sleeping | Japanising.com

I wake up at 5 a.m. to the sound of a drunk man in our dormitory room. He spends fifteen minutes trying to open his locker before giving up and leaving the room. It’s nights like these that I wish I were in a hotel. An hour later, the same guy who doesn’t know how to open a locker comes back and spends fifteen minutes trying to climb the ladder to his bed, which, of course, is the bed above mine.

More noise at eight. Two people packing and re-packing their cases loudly, stamping around loudly. I give up on sleep and get up, tired and annoyed. I kill time, drink coffee, then go to a cafe at nine for more coffee. Despite drinking a lot of coffee, I still feel drained. The hot weather adds to my exhaustion. I lazily stroll through the mid-morning Asakusa streets. There is an artist on the street using spray paint to create science-fiction themed space art. He goes from a blank canvas to a beautiful planetscape in a matter of minutes. Incredible.

I continue wandering. One guy raises his hand above his head as I walk past, “Woah! You are too tall!” he exclaims, much to my amusement. I head back to where the street performers gather and watch a yo-yo master skilfully Split the Atom.

Back at the hostel, I write up non-events, then kill time playing Baldur’s Gate on my camera. At 3 p.m., I still have no energy but need to get out of the hostel. I decide to head to Chofu. I take the Tokyo Metro Ginza Line to Shibuya. On the way, I hop off at Nihonbashi Station for a ¥300 smoothie (orange and ginger), then back on the next train three minutes later.

I cross Shibuya Crossing and take a shortcut through Yoyogi Park. My shortcut is somewhat obstructed by the Super Yosakoi dance festival. The entrance to Yoyogi Park’s event open space is blocked by hundreds of people dancing in the street.

The dancing here is actually quite good, the music catchy and rhythmic; I much prefer it to the Samba music that was playing all day yesterday. The stage here is in use too, with people in traditional clothing waving flags and dancing to very similar music to that of the street dancers. I take the ten-minute walk to Harajuku Station, trying to get away from the crowds. My plan is a shortcut through the forests surrounding the peaceful Meiji Shrine.

My shortcut is somewhat obstructed by the crowds of people gathering at the entrance to the shrine. A stage has been erected here, and more people are dancing. The Super Yosakoi dance festival is everywhere. The music from the speakers here is so loud that I actually have to walk with my fingers in my ears. A one-way system through the grounds of Meiji Shrine is also in place.

Halfway through my route through the shrine grounds, a third stage is active and features more dancing and loud live music. There is a sign with a big red cross over a picture of a camera; I presume it to mean “No photography,” yet everyone seems to be taking photographs. Very odd. Perhaps I have been misinterpreting this sign all these years.

I leave Meiji Shrine and head toward Shinjuku Station. It’s another hot day, and I have another ten minutes of walking to endure in the heat. Somehow, as this realisation of the temperature comes to mind, a stranger in the street hands me a fan. At Shinjuku Station, I get a little lost but eventually find my way to the entrance to the Keio Line. A million other people have decided to take this train too. I take the second train that pulls in as there is no room on the first. As I am pushed into the carriage, I see that the crowd behind me spills up the steps and beyond. It appears the whole of Tokyo is following me to Chofu.

The Special Express train makes just one other stop between Shinjuku and Chofu, and I arrive promptly at 6 p.m. I follow the swarms of people to the Tamagawa River. Just as I arrive at the river, there is an explosion in the sky.

Today is the annual Chofu City Fireworks Festival. It runs for an hour and includes 8,000 fireworks. I have a pretty decent spot and enjoy the spectacle. All along the river, little stores sell street food, and even Lawson Stores and Seven Eleven are getting in on the action. They have beers for sale outside floating in big ice buckets, and they have moved their hot food counters to the front of their stores.

The fireworks are impressive, although very stop and start. A lot of fireworks are launched at once, then nothing happens for twenty or so seconds, then lots of fireworks at once, et cætera. Every time a big explosion occurs, everyone around me says, “Sugoiii!” “Sugoi!” and “Oh, Sugoi!” This word means ‘amazing’ in English and seems to be the only word that the Japanese people here use to describe the fireworks. They certainly were amazing.

At 19:11, I head back to the station; the fireworks will continue for another twenty minutes or so, but I really don’t like the idea of getting back on a packed train. It seems everyone else has had the same idea; once again, the station is packed. I am not proud of it, but when the doors finally open, I dash to grab a ‘Priority Seat.’ These seats are intended for pregnant, elderly, and disabled people. I feel somewhat less guilty when the other seven Priority Seats are taken by youths.

Back in Shinjuku, I change to the Marunuchi Line and take it as far as Ginza before switching to the Ginza Line. I arrive back in Asakusa around eight.

I meet with some friends, and we head to a nearby British pub run by actual British people. They brew their own beer here, play British music, and serve by the pint. I go for the porter; nice but expensive at ¥1000. The song ‘Empty at the End’ by my friend’s band The Electric Soft Parade comes on at some point in the evening; my mind ends up back in Brighton.

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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Pyrotechnics and Parade

The Mountain: a story about climbing Mount Fuji