at Station Seven—equipped with a bench, a toilet, and a shop selling instant ramen. We pause to admire the view before continuing. Around this climb point, we’re engulfed in clouds, and it starts getting cooler. No more steps, thankfully … just rocks.

Endless rocks.

Arguably the worst part of the Mount Fuji climb is between the Seventh and Eighth stations. This stretch demands hand-climbing over endless slippery rocks. Thankfully, there are about eight or nine mountain huts interspersed, each with a bench, toilet, shop, and if needed, a place to sleep. I’m grateful for these intermittent rests, although the prices keep climbing higher with altitude. I recall one of the higher shops selling two cans of Coke and a Snickers bar for the equivalent of £10, though the exchange rate wasn’t as favourable back in 2012.

After leaving the last hut at Station Eight, the skies begin to darken. This part of the climb features volcanic rock littering the trails—loads of smashed-up or small bits of rock and stone. Tricky to walk on, they slide around under our feet. The darkness doesn’t favour us here, so it’s time to put on the all-important headlamp.

Somewhere before the penultimate Ninth Station, we encounter a mountain hut. A Japanese man outside informs us that the mountain huts beyond this point are closed, urging us to stay for the night. Uncertain if he’s honest or aiming for extra business, it turns out he’s genuinely concerned for our safety.

At Station Nine, perched at 3,600 metres above sea level, the solitary mountain hut stands closed, swallowed by pitch-black darkness. Devoid of light, shops, or comfort, it echoes with the haunting symphony of wind and rain. An impending storm brews, casting a foreboding shadow over our proximity to the summit—just 176 metres away.

In daylight, this section of the Mountain might take about 40 minutes. In the dark amid increasing rain and wind, it takes us 2 hours. Passing through a torii gate, we venture deeper into darkness. Here, the volcanic rocky ground ends, and a very difficult climb begins. Bare rocks mark the path, and climbing these slippery, wet rocks is no fun at all. My vision reduces to a black screen with flickering white dots, snowfall illuminated by my headlamp. After navigating the treacherous rocks, a white torii gate signals the final steps, and we reach the summit. Exhausted, cold, wet, but relieved.

At Mount Fuji’s peak, all the shops are closed; no light, no life. The summit at night is bleak—snow falls, wind howls stronger. We huddle by a closed mountain hut, attempting to shield ourselves from the wind. Trying to calculate the time, as we have no devices or clocks, it becomes a futile exercise. Everything is in the coin locker back at Station Five, and with nobody around to ask, we are forced to do some calculations.

The sun set hours ago.
On Monday, we missed the sunset due to our late afternoon sleep.
Tuesday’s rain and sudden darkness hid the sunset.
We do know the sun rises at 4:40 a.m.
We set off from Station Five around 2 p.m.
The American couple said it takes at least ten hours.
It feels like we’ve been walking for at least ten hours.
We decide it’s probably around midnight, but we have no way to be sure.

Contemplating waiting for sunrise, hoping the sun would warm us, we realise the risk of freezing if we linger. We opt to head down the dark, slippery, snow-covered rocks.

Hours seem to pass, and eventually, we return to Station 8.5. A Japanese man and woman greet us, whispering, indicating that people are already asleep, planning to wake an hour before sunrise for the final climb. For ¥5500 each, we acquire a small bean bag pillow, a blanket, and space on the hard wooden floor. Cold and exhausted, I could’ve slept anywhere. A clock on the hut wall reads 10:47 p.m. Turns out, in summer in Japan, the sun sets just after 6 p.m.

In the morning there was this:

Descending the Mountain proves far easier than ascending it. There’s a twisted pleasure in knowing those we pass on the way down will face what we’ve just endured. I now understand why those descending greeted us with smiles and a cheerful ‘konnichiwa!’ as we ascended.

July and August mark Mount Fuji’s ‘climbing season.’ We tackled the Mountain just days into the season, hence the lingering snow on the summit and the closure of mountain huts past Station 8.5.

Returning to Station Five, we board a bus to Kawaguchiko Station, encountering a French lady and her daughters who scaled the Mountain that same night. She recounts a chilling warning from Station Five’s security, advising against venturing beyond Station 8.5 due to hazardous snow. In her narrative, a haunting reality unfolds: the Mountain’s icy grasp clung to mortality’s edge, our steps teetered on a malevolent dance with death. Each footfall echoed a grim refrain, a chilling symphony marking our unnerving closeness to an untimely encounter with the abyss.

In June 2013 Mount Fuji was granted UNESCO World Heritage status.

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