Pilgrimage to the Place of Plastic

Big cities always have a specific place dedicated to food, a pilgrimage for foodies and fatties alike. Manchester has Curry Mile which (not so surprisingly) is a mile long stretch of curry shops; some edible, some not. Tokyo has Kabukicho; an almalgamation of bars, restaurants, rowdy promotion boys and the odd prostitute. Osaka has Dotonburi,  the hyperactive offspring of an advertisement museum and a food court.

Plastic food is an advertising staple of Japan, every one from tiny standing-only bars to cafes to restaurants use plastic food as a lure for the customers. Perfectly crimped lettuce and freshly plumped burger buns line windowsills and doorways. Dotonburi however takes this to the extreme as giant food hangs suspeneded twenty feet above the ground, signposting the street much better than any shoddy roadsign can. Need to meet a friend? Do so under the ten feet gyoza. Get lost? Make the rendezvous point the six foot plastic puppet. So in true Dotonburi style, you’re welcomed into the madness by a giant, animatronic waving crab who then passes you on to his good friend the illusive giant squid.

A floating puffer fish, a set of dragons and a teeth-baring, nightmare-creating chef follow.

And that’s just the decoration. In Tokyo you can’t move for people, down dontonburi you can’t move for smells. Fresh bread, steak, tempura, seafood, takoyaki (slightly under cooked octopus balls), just to name a few make it like trying to run through water. With each step there’s another smell disturbing your progress. Don’t take this the wrong way though, eat any food from any shop, restaurant or stall up and down this street and it’ll be hands down better than anything you can find in Tokyo, the purveyors of re-created food and chain restaurants.

And if you don’t fancy fried fish, there’s always the juiciest, most succulent, life changing burger you’ll ever try.

But is it Kobe though?

 

 

 

Down the rabbit hole

Islands in Japan, just like vending machines, are 10 to the dozen. Tiny, little islands filled with tiny little people living in tiny little houses, praying in tiny little shrines. Yet sometimes you’ll come across some which are much more exciting. Okunoshima island is the cutest of all, hundreds upon hundreds of rabbits rule the island with iron paws and greedy mouths. Lazing about under the trees and avoiding the very real danger of accidentally roasting in the unrelenting sun.

Apparently when you’re an incredibly cute, fluffy animal, beggers really can be choosers. As important as popcorn at the cinema; every mum, dad, Tom, Dick and Harry carry the obligitary carrot, cabbage and rabbit food. Yet bold as brass, the self entitled rabbits turn their noses up at everything except carefully cut carrot batons. And do you know what’s cuter than happy Japanese children? Disappointed Japanese children. Uneaten trails of lettuce cover the ground as troops of kids, after 10 minutes of dancing unwanted in their faces, move onto the next unsuspecting victim.

And when you finally give in and can handle the rejection no longer, just look up from the ground and you’ll notice that the island is one of the most beautiful you’ll probably ever visit. Palm trees line the beach and trees from the neighbouring islands flood the skyline.

Yet, as with pretty much all of Japan’s baby islands, this one has a pretty dark, brushed over WW2 past. Used as a secret laboratory for poisonous gas, air raid shelters and underground tunnels are still dotted around and eerie hikes lead to hidden ruins and officers’ offices.

Although slightly less sinister since they’ve been adopted as the home of the (non- murderous) cast of Watership Down. Without any predators, leaking poisonous gases tends to do away with humans and animals alike, the rabbits for whatever reason flourished and  their little kingdom became not so little.

Of course in order to get there you have to suffer through the agonisingly long wait for the ferry. Hourly boats of only 100 person capacity, a national holiday, and a nation of rabbits lovers is not a great combination.  

It’s pretty easy to wing trips in Japan but one thing’s for sure, a visit to rabbit island needs for preparation than a 2 day hike; food and drink, necessary, tent optional but recommended….

Spring Has Sprung

Spring in the UK is undeniably yellow. Armies of daffodils take over the British landscape, while hundreds of daisies as their backup are nestled in between them for good measure.  The BBC goes into nature overdrive as every spring themed, David Attenborough narrated documentary is dragged out from the basement and lambs and baby rabbits are shoved down our throats as Easter madness consumes us. And not forgetting the pastel coloured Easter cards with their hidden Christian agenda that fill the shelves of Card Factory (even though nobody ever actually buys them). Japan is much the same although instead of yellow, it’s pink. Pale pink to fuscia and every shade in between, the entire place turns blush. And it’s the most beautiful thing scene you’ll probably ever see.

The streets are lined with Cherry Blossom trees that burst into life for only about a month a year – highlighting the start of spring. Canopies of pink shadow riversides, canals, small village roads and even dual carriageways, cherry blossms, here,  are a way of life. Sure, people in the UK look forward to seeing their first daffodil bloom but Japanese celebrate spring like we do Christmas. Hanami (which is basically an alcohol fuelled picnic in a public park) is all about sitting under the falling  petals of sakura trees (Japanese for cherry blossom) and taking as many pictures, artsy and selfie alike, as humanly possible. People flock to the big parks to the point where it’s almost too busy to comfortably walk along the path.

 

It’s easy to understamd the frantic nature that surrounds sakura when you manage to find a place that isn’t a hive of foreigners and desperate tourists, and you finally get to sit on a nice bench, looking out at a nice pond as the wind delicately blows the petals. Delicate to the point where they don’t fall to the ground like thoses common autumn leaves they stay animated in the air, dancing the way glitter does  in water. And when they do finally fall, the grey path is transformed into a water colour of pinks, falling continuously that they never age. A constant stream of new petals covering old allows for a sheet of perfect pink to decorate the floor.

And once you’ve gotten your eyes fill of Sakura, of course the next step is to eat and drink it. Starbucks, Pepsi, McDonalds, KFC and any other company tuned into exploiting cultural celebrations for financial gain.

What’s better that sitting under a sakura tree on a sakura patterned blanket, drinking a sakura Pepsi out of a sakura themed glass, eating a sakura cake off a nice and original sakura paper plate.

Onsen and Chill

Public swimming pools are a social norm, everyone loves a good swimming pool. Public baths are old fashioned and weird. Naked public baths are, I’m pretty sure illegal, and hundreds of years out of date. In the UK that is, in Japan the culture of a nice long communal, naked bath is live and kicking. Onsens (Japanese hot springs) are as ingrained in Japanese culture as tea is into ours. What’s basically a fancy bathtub with a hosepipe of hot underground water filling it up continuously. Although not just your standard United Utilities reservoir water, this is volcano created, mineral infused water. Pumped up from the volcano clustered land and famed for its healing and cleansing properties, onsens are the epitome of relaxation.

After a long LED filled week, there’s nothing better than slipping into a nice, hot, outdoor bath. The most common onsens are the mass naked ones, not for me, I’m not keen on tiny, Japanese women staring at my not so tiny body so I opted for a private one. A lot smaller but just as soothing. Surrounded by rocks, looking out onto a small woodland area and an electric lantern for the extra rustic effect. A small bambo screen is all that protects your dignity from the prying eyes of chubby, middle-aged men yet for some reason you don’t feel exposed. You can hear the voices from the next onsen but the idea that some might just pop round onto your side just doesn’t cross your mind.

You step in; tense, stressed out and pale and emerge an hour later, tranquil, calm and sporting mild 1st degree burns. But it’s definitely worth it, the English might have mastered afternoon tea and the calculating art of sarcasm but when it comes to relaxing the Japanese take the trophy. As it turns out; nature, volcano water and your birthday suit is all you need to unwind in Japan.

Danger Zone

Everyone knows Puffer fish as the weirdly defensive fish that can blow itself like a hedgehog when scared, some people know Puffer fish as the insanely poisonous fish – 1200 times more so than cyanide and without an antidote – that crazy Japanese people eat, Japanese people see Puffer fish as Fugu, a rubbery delicacy.

Food in the UK is safe, there’s never any danger of becoming paralysed and slowly suffocating to death. There’s no risk of keeling over in the restaurant because your chef forgot to take out the poison sacks hidden around your food. It’s a strange sensation, eating a food that you know can kill you, something you can never really get used to. But on you go, trudging your way past the fishtank where your future food swims around, oblivious to it’s gruesome, yet delicious barbequey end.

Having absolutely no idea what any of it means, you do the typical British thing, BBQ. None of that slimy raw stuff; nice, charcoalled, BBQ fish was the safest option. Yet you still get served a plate of raw sliced fish – sashimi- and you stare at it while the freshly cut out heart still beats on your plate. Like it hasn’t realised it’s dead, it beat rapidly, trying to pump the invisible blood around its no longer present body.

They served us a huge platter with every edible part of the fish displayed the piece de resistance, the prior mentioned beating heart.

Dipped in sauce and sizzled on the centrepiece mini BBQ, it’s surprisingly nice and definitely worth a return visit. It’s no Blackpool cod by any means but I guess it’s better than nothing.

 

 

 

 

Karaoke Queen

It’s a weekday evening, you go out for casual drinks with colleagues. You’re a professional now and after-work drinks are a sophisicated affair; teachers discussing techniques and hobnobbing as the educated adults they are. Wrong. An escalating spiral of happy hours, 280 yen beers, 9% lager and karaoke ensued.

Much like UK karaoke, Japanese karaoke requires an open heart, a drunken mind and a dodgy repertoire. However unlike UK karaoke, which consists mainly of hammered housewives reliving 80s pop gold and chubby dads doing their best Meatloaf  impression, all huddled around a plug in karaoke machine,  Japanese karaoke is a much more dignified affair. Decorated like a Vegas casino, a gold trim reception desk and crystal lined lift doors greet you as you trot your way over the marble finished floor. Into the decadent lift and you’re escorted to your leather lined, sound proofed karaoke room. Nine floors of glass walled karaoke rooms looking out onto the LED lit skyline.

 

With no actual bar, you telephone down to reception and they bring them straight to you.  Like royalty you sit in your fancy booth, singing not so fancy songs drinking watered down, hand delivered cocktails.

So you missed the last train because Izakayas are the places where self restraint dies and bad ideas take over. You suddenly remember that you have a great voice, you’re an A* rapper and you have a deep passion for power ballads.  Karaoke is your calling and you just follow the tune.

 

The Introverted Extrovert

The Western stereotype of the shy, self conscious, consciencious Japanese person does ring, as least a little bit, true. Legs aren’t crossed on the train in case they take up too much room and  greetings and goodbyes can be incredibly awkward, for an outsider at least, due to the annoyingly confusing bowing system. In a desperate bid not to mistakenly offend anyone you enter a silent war of who can bow the most in the shortest amount of time, up and down like a pecking bird.

Yet hidden amongst the bowing, the present giving and the standardised behaviour you’ll come across someone who contradicts your assumptions. And it always happens when you least expect it.

Ueno park is like its own town with a magnitude of people weaving in and out of the trees, ice cream vans and picture snapping, bumbag wearing Chinese tourists. And it’s in here that we came across the most enthusiastic xylophone player ever, sorry marimba player. Stood outside a temple, she had what is basically an adult sized xylophone with legs. And she was going for it, two sticks in each hand she had an unbelieveable amount of control. Playing it like a piano with drumsticks instead of hands she hit every beat, throwing in an arrogant mid tune spin for show. With an unnervingly accurate American accent she coerced us into sitting on the front bench; 2 awkward gaijins and a gobby Japanese woman, we attracted quite an audience.

She was good. Good to the point of requests, Let It Go, Little Mermaid and a bit or Frank Sinatra for the more cultured xylophone lovers.

Smackdown Thursdays

Watching fat men with man buns and adult nappies grapple is not the most ordinary way to spend a national holiday but in Japan I guess anything goes. You walk into the arena, a Japanese MEN, and are surrounded with rows and rows of enthusiastic Japanese families, tucking into their rice like popcorn at the cinema. The peasants seats were surprisingly comfy, especially when compared to the ‘box’ seats. No, not VIP boxes raised above the stage fitted with a butler and complimentary refreshments but a roped off square at the base of the ring. With only a thin cushion for support and hours before the show is even over, it seemed more like torture. Cramp, numb legs, achy back, crumbs everywhere and the potential risk of phyiscal injury due to the highly likely event of falling sumo. Although you imagine the view would be much more impressive, the smell would take some getting used to.

What you don’t expect are the rituals. The repeated chants, the men (fully dressed) waving incense over the ring, the ranking of the different referees for the different fights and the pre-match cattle march. Giant men, in colourful sashes were paraded around the arena each one gaining a little more attention than the last. Their name and hometown bellowed over the speakers as they carefully make their way round the ring and into their allocated positions. From here they performed a ritualistic dance, most surprising though was how graceful they seemed. Every movement seemed intended, there’s a strange beauty to watching a scantily clad fat man prance gracefully around a sand covered, roped off ring.

That’s all before they even start. They’re not long lasting but the excitement at watching them is contagious. Old Japanese men, usually so quite and tranquil throw their arms into the air, yelling and shouting God knows what. First man to step outside the ring is the loser and by hook or crook they’ll do anything to not be the unlucky loser. You wouldn’t think a person could stand on their tiptoes with their spine arched back, teeter on the brink of losing and then manage to slam their impressive body back into the ring. It’s difficult not to get caught up in it.

Unlike its American cousin, Sumo wrestling compared to WWE wrestling is just better. All round better. No cheesy Mexican stand offs and no pre-decided winners. In Sumo, there’s a sense of honor and a sense of respect. And when you spend all day wrapped up in Tokyo’s LED infused world, it’s nice to sit back in comfy chairs and bask in the tradition. Especially the winners ceremony, were squating down and feet apart the tournament’s winner two steps his way back to full height ready to show his stick handling prowess. A ceremonial stick given only to the champion. Like a baton, it gets twirled and thrown and caught until they’re satisfied that everyone in the arena knows just how worthy they are.

Sumo wrestlers are about as Japanese as it gets. And they want it to stay that way. In a handy little English leaflet at the arena, it states that the Sumo Authority have a quota on foreginers because they don’t it to lose its authenticity. It makes sense though, imagine the stampede, albeit slow moving, if all over-weight Westeners heard they could make a killing just by eating lots of rice and taking part in a few minutes of wrestling a day. Anarchy.

 

 

Meiji Madness

Shrines and Temples in Tokyo are like Tesco Expresses in the UK, on every corner and always busy. And just like Tesco Expresses, everytime you walk past one you feel compelled you go inside for a look around. Even though you know exactly what’s going to be there, the same as what was in the 7 you went in the week before; curious foreigners, a teenage girl selling keyrings and enough wooden structures to rebuild the Amazon

What they say about having too much of a good thing certainly rings true for temples and shrines. The curiousity you feel when you spot your first roadside shrine and the excitment at walking through your first torii gate, an impressive wooden archway at the entrance of the shrine, soon turns somewhat non-chalent. There’s only so much you can take of one thing before the shine starts to wear off, which of course is a shame but just as expected. That is until you find the time to visit the Meiji Shrine. One of the biggest and most popular shrine in Tokyo, it is completely surrounded by its own forest, hidden away from the typical Tokyo traps.

The walk from the first torii gate to the actual shrine gates takes about 10 minutes. Not for nothing though, the trees and windy pathways that disappear into the forest create an almost magical atmosphere which come to a sudden stop when you’re flanked by a wall of sake barrels on one side and a wall of French wine barrels on the other. Donated by France at the turn of the 20th Century to welcome Japan into the ‘modern world.’ Because obviously, only Westerners can declare what is and isn’t civilised and modern.

The courtyard to the shrine is guarded by two very large and very thick wooden doors. You walk through praying you don’t trip up in front of the wardens, in their blue and white uniforms, and the elderly women dressed in beautiful kiminos and wooden sandels. To the left, a wall adorned with beautifully painted kanji characters. Nonsense to us non-reading kanji folk but fascinating to look at nonetheless. A huge tree stands slap bang in the middle with a fence circling around the bottom half of the trunk, wishes, hopes and prayers are written in every language imagineable and hung on the wall.

 

If you’re lucky you’ll catch a glimsp of a bride fashioning a floral kimono and a poor teenage boy walking beside her, his hand aching from holding the parasol above her. Like a royal, she’ll walk throught the yard, parting the crowd and followed by a procession of family and guests. With nowhere else to go you just stand in awe as she saunters by. A drum metres tall is hit and it’s as if the shrine was built to contain sound. The deafening bang reverberates around the courtyard and travels up, through the trees before it finally echoes away into the sky.

Even though it’s a tourist attraction for foreigners and tourists alike, it’s still a working shrine with everyday Tokyoites going about their business, praying, contemplating and escaping the world. Luckily, there are instructions on how you should pray. Throw some coins into the donation box, clap twice, bow twice, make a wish and bow once more. Nothing livens up a tranquil Sunday morning visit to a shrine more, than a group of towering German men taking a break from their stag-do tomfoolery, clapping out of beat with each other and awkwardly nodding their heads.

 

 

 

Skies of Glitter

When you think of beautiful scenery your mind automatically brings up images of white sand beaches and sunsets. Paradise is usually thought of as cocktails in hollowed out fruit, massages, tropical islands and that forever sought after feeling of the sun, seeping through your clothing. What you don’t think of is mild frostbite, 3 layers of clothing and bruises. Yet strangely that is the exact way to describe Niseko. Feet upon feet of brilliantly white snow, covering perfectly thatched wooden chalets.

The mountain sits opposite a volcano so no matter where you stand, sit or ski you’re surrounded by untamed views,  disappearing into the clouds. Strangely enough, in spite the persistant freckling of snow, it’s the sun that makes the near impossible to fully open your eyes. Sunglasses seem a strange accessory to an extremely unflattering rental helmet and wader style salopets but I guess the ability to see is more important than embracing the fashion goddess within. Being a trendy skier is a lot more difficult than Kylie Jenner’s instagram makes it look.

Yet despite all this it isn’t until sundown the true beauty is revealed. The mountain is lined with floodlights and they light up the entire village, a soft haze that makes the snow glitter. The gaggle of children leave and the slopes are empty but for a few hardcore skiers and the odd beginner, us included, taking advantage of the lack of living obstacles.

A genuine winter wonderland.