The Fujisan expedition: part two

Goraiko and Champagne

Monday 14th August
After a short rest between the stone lions and the torii gate, we clambered up the last few metres to the summit. The sky was now a soft blue and there were only a few clouds to look down upon. Goraiko was approaching. Thousands of people were standing at the edge or sitting on the furthest and highest side of the crater, awaiting the moment when the sun emerged over the horizon. My head was spinning with fatigue and emotion. We hurried to find a suitable vantage point. The top of mount Fuji is not exactly a spiritual place. Luckily I was aware of this after having read about other people's experiences online. The vending machines, souvenir stalls and small eateries, the litter and the public toilets kind of detract from the sense that one might be closer to 'God' up there. The closest I came to having a 'spiritual experience' was coming face to face with the price of a small bottle of Volvic mineral water - 500 yen (2 pounds fifty.) Actually, what I thought was really surreal was that they imported mineral water from the French Alps to sell at the summit of Mt. Fuji which, of course, also has its own source of mineral water bottled by Asahi.


"We will, we will rock you."

As we stood at the edge of the tallest mountain in all of Japan, about as far away from my hometown of Hastings as I could get, Queen's "We will rock you" started blaring out from loudspeakers behind us. "Only in Japan." I heard myself thinking. State of the art cell phones poised, a couple of thousand spectators on the edge of an ancient crater - and there it was. Just like that; a perfect pinkish-orange ball of fire melted through the cloud. It was magical. People were silent for a moment and then there were great cheers. The Japanese tour groups had formed circles and were shouting "banzai, banzai!" (Those familiar with the bizarre and rather amusing Japanese game show of the same name, may know that 'banzai' means 'long life' or 'hoorah!' However, the literal translation means 'ten thousand years of life.') I wish I could say that I had some kind of epiphany at that spectacular moment - some great insight into the meaning of life but, truth be told I didn't. At least not at that juncture. I just stood and watched. It was truly beautiful.

The early Chinese characters for 'Fuji' translate as 'without equal'. Now, I have not climbed many mountains but I knew for certain that this experience was one without equal as far as I was concerned. As I stood at the summit and surveyed the land of the rising sun spread out far below, and rubbed my frozen fingers, I felt torn between two realms of experience; the aesthetic / intellectual and the physical. My mind was barely functioning up there. I had not slept, I was cold and tired and starved of air. Yet I was so excited to be experiencing such a wonder. I tried to let my camera do the work and snapped some pictures in the vain hope that they would capture something I did not have energy for. I so wanted to contemplate the significance of it all but my mind was more concerned with trivial matters such as "I wonder where the rest of the group are? I am cold. I must take some photos. I am hungry. I hope Erika is ok. I should try calling my parents. I wonder how they transport stock up for the vending machines?" And so on.














The peak was slowly flooding with more and more people and after a brief walk to the edge of the crater we decided to find someplace to warm up. Suddenly the ramen huts appeared less of an affront to our Fuji experience, and more a welcome retreat. The sun had risen further into the perfect blue sky and the rocks were positively shimmering in the clear light. Against the sienna and ochre of the ground, the figures scattered about the summit shone in a rainbow of primary colours. Back-packs and anoraks were lit up in the morning sun. Never have I seen such pure colour. We walked back to the row of stalls and shacks and into the warmth of the first hut we came to. There must have been two hundred people in there. Some were asleep but most were huddled together eating steaming bowls of noodle soup, or curry and rice. Our friends Trish and Jarret obviously had had the side idea, for there they were, sat on a bench barely two feet away. I was actually surprised to have found them amongst all the people.　

It was about 5.15 am at this point and the sun was streaming in the open sides of the low building. I looked up at the menu that was hand written on a sheet of paper and pinned to the far wall. I don't quite recall what was on offer, but what I do remember was the distinct lack of tempting vegetarian options. Or, more accurately, the lack of vegetarian options altogether. No surprises there though, for Japan doesn't really understand the concept of vegetarianism. There have been times when I have asked whether something is vegetarian and (perhaps because the Japanese find it difficult to say 'no') they say 'yes'. On closer inspection it turns out of course to be stuffed with meat. After pointing this out to them the common response is, "oh it's only a bit. You can pick it out, no?" My friends however assured me that the 'miso-ramen' was in fact meat-free, and in spite of my hesitation I let them order it for me. (I swear the stock for this noodle soup is made from boiled pig's bones though. Yuk.)

As we sat there waiting for our breakfast and gradually warming up, I decided this may be a good time to crack open the champagne. I dug around in my bag and extracted a nicely chilled bottle of Moet and Chandon, which I hoped would receive at least a vague cheer. But no. The glum lot just sat there looking vaguely confused. I tried to explain myself "Look we just climbed a mountain, it is a beautiful morning and I thought it might be nice to drink a toast to our success or to Japan or something. I mean, we made it!!" I peeled off the seal and eased out the cork cautiously. I didn't want to it to launch off and hit one of these 'happy campers' in the face now did I? I took a swig and nearly choked myself. Champagne isn't the best things to drink straight from the bottle. I then passed it to Erika who reluctantly took the tiniest of sips and then proffered it to Trish and Jarret who both declined, with vague looks of disgust upon their faces. I don't think either of them were faring too well. They were suffering from altitude sickness. Jarret complained of having the worst headache of his life which was probably due to the reduced levels of oxygen that was forcing his brain to expand against an immovable skull. At that moment our breakfast arrived: thick noodles swimming in (bone juice?) topped with seaweed and bamboo shoots. I took another gulp of champagne and tried not to feel guilty about being the only one who wasn't suffering for one reason or another and charily poked at the broth with a pair of chopsticks.

After probably the strangest breakfast of my life I decided to go for a walk in search of a phone signal. Trish had slipped out in the direction of the toilets and Jarret and Erika were trying to sleep. I headed back in the direction of the torii gate and found a ledge leading around the entrance to the centre of the earth. Bodies were strewn by the pathside in various stages of torpid recovery. By some miracle I found a spot in which my cell phone had full reception. (Funnily enough when I was at 8th station I had checked my phone and I had lost the signal but could still watch TV on it.) There was something about being able to phone my family in England from the top of Mt. Fuji that was totally preternatural. The isolation you expect to find outside, or in this case, above civilization, barely exists anymore. When civilization can accompany you to the top of a mountain in the form of a small box-like device you have to admit that technology makes the world feel like a much smaller place. Imagine being able to watch TV and call your Mum at some far-flung place that has been considered sacred for centuries; the final destination for pilgrims trying to discover meaning beyond the blinding dogmas of society. However, there was something rather wondrous about making the phone call because although separated geographically, I was able to share something of the experience with them through an invisible connection via a satellite in space. In that respect the event could be likened to a metaphysical union; a spiritual encounter for modern man.

After I hung up I felt strangely empty. I finished my can of oxygen and drank a little more of the French stuff. It had turned out to be a rather lonely champagne breakfast. The sun had warmed the air by a few degrees and as I stared down the mountainside at the meandering vein of climbers heading up, I saw Gareth approaching the torii gate. I went down to greet him and we walked back to the ramen hut together to meet the others. They were still passed out on benches. I left him to recuperate and went in search of a stall that sold postcards. On my way I passed a man with leathery hands sitting by a small fire. I had almost forgotten about getting the final brand for my stick - 'Fuji sunrise 2006' it read. "Such great heights...." The Postal Service track fittingly started going round in my head.... I bought some postcards and in a blur of languor I scrawled some messages. I found it hard to believe that they would actually be posted from the summit but I took a chance and stamped them with the Fuji postmark and forked over my five quid. I traipsed off wondering how often the postman has to make the hike up to collect the mail. What a job. He must be fit.... One week on and I heard that the postcards had indeed arrived in England. So it wasn't a scam after all. Only in Japan would the postal service be efficient enough to deliver mail sent from the tops of mountains nearly 4 km high. I mean you are lucky to receive a postcard sent back from Italy....














By 7:30 am we were set to hit the road. We joined the flow of people heading back down on the Subashiri route. For many people the hike was just beginning. I am glad we didn't do it in the daytime as it would have been far too hot. The trail down was a vicious slant composed of several inches of dirt and grit that you could not walk in a straight line down lest you slipped. Thus started the most excruciating part of the whole adventure. The come down is always the killer. For the first 45 minutes were were walking / sliding together and commenting on the view and the clouds that were billowing up towards us like dry-ice. I clutched my staff in one hand and the remainder of the now warm champagne in the other. The further we descended the further we realised how far we had to go. The nightmare just kept on unfolding beneath us. We must have traversed 30 km in zig-zagging slopes of loose debris. I couldn't believe that we had climbed it. I honestly couldn't believe we had come so high.

Two hours later and my bottle had been discarded and we were now silent, fed up, hot and exhausted beyond belief. The sun had come out again and was burning the right side of my face and arms. At this level I noticed that the slopes were dotted with bright green cabbage-like plants; the only thing tough enough to flourish in such a barren environment. I had had enough. I wanted to get back. I wanted an iced-coffee, a bath and a cool bed. It was all I could think about. To make matters worse I knew that we still had a long way to go before we got back to the bus station, and from there it was going to be a four hour journey back to Tokyo and then there would be the walk from the station to my house. Ouch. I started running down, side on. This proved to be the most effective way of doing it but it took its toll on the ankles.

We rested awhile at the fifth station and got chatting to an Australian couple who were hurrying back to catch a flight from Narita leaving at 8 pm that evening. Blimey I thought, talk about madness! Fancy climbing mount Fuji the night before you fly back to Australia. They probably weren't going to get back to their hotel until 4 pm - and that was if they were quick. We were almost back on the level now and had estimated that the walk from 5th station to the bus stop would not take more than 25 minutes. When we had made the journey the night before through the woodland track it seemed to be an easy walk, but coming back it went on forever. We continued to stumble and run and then collapse on tree stumps to rest - by now we were laughing with delirium and relief that we had almost left that godforsaken mountain behind. I remembered Jason describing how he felt when he made the descent - "It was the only time in my life when I truly felt I could kill someone." It is amazing how the drive to get to the top motivates you to keep on going. Once that goal has been reached the rest of it becomes a painful slog. I remembered the saying "a wise man climbs Fuji once, but only a fool climbs it twice." Before our hike I felt that this was a rather negative thing to say and it didn't really fill me with inspiration. However, now I was a full supporter of the opinion. "Never again" I thought to myself. As we passed the fresh faced string of climbers heading up I wondered what they thought of us. Did we look dismal enough to give them second thoughts? I felt myself staring at the chirpy tour groups that strolled by in their pristine walking boots. (My new white trainers were now orange with dust.) I wanted to scream at them "don't do it! You have no idea about what you are in for!" It actually made me feel sick just thinking about how far they had to go.

Yet, as in life, all things, good and bad, come to an end. The moment you felt was never going to arrive does. Then it is all over, just like that. Now I found myself able to say "I have climbed Mt. Fuji". It has become just another topic to discuss over dinner in an elegant restaurant or in a bar with friends. It was over. Of course there was the bus ride back to the station and the train ride to Tokyo and the long walk home in the afternoon sun, but in a way that is all irrelevant. I slept most of the way anyway. Everyone had recovered from the altitude sickness but were now suffering from aching muscles, sun-burn and sleep deprivation.

I dragged my sorry self back through the quiet streets of Toyoda that run parallel to the train tracks. It was a golden afternoon. Home at last. I can't tell you how good it was to have that shower, collapse onto my bed and fall asleep to the hum of the air conditioning and the roar of the trains outside my window. And so ends my epic blog - I feel almost as exhausted as I did after the hike! Especially considering I had to rewrite most of the second part after I accidentally lost it a couple of nights ago. In a way, it feels as if by writing about it I have climbed it twice. Perhaps that makes me half a fool...

The Fujisan expedition: part one

"A wise man climbs Fuji once, but only a fool climbs it twice."
Anon

Sunday 13th August
I had not yet seen the mountain but I knew it was there. I passed it everyday on the train on my way to school. On a clear day it can be seen from the bridge as you cross over the river. Once or twice the air has cleared enough to reveal a bluish ridge of jagged mountains that hug the city's horizon and once I saw a sunset which illuminated a silvery rain storm above the peaks. Yet Fuji has remained elusive. I had been told I could not mistake it for any other mountain so every day I look. The skies above Tokyo are however, predictably opaque; a combination of low cloud and pollution. Even though I had not seen it I knew wanted to climb it. It seemed so familiar to me. The sacred mountain, the symbol of Nippon. I have seen it in a thousand pictures, it has been written about and talked about for centuries. It is mentioned in every guidebook and is one of the first images that spring to mind when one thinks of Japan - along with sushi, a red circle on white, geisha, pagodas, paddy fields and neon.

I was aware that it was climbing season but had done little to make any plans to actually organise an expedition. I continued to pass the mountain's invisible presence on my way to work and was beginning to wonder if it actually existed or whether it was a mythical volcano. Then one Thursday at the beginning of August at one of our regular 'stonecutters' nights, a friend of mine mentioned he was planning a hike up Fuji for the 13th. It was the perfect opportunity to see it at last, so I invited myself along and thus preparations for the climb commenced. I half wondered if it would pan out. A friend of a friend was supposed to be booking the bus tickets and I had none of the necessary items I would need for such an adventure. This needed quite a bit of planning and a little research on the internet revealed that this was not going to be a walk in the park. (Forgive me for stating the obvious!)

Fuji stands at 3,700 meters and is covered in ice and snow most of the year. The safest time of year to climb is in the months of July and August. I read that people die every year whilst on Fuji because they do not prepare adequately for the severe weather conditions that can be experienced even during summer. Temperatures regularly dip below freezing on the summit during the summer, so an ascent in shorts and a t-shirt is a big mistake. In addition to potentially unpleasant weather conditions, the air is very thin so you can suffer from altitude sickness. Saying this, I felt reassured by the fact that thousands of people climb Mt. Fuji every year. In fact during the busiest days of the July / August climbing season, over 20,000 people try to reach the top every day! Interestingly, 30% of them are foreigners. When I mentioned my plans to my Japanese students most of them reacted the same way "Learry?! But Fuji-san is dangerous I think. Fuji is for looking, not climbing!" Then we'd laughed about it and I'd say I would have a go. I don't think I any of my students have climbed it. When I asked Takafumi why he had never climbed it he roared with laughter and said "it's too far and too high!"

After my research I thought it best to make a list of things I needed. It looked like I would need more substantial footwear than flip-flops, and would require at least a ruck-sack and gloves. On the Monday before the hike I went shopping in Tachikawa with a friend. On the 6th floor of a large 'outdoors' shop I suddenly felt a mixture of nerves and excitement come over me. I was going to climb the highest mountain in Japan - at night! Maybe I needed to buy proper walking boots? I mean the terrain was going to be rugged volcanic rock. Should I invest in a canister of oxygen, I wondered? I mean the air was going to be pretty thin at the top. I perused the selection of ruck-sacks that had tags dangling off them with pictures of colourful figures gripping onto sheer rock faces against blue skies. "I should get one of these bags", I thought to myself. I looked at the thermal gloves with the rubber grips and the silver space blankets. "Perhaps it would be worth splashing out on a decent water-proof jacket because it could be snowing. Ooh and I will need some of these expensive breathable socks for women. Grey or black? Are Japanese sizes the same I wonder? How about a first aid kit? Oh and I definitely needed one of these flashlights. We are climbing at night, after all. A whistle for emergencies? Crampons? A fiber-glass walking stick?" I ended up calculating the potential cost of all this stuff and figured that a weeks wages might be a little excessive for equipment I was probably only going to use once - if that. I needed to be realistic. I reminded myself that one can over-prepare for some things and that I was sure I heard that a friend of a friend climbed the mountain in a party dress so that she could get photos of herself on the summit wearing it. In the end I opted for a 900 yen ruck-sack from the cheap store below, some regular socks from Uni-Glo and a pair of Nike trainers in the sale. I borrowed a small torch from a friend to save forking out more money and bought a half sized bottle of Moet and Chandon champagne. "For when I get to the top", I thought optimistically. I rather savoured the prospect of announcing to my friends at the summit as the sun was rising "that now we would enjoy a champagne breakfast!" There would be much celebrating.

The week at work flashed by way too quickly for my liking. That is the problem with routine. I have quite a disliking for it. Living for weekends as good as they are right now is ok for a while, but I don't want my life to slip by and for me only to have two out of seven days to remember fondly. The weeks aren't bad, it is just that they are the same. Planning, teaching, small talk, Thursdays nights at an izakaya, working nights in the internet cafe or watching bad movies in a dingy apartment by the train tracks. The same. I don't have much energy for anything else - I mean finishing work by ten or eleven at night doesn't leave one with much of an evening. Anyway, the weekend of the 13th arrived and I had been looking forward to it.

I met my manager, Erika and Jason my co-worker at Tachikawa station at 2 and we went for a light lunch together in 'Subway'. (MacDonalds style fast-food chain sandwich bar with lime green walls and an over-effective air conditioning unit that brought you out in goosebumps.) Jason wasn't joining us for the hike because he had done it before and was living up to the philosophy mentioned above. However, lucky for us he made sure we had all the necessary items we would need for the climb. We stocked upon energy snacks and drinks at the supermarket and I bought some gloves at the last minute. Then we went back to the station to meet the rest of the party. There were five of us in all - me, Erika from Japan, Gareth an amiable guy from the north of England, Trish from New Zealand and her boyfriend Jarret from the US. It was going to be an international hike representing four continents.

It was a beautiful hot day when we boarded the train at 4pm and a smell of rotten fish hung in the artificially cooled air of the train carriage: a family were tucking into a packet of dried squid in the seat behind. By five we had left the city and were clattering through small towns, beneath lush green mountain sides. Unfortunately, Japan being what it is meant that there were various ugly signs of human endeavour to spoil the view. On one green slope and area of trees had been cleared to create a picture of an envelope with a heart in the centre and two hands clutching it. (Someone surmised that it was advertising for a love hotel.) The sun had gone down and a fine grey drizzle was falling. Between quiet stations slipped paddy fields and low shacks. The conversation had dried up along with all traces of urbanisation. The prospect of a cold and muggy night on a mountain side had quelled our spirits and soon we were the only people in the compartment. I stared out of the window at the unfamiliar landscape as my companions snoozed next to their back-packs. Although the trickling rain and the muted colours of rural Japan were having a soporific effect on me too, I didn't want to miss a thing and forced myself to stay awake. It was then I realised I was not actually going to see the mountain. It would be nightfall when we arrived at Kawaguchi-ko. I wondered how would we know for sure that we were actually going to climb Fuji? What if we accidentally climbed the wrong mountain instead?!

At about six we changed trains at a peaceful little station whose name now escapes me. The rest of the journey was made on a 'Thomas the tank engine' train. (Not an old fashioned locomotive but a train covered in pictures of the children's favourite smiling steam train.) It was quite surreal. We were embarking on what for many people is a spiritual mission - on a 'Thomas train' with a beer car. We arrived at the quiet station at about 7:00 pm. It was almost dark. The air was damp and humid and you could smell wood smoke. A bus was just pulling out of the car park which was filled with climbers; back-packs wedged onto laps. We decided to go to the 'seven-eleven' to stock up on water because we were warned that although you can buy it on the mountain it is expensive. We ended up buying wooden walking sticks and I purchased a can of oxygen too. I think the others thought I was being a bit over-cautious but I figured it was worth having. It was amazing to see how well stocked the shop was - they were obviously well aware of how many people would be attempting the climb that night. The chill cabinets were packed with sandwiches (made with white, crustless, processed stuff that posed as bread) rice balls, salads and silver packets of energy-fuel (made with seaweed jelly.) We ate another snack on the pavement outside in the drizzle. I had bought a rice ball but decided I didn't like the slimy salmon inside so binned it. Gareth ate a microwaved 'burrito'. He confessed his weakness for them informing us that he averaged fifteen of them a week. "That would explain his rather portly build" I thought, "I hope he makes it up the mountain."

At 7:47 we piled onto the bus and started our ascent up Mt. Fuji. It took about an hour to get to the half way point at fifth station. (2305 meters.) The area was swarming with excited mountaineers, all making last minute preparations before tackling a night hike up the sacred volcano. There were a few shops selling souvenirs and walking sticks with flags on, gloves, flash-lights and postcards. The rain had stopped but it was certainly cooler up there. Extra layers were added, photos taken and soon we were off. The night was clear and starry. The initial walk to the 6th station was not an arduous one. It took us through woodland and then a gentle climb up a broad, crumbly path from which to our left we could see a dark and misty valley stretched out below. By the time we got to the 6th station (2390 meters) the layers were stripped off and I continued in just a t-shirt. However I knew that what lay ahead was not going to be easy. The loudspeakers at the checkpoint warned off freezing temperatures, and a difficult terrain. "Torches and warm clothes are a must if Fuji is to remain a happy and enjoyable memory," the woman advised. At the station (a small hut with floodlights and a post reading how high we were) we were given a map of the route up. Just looking at all those zig-zags between here and next four stations to the top was enough to make you turn and walk back down! But a few swigs of water and we were off again.

The climb to the seventh station was tough. The paths were wide and were composed of gritty, volcanic debris. The worst thing was that they just went on and on, and up and up at a 45 degree angle for a good hour or so. At every bend we took a short break to wait for Gareth and admire, with some apprehension, the beautiful snake of torch-light leading up into to blackness above us. It was like a trail of glittering diamonds luring us up to the inky heavens. We could barely make out where the trail ended because the higher we climbed the more lights we could see. The summit felt impossibly far away. It took about an hour to get to the seventh check-point. The climb had been monotonous and tiring and I was beginning to feel concerned about Gareth. Not because I was particularly worried about his health, but because I selfishly wanted to be at the top for sunrise. I had to be. There was no question. I wondered whether it would be wrong of me to forge ahead and leave the others to do it in their own time. They might think this very mean of me - we were supposed to be climbing together. Anyway I didn't say anything. We had at least five hours til goraiko. We rested awhile outside a cozy looking hut in the cooling air and shared some chocolate. Although there were a lot of other climbers the mood was not exactly one of buzzing enthusiasm. People were strangely quiet, focused inwardly, thinking about thirst or niggling aches that were starting to set in. We all cheered up though when we noticed that for 200 yen we could get our sticks branded with a symbol and the height we had now arrived at. (2700 meters). This simple physical proof of our journey so far spurred us on towards the next stage of the climb.

From the 7th level the path disappeared and the climb was made in about an hour and a half in short, sharp bursts up very steep and jumbled rocks. I preferred it to the rather boring trek up long stretches of thigh straining zig-zigs. It was more interesting to navigate your path by the orange light of a hand held torch - to think about where place your foot, to look upwards at the dark mass of the rising conical of rock and then stare down behind you at the landscape stretched below. The moon was almost full and I saw shooting stars glance the atmosphere. We were so lucky with the weather. It would have been a misery if it had been raining. It started to get very cold when we next stopped. I was still in just a t-shirt and because the climb was done in quick bursts, from narrow, horizontal levels with the odd hut, then up again over steep rock face, I felt warm enough. However, by the time we got to the 8th station Gareth was way behind so we had to wait for quite some time. I began to feel really cold, so I put my thin acrylic sweater on and my body warmer. We snacked on some dried banana chips and got our third brand. (3020 meters.) We actually managed to warm up inside the hut where two old Japanese guys sat around a little fire - the branding irons glowing orange in the embers. There were lots of people gathered outside. Some were eating steaming cup noodles or clutching cups of coffee. I was surprised to see so many families were attempting the climb with children. There were quite a lot of old people too and organised tour groups dressed in matching anoraks - the leaders of which carried out headcounts and clutched at clip-boards. (A perfect example of Japanese organisation.) The stations were a comforting cluster of light, warmth and communion for fellow hikers. Although little was said except for a comment on the temperature or how the climb had been so far, it was nice to be face to face with those you were sharing the experience with. Between checkpoints, all you really see is the backs of figures in the darkness in front of you, and then way above you the tantalizing stream of glittering torches to the summit.

It was now about 1am and all that was really going through my mind was breathing deeply to get enough oxygen and getting to the summit. I simply had to get there before sunrise. This was probably going to be a once in a lifetime experience and the goal was all I thought about. I was beginning to feel tired. The air was thinner as we clambered over more boulders and shale. By now we were passing people who had collapsed at the sides of paths. Some were huddled together trying to keep warm. Others were sucking on oxygen. At this point I too thought it wise to boost my O2 levels - I was feeling pretty light headed. I stopped at the Hakuunso hut rest stop and shared a some oxygen with Erika and we shivered in the bright flood lights on the narrow path. Only a fine wire fence separated us from a growling mountain side. Nothing grew up here. It was all just inhospitable dust and pumice that one could barely discriminate against the night sky. In the far, far distance I could see the lights of Tokyo, thinly veiled beneath ghostly cloud. We agreed to go ahead and meet Gareth and the others at the top. It was too cold to stop and wait and we had a sun to race. After another sugar hit we continued our ascent. For most of the way we walked alone. We did not have the breath to talk and in the blackness had to concentrate on where to step. I did not have energy to think interesting thoughts. "The top, the top was all I could think." Every now and then I would look around me and say to myself "Wow. This is amazing. It is so beautiful. I am climbing Mt. Fuji. I can't believe it." Eventually we made it to the 9th station. That felt like an achievement. Our destination seemed so close. On the map we had arrived at the 3360 meter mark, and were thus rewarded with another brand on our sticks. It was a mere 416 meters to the top - according to the map. Of course in reality the climb was probably another 2km because of the indirect nature of the snaking pathways. All I remember of the 9th station was the 'Fujisan hotel'. For those too tired or cold or ill from altitude sickness, the 'hotel' was somewhere to crash for a while. It was basically a hut with futons spread across the floor and several hundred weary climbers spread out upon them. It looked cozy. A room next door served hot bowls of noodle soup to people sat at wooden benches. Outside, people were lying against the side of the hut or on stone seats, sleeping. The trek was proving too much for many. "We are nearly at the top" I said to Erika as we breathed some more oxygen and stared in at the warmth of the Fujisan hotel. There was even a humble gift shop selling Japanese flags and cold beer.

I looked up at the sky. It was still reassuringly dark blue but I knew day break was only a couple of hours away. We set off once more. This time it was the light from our torches that lit the way to the highest point in Japan. The ganglion of gold leading to the summit seemed to drift upwards for an exhaustingly long time. This time there were no rest stops, not huts or horizontal ledges at which to rest. What made it worse was that now the hikers had slowed down due to having to climb with hands too and in fading torch-light. The numbers condensed and soon we had joined a queue, five people wide to the top. The temperature was barely above zero and I was wishing I had bought a thicker pair of gloves. The cold was really starting to get to me. Step by step we went. Ever so slowly. One step forward - a food on a boulder, a stick thrust forward in preparation for the next push up. Yet people were moving at a snails pace. It was excruciating. I had to get to the top before sunrise. I was desperate. I felt shattered. I was freezing cold and frustrated. If only I could move, I would warm up and get to the top. I fought for oxygen and concentrated on filling my lungs with the icy air. I had no idea where Erika was, never mind the rest of the group. Were they ahead or behind? I started to feel claustrophobic. I had people's ruck-sacks and boots in my face the whole way and every time I turned to look behind me I felt I might fall backwards and tumble down the mountain, creating a horrific wave of falling bodies and broken limbs. A terrifying, bloody, domino effect all the way back to ninth station. It could easily have happened. People were so densely packed if one person had fallen others would have gone too, unable to maintain their balance.

This was undoubtedly the most painful and torturous part of the ascent. I didn't know how I would ever make it to the top. We continued in this shivering, staccato climb all the way to the summit. It took two and a half hours and by the time I reached the torii gate I was numb with cold and almost delirious with fatigue and awe and oxygen deprivation. As I stopped a few feet in front of the gateway on the grey rock and looked back down at the long vein of people creeping their way up, I felt a wave of exhilaration. The sky had paled into a light blue-grey. Dawn was on its way. I had made it! I had done it. I stood there in a trance trying to take it all in and snapped a few pictures on my camera. All around me were people. Dog tired people. Many were lying prone against rocks, others were staring vacantly at the sky or stubbornly taking those few last steps to the plateau around the crater. After a short while I was joined by a pale Erika. We were the first from our group to get to the top. We exchanged a pathetic congratulatory cheer and forced a smile we barely had energy for. We had made it.

Fuji haiku

Happily
I climbed Mt. Fuji and
as my legs trembled
on its peak
awoke
Masaoka Shiki

Falling mist
the day when Mt. Fuji is unseen
most fascinating!
Basho

The wind from Mt. Fuji
I put it on a fan
Here, the souvenir from Edo
Basho

Weary hordes collapse

parallel with break of day -

ramen and champagne

Me

A taste of Asia: Kamakura and beyond.

In January I was introduced to one of my father's Japanese students. I had just started the four week intensive CELTA course and was feeling pretty tired and stressed. I had decided to do the teaching course at the last minute. I was at a crossroads in my life and was uncertain of what I wanted to do, but the opportunity had presented itself so after some serious deliberation I went for it. My father is also an English teacher and because I had expressed an interest in working in Japan he thought it would be fun to meet one of his students on the off chance that one day I could meet up with them in Japan....

Four months later I found myself working in Tokyo. Yuko and I were practically neighbours. Of the four hundred schools in Japan that I could have randomly been sent to I was lucky enough to be sent to the capital. Perhaps it was the request I made or perhaps it was just luck, I don't know. What I do know is that out of the eight people I did training with I was sent to the best place. I reckon it was a serious stroke of luck. I certainly don't envy the poor guy who has to live next to the biggest nuclear power station in the world or the girl who was sent to the heart of rural Japan. Give me the bright lights of Tokyo any day. Although, there was one guy who was sent to the sub-tropical island of Okinawa, but his emails reveal that although it is beautiful there isn't actually much to do. For me, Tokyo is great. Not only am I living in the most densely populated city on the planet with a plethora of things to do, I am near some friends too. I have my good friend Julia and her boyfriend Clint - they moved out here last summer, then there is a distant friend of the family's who now lives in Yokohama with his Japanese wife, and Yuko. Yet two months on and I have only just gotten around to meeting up with her.

Kamakura is a small town north of Yokohama. Its main shopping street is a stones throw from the station and is composed of a charming selection of souvenir shops, clothing stores and of course shops selling edibles ranging from freshly cooked sembei, to blue potato cakes (made form real blue potatoes grown in Okinawa) to crepes with nutella and cointreau and rice crackers of one hundred different flavours in cellophane bags. Girls in yukatas stroll arm-in-arm giggling behind hands and young men in strange footwear attempt to get tourists to ride in their rickshaws.

I was greeted by a delightful trio of Japanese girls as I passed through the ticket gates. There was of course Yuko, and then there were two more of my father's ex-students - Akiko and Kayo. Introductions and small talk were made as we navigated the appealing trinkets and aromas of the high street, onto a road that coiled beneath a mountain to our left and a park to our right. The air resonated with the sound of cicadas. A short while later we were outside the door of someone's house. I had been told we were going for tea but no-one had told me we were visiting anyone. We weren't of course, this was a typical modern tea house. The door slid open and a middle-aged woman holding a tiny baby over one shoulder ushered us in, bowing. Shoes were replaced with slippers and we were offered the choice of two rooms. In one was a low table and floor cushions. It was cool because of the air conditioning and a little too dark to be inviting on a summer's day. In the other room was a redwood table, chairs and a view through the window onto a flower bed. We opted for this one.

Tea arrived on a black lacquer tray. There was a bowl of foamy green tea, small black chop-sticks, a squat spoon, a small dish of pickled cucumber and daikon and in another, brown cubes of coffee jelly in cream. Alongside was the main course, which was presented in a shallow bowl: one scoop of sweet red bean paste (anko) and one of vanilla ice-cream, a scattering of clear seaweed jelly cubes (calorie free) and four smooth and gluey rice balls (mochi) decorated with a snake of syrup. As I contemplated this scrumptious looking array of weird food I recalled an interesting fact: every year there is a government report published in Japan on how many people have choked to death on mochi. It is mainly old people I believe - the chewy, slimy texture of the rice balls prove be lethal sweetmeats for those unable to consume them effectively. Was this to be my first and last Japanese tea?

The Japanese philosophy of 'Wa' (harmony) most vividly manifests itself in food. Sweet is balanced always by the bitter. As in life, the sweet is never as sweet without its counterpart. The tea and the pickles are to be consumed between mouthfulls of bean paste and jelly. It looked too good to eat and I kind of wished that I could just be left to admire it from afar and never take a bite. Not just because I was hesitant to upset the aesthetic beauty of the dish, but knowing what it was somehow made it seem rather unappetising. However, as etiquette and curiosity required, I tasted it. Actually it wasn't bad at all. Some unusual flavours but at least it wasn't whole, deep-fried baby crabs or raw horse meat.

To continue a day immersed in the more traditional side to Japanese culture we went to the Hachiman Shinto Shrine. We passed through the torii gate and up the long pathway towards the sacred building at the summit of a flight of stone steps. The shrine was positioned amongst pine and cedar trees and wheeling in the sky above flew great birds of prey that I have never before seen in the wild. They were Kites. I was amazed by them. At the base of the steps grew a giant tree around which was tied a rope several feet thick. This was because worshippers believed it to be a sacred dwelling place of the Gods. After rinsing our hands with the sacred dippers we climbed the steps, only to be greeted by two gruesome looking lion-dogs that guarded the entrance to the shrine. These were not however some cross-bred freaks of nature, but the stone manifestations of a hybrid of adopted Chinese-Korean tradition.

As W. Ferguson describes in 'Hokkaido Highway Blues' - "The lion-dogs were originally a lion and a dog, and were very different in appearance, but over the years stonecutters found it easier to carve them to the same proportions. The two figures grew more and more alike, until their features blended. One lion-dog has a mouth that is always open, the other has a mouth that is always closed. The open-mouthed lion-dog is named Ah the other is named Un, or more properly nn. "Ah" is the first sound you make when you are born, "nn" the last sound you make when you die.... Between the two lies all of existence, a universe that turns on a single breath.... In original Sanskrit, ah-un means "the end and the beginning of the universe; infinity unleashed."

These stone creatures represent the 'wa' between two opposing things. As Ferguson goes on to say - "In Japan, the word for freedom, jiyu, carries with it the nuance of selfish or irresponsible behaviour. Group harmony is of much higher value.... If you had to embody the ideals of the West it would be the statue of Liberty, standing defiantly, the torch raised: a singular, powerful, one-of-a-kind presence. The ideals of Japan are captured instead in a thousand small stone guardians, in a thousand shrines, big and small, across Japan. A dog and a lion so near in spirit that they have blended into one."

Surrounding the land beneath the shrine were avenues that snaked between trees and pools. We followed them until we found ourselves at a great pond covered in lush lotus and lily pads. Some children were crouched by the edge pointing at the turtles who swam right up to the edge; their little heads poking out of the water with greedy interest in the hope of food. In the centre of the small lake was an island. Amongst the bamboo hung long white prayer flags. We were now joined by Yuko's older sister; a well known baker in Kamakura. We exchanged a simple dialogue in broken English and laughs and eager nods. As the day grew on her confidence grew and we spoke quite a bit. She had been shy about speaking to me because she felt ashamed that her English wasn't very good - and here I was unable to speak a word of Japanese! I pointed this out to her and she laughed.





After a spot of shopping in the quaint side streets and sampling local freebie tid-bits (pickled daikon, pickled onions with lemon, pickled seaweed, pickled plum, pickled bamboo shoots, etc!) we went to 'Freshness Burger' for a drink. (The name reminds me of the endless hours of amusement that can be found at the expense of the Japanese-English in advertising. The 'Moss Burger' (Japanese fine burger) catch-phrase is "Hamburger is my life". By the way, please don't ask me why I am suddenly such an expert on Japanese junk food joints - today was the first time I had been in one, honestly!) Here is another example; in the supermarket the other day I noticed a product called 'Creap' - creamy, powder. There is so much I am going to start writing it all down - it should make a very amusing blog entry I think!

The sun was setting as we headed against the flow of bronzed people heading back from the beach. It was the first time I was to see the Pacific ocean. In the dying light of day one could see surfers catching a few last waves, and Japanese and Westerners alike packing up their beachwear and strolling towards the wafting smells of yaki-soba stalls and Malibu beach bars. There were stands selling sarongs and bags, hair-wraps and bracelets. Welcome to 'mini Thailand'. After dipping our toes in the warm surf of the Pacific we wandered over the watch some Brazilian kick-boxing. There was a circle of athletic looking people chanting and playing instruments around the fighters who sprang forth spontaneously from the ring to enter into non-violent combat. It was more like a dance; with every kick and strike carefully aimed to miss - a glide above the head, a well timed duck. As night fell at around 7pm, we joined a new group of spectators further along the beach to watch a fire dance to techno music. The whole vibe felt unmistakably Asian and although the beach was of brown sand and there wasn't a palm in sight, it gave me a taste of what it might be like to visit Thailand.

The day was completed by dinner in a tiny restaurant in Ofuna, one stop away from Kamakura. The place seated about twelve people who had full view of the tiny kitchen where men with white head-bands slaved over metal grill trays, frying up sizzling noodle dishes. Despite the fact that I was learning Katakana and could just about have made sense of the menu (in an hour or two) my friends ordered for me. Of course they knew I was vegetarian so made a special request for the okonomiyaki not to be made with meat. We were sat at a table in the middle of which was a hot metal surface onto which our food was placed to continue cooking. The okonomiyaki arrived one by one by shovel. They were a form of pancake piled high with fried noodles, vegetables and either cheese or squid or meat and then a generous topping of dried fish flakes that wafted like transparent beige petals in the heat. In Japan, most food is enjoyed communally and thus shared between everyone; so the pancakes were quatered and served onto small dishes. I eyed yet another unfamiliar dish warily. I tried not think too much about the fish flakes and cracked apart my chopsticks....

What a day. I had seen and tasted and experienced a fascinating slice of Japanese life which was so new to me. I was so grateful to my new found friends. They made me feel so welcome. I silently thanked my Dad for introducing me to them and for obviously being such a good teacher because they all had such fond memories of their time as students at his school. They still have 'HELC meetings' (ie; karaoke in Shibuya with ex-students from the school!) every now and again. In fact they had invited me to an up-and-coming one this Friday night, but unfortunately due to my anti-social work schedule I had to forgo their kind invitation. As I said my goodbyes I was presented with a brown paper bag from Yuko's sister. It was filled with home-made bread from her bakery. While we were on our way to Ofuna on the train, she had gone by her shop on her moped to pick it up. Such hospitality I will never forget.

Retail Therapy

Monday 31st July
I had been in Japan for almost two months and had not actually been shopping. Now considering how much I love shopping and the fact that I live in Tokyo - a city that boasts the biggest department stores on the planet, the newest technology, cutting edge fashions in clothing and such choice and availability of every product imaginable (and unimaginable) it is a wonder that I hadn't hit the stores already. Anyway, it was pay day so I figured what better time to indulge my materialistic urges?

The compulsion had apparently gripped my co-workers too so we joined forces and made for Akihabara, 'the electric city'. The district is like a dirty Shibuya. It lacks glamour and diversity. It is essentially block-to-block neon and electrical goods stores. Outside every shop are displays of washing machines, stereos, air-conditioning units, cell phones, computers, gadgets, second hand merchandise, electrical hardware and manga. It is a strange phenomenon. Lining every street are people shrieking on microphones and young girls in gothic maid outfits giving out flyers for 'maid cafes' or manga comic book stores. It is a consumer capital for geeks. Electronics and comics - both are hugely popular. You see rows of men in convenience stores lined up at the magazine racks reading manga. It is weird. In England if you pause to flick through a magazine you feel guilty because very often some grumpy old man will come over and ask "so, are you gonna buy that then?" Not in Japan. You can stand all day and read comics and then walk out without buying anything. No-one seems to mind.

My friend wanted to buy a new lap-top so this was obviously the place to come. However, the problem was that the choice is overwhelming and for me there is nothing worse than being dragged around computer shops all day when you are not buying anything for yourself. Initially I feel frustrated because I see so many things I want to buy and then this gives way to boredom. But Japan being what it is, one can never be bored for long.... On the 8th floor of the yet another electronics store, I saw four Buddhist monks in red robes loitering by the electric kettles and what appeared to be black, leather dentists chairs. A fifth monk was lounging in one of the comfy looking recliners and pressing buttons on a display to his right. As we drew closer we realised they were massage chairs. A couple of western girls were giggling nearby. They were riding rodeo-seats. This looked like fun! So of course for the next 30 minutes we too were strapped in and kneaded and prodded by the electronic armchairs, whilst our friend chose his computer. The Buddhist monks left without buying anything. I only wish I had got a picture. Japan is so full of curious contradictions.

On the way from Akihabara to 'musical instrument street' in Ochanamizu, we stopped to look at an old shrine. It was just off a dusty main road, but beyond the walls it was a jungle of twisting creepers, dappled sunlight, chirping insects and flitting butterflies. In a clearing near the shrine, was a mossy statue of Confucius that stood many meters high. Unfortunately we could not linger long because we were being attacked by mosquitoes. We made a hasty exit back onto the polluted streets and over the bridge into Ochanamizu.

My mission for the day was to buy an acoustic guitar. I left mine back in England and had really missed having it on hand to play, plus it was a good excuse to buy another one. Several of my students had recommended coming to this area because it has the highest concentration of music shops in Tokyo. Most of them sell electric guitars but there was a good selection of a acoustics too. I scoured every shop. It was my turn to bore my companions. In the end I came back to the first shop I went into and settled for a Yamaha. It was very nice to play and had a good mellow sound. I parted with 150 quid in return for it and they threw in a free case, some guitar strings and a capo. I figured it was a pretty good deal. I was happy. Music had been restored to my life!

That evening I played it until my fingers hurt, whilst trying to hear myself over the roar of the passing trains as well as trying not to disturb the neighbours. Not an easy thing to do. It felt good to have spent money on something tangible as opposed to frittering it away on partying. I will have to do this every month! So what's next on my list? Er, clothes, a digital camera, a stereo, a lap-top (apple of course) shoes, sunglasses, matching luggage, bags, a DVD player, a bike, jewelry, perfume, CDs.... More, more, more. Once you start you never want to stop. It just leaves you wanting more. No. I think I will save my money for experiences. At the end of the day they are far more valuable. Material possessions are nice to have but they do not provide one with interesting memories to look back on in old age. Anyone can have a life of flat-screen TV's and the newest i-pods, but not everyone can have a life of adventure. Consumerism is illusory and temporary fulfillment. A balance, as always, is what is important. However this balance is hard to achieve. The lure of beautiful things to enhance our lives; the promise of happiness in return for a simple credit card transaction, is a powerful one. Surely 'happiness' can't be bought gift wrapped with a one year warranty. Yet, I have to ask - what chance do I have of extricating myself from this endless cycle of want, when even Buddhist monks are tempted by electric kettles and massage chairs?....

Zoo blues

Sunday 30th July
Due to yet another late start to the day I had not given myself enough time to do what I had planned for the day. I almost called the whole thing off, but decided instead just get on a train and salvage what I could of the rest of the day. It was 2.30 by the time I boarded a a Chuo line 'special rapid service' to Shinjuku, and 3.45 by the time I had changed trains and made my way to Ueno. I had been to Ueno in the early weeks of my arrival in the country but was unfortunate enough to go on a Monday when all of the galleries in the area are closed. So, I had finally made it on a Sunday but was foolish enough to arrive only an hour before the sights closed. My plan had been to visit the National gallery to see the Jakuchu exhibition and then go to the zoo. However, I only had time to see one. I figured that it would be a shame to rush around the gallery so opted for the zoo. I don't know why but I was actually in the mood for watching animals. I think it was because of a short essay by Alain de Botton that I read just days before.

He described going to the zoo one Sunday afternoon in spite of the fact that his nephew could not join him as planned. He recommended an afternoon alone in a zoo, for it is usually something one thinks of as a children's activity, yet for adults it can be just as fulfilling. If nothing else, it gives one the chance to stock up on witty and informed fodder for 'after-dinner' conversation. He recalls a number of occasions when he has been confronted by questions such as "well, if you were an animal what would you be?" (He decided he was most like the tapir or the llama.)

De Botton went on to remark on the great differences there are between humans and animals - how strange they look. I had to agree; the long snout and shuffling gait of the anteater; the peculiar, shriveled head and limbs that emerge from the turtle's shell. They couldn't be more different. And yet, there were such likenesses to be found. I saw a Panda who sat beyond a glass screen on a tiled floor, next to a pile of eucalyptus branches. He looked so forlorn I couldn't help but feel empathy for him. He was hunched over and picking at the leaves so slowly, it was just like watching a person in the depths of despair or a miserable child alone in the corner of the classroom.

One could argue that animals are not like humans at all and do not experience emotions in the same way as humans do; that we simply project certain emotions onto them that correspond to certain kinds of behaviour. However, one only has to watch the apes to know for sure that there is little to divide us and them. It may be just luck and a degree of intelligence that keeps us from being the ones behind glass and them being the gawping audience, licking ice-creams and laughing on a Sunday afternoon. I felt sorry for these creatures. One Gorilla had covered himself with a grubby Japanese flag and was loping around the enclosure. Another sat just inches away from the faces of tiny children and stared back with soft brown blinking eyes. I read once that "similarity is the shadow of difference. Two things are similar by virtue of their difference." When it comes to apes this can be uncomfortably true. Queen Victoria as described apes as"frightful and painfully and disagreeably human." In all honesty it made me sad to see such intelligent creatures placed there for our delight and amusement.

Perhaps apes are more recognizably human because of the small differences that we share physiologically. Yet one only has to watch an playful otter or a polar bear for a few minutes to see they are not so dissimilar either. Their needs are not so different to ours. I saw two polar bears pacing back and forth on plastic 'ice-berg' in the sweltering July heat. They were not restful or content - they were thousands of miles from their natural habitat, and suffering from what we might describe as 'cabin fever' 'boredom' and 'frustration' because of it. Actually this is an understatement. They were probably out of their minds. The condition of some of the monkeys certainly pertained to this. 'Monkey mountain' was another plastic abomination upon which scampered disheveled, balding apes, without a blade of grass or a tree in sight. As for the elephants, well, that really was sad. These magnificent giants stood in cages that they could not turn in if they wanted to. It was awful. My afternoon in the zoo did not fill me with philosophical ponderings as it had De Botton. Instead it left me feeling sad and resentful of the Japanese for keeping wild animals in such poor conditions.



As the sun was going down I headed for Ameyoko market, I prowled around the stalls and shops. A little later on I came across a grotty shop window selling vials and jars of medicinal looking substances. (Please see video below.) My faith in the Japanese sense of 'humanity' was not restored by what I saw. On the contrary. On a stone pedestal were coiled a number of small live snakes for which I realised were also there for 'medicinal purposes' - snakes blood being a valuable source of 'alternative healing power'. Well it was almost as bad as buying a turtle's blood and orange juice cocktail I thought. How revolting. (This is true by the way. I have met numerous people who have been served this drink.) Give me a gin and tonic any day!



Although my day did not go as planned, in a way it was a good one. Sometimes things do not work out the way we want them to or imagine them to. But if one is not disappointed by this, then one can gain unexpected experiences and thoughts that no amount of planning can provide. I thus travelled back for Toyoda feeling strangely comforted.

Erika's party and the secret pond

Saturday 29th July.
Whenever a new memeber of staff arrives or leaves we have a party. Given that there is quite a network of schools in Tokyo, there seems to be a party every weekend for one person or another. This time it was a rather belated welcome party for our manager at Toyoda school. She is very nice - the same age as me actually, but can't speak much English. We met at a local izakaya which is owned by the parents of one of my students, who also works there. I arrived a little late as I had to travel back from Musashi-Koganei and it was the second night of the festival, so I got a little distracted by the commotion. The mother of my student greeted me warmly, bowing and ushering me through the hanging drapes, and sliding open the light doors to our compartment. I slipped off my shoes and found my place at the sunken table next to one of our students - a woman who works for a pharmaceutical company.

After several rounds of beer, some mochi cheese rice balls, some korean kimchi (chili, tomato, garlic and cabbage salad) a sashimi tuna platter and octopus balls the party broke in two. Those who had better things to do in the moring than nurse a hangover went home, and the others set off up the road to one of the only bars in town. In Japan there aren't so many bars - if you want to drink you kind of have to eat too - izakayas serve a large selection of small dishes to share. Alternatively you can go to a club, or of course karaoke. And so, the party continued in the bar. It was a funny little place in a grey block above a florists. There was a group of young people seated around a table on one side, us in the middle - a bunch of expats and inebriated Japanese, and then on the other side a table around which were four cackling hostesses and an extremely drunk business man. We watched with a combination of revulsion and glee as they applied lip stick and eye-shadow to him. He was creased up - having a the time of his life by the looks of it!

At 3 am I decided I had had enough and announced I was going home - but they wouldn't let me! So I stayed until the group fragmented once again and those with more important things to do than sleep all day went home. Those who were left were the 'hardcore massive' so to speak; Tom, Jason, Erika, Emiko and yes, me. We went to the 24 hour convenience store and purchased some foul tasting Japanese beverages (cans of mango flavoured sparkling wine,　and some green jars of sweet alcohol with a rotten plum in the bottom.) I took one sip and thought I was about to OD on the sugar so went back and bought a couple of cans of beer. We hung around outside the school and watched the early morning goods being delivered to the store. A couple were out walking their dog - even though it was still dark.

It was then that I had the bright idea of taking the party to a secret place in knew in the woods. Everybody was very excited about the prospect, so I led them on a merry trail through Tokyo's suburbia to a little oasis in the forest. There was a wooden jetty that led to a covered seating area over a crystal clear pond. The group congregated on the pine decking and gazed into the water to watch the orange carp and turtles swim. The hours that passed til dawn were hazy. As it started to become light the bats set about their screeching. The woods were alive with insects and mosquitoes who enacted a vicious attack on the intruders. I saw a black butterfly the size of a small bird, momentarily block the light from a nearby lampost. It was as if the devil himself had awoken. Eventually the haunting wail and eek and sting of the wildlife life drove the jaded lot back to civilisation.

I was fortunate enough to have but a few minutes walk back to my apartment. It was a grey and misty dawn. The streets were empty. The others trooped back to the station to wait for the first train. There is nothing more depressing than a good night coming to an end; having to wait for the first train and wishing you hadn't spent so much money, and wondering why it had seemed like such a good idea to hang out in a forest where one is eaten alive by blood-sucking mozzies. Still, it is the spontaneous things that live in one's memory. Despite the fatigue I had enjoyed myself. What a welcome party. My last memory of my manager was that of her sitting by a pond, wearing an oversized T-shirt (which belonged to Tom) and warbling like a bird in jazz band.

Japanese solution to global warming?

Japanese coffee shop waitresses in Tokyo pour water on the pavement to promote cooling down with recycled water during a sweltering Japanese summer.

Musashi-Koganei Festival

It was the end of a lazy Friday in late July. I had taught no more than three or four lessons and had found time to finish a book I was reading (On seeing and noticing" by Alain de Botton) in between planning the following day's lessons and catching up on paperwork. From the fifth floor I could faintly hear drumming, and upon inquiring about the reason for this incessant groove, I was informed that it was the start of the Musashi-Koganei summer festival. I filled in my register and DTR and listened with half an ear to the noise from the streets below. After clocking out I sneaked into a classroom overlooking the street and forced open the clunky double-glazing which allowed the volume of the taiko drummers to flood the room. I peered down and watched almost twitching with excitement the twirl and stomp of the dancers on the ground. They made patterns down there on the tarmac and it all happened in time with the beats of the drums. I pulled the window shut and it huffed as it sealed itself; the room becoming deaf once more.



My manager and co-worker descended to the jollifications via an elevator to the ground floor. We walked past the vending machine that sells 'glamorous body' iced coffee (for a refreshing taste that never ends), oolong tea, asahi peach juice and 'vita C' energy drinks, then through the automatic doors and into the soft warmth of the Japanese night. There was a cacophony of clanging bells and drums and hundreds of people lined the streets to watch the dancers. Fans and hands twisted and twirled, they crouched and turned, jumped and shrieked. There were squawking stalls selling roasted meat on skewers; the scent of which filled the air - a smell which is so familiar at barbecues and festivals back home. There were crates of cold Asahi and Kirin beer floating in iced water. The staff accrued a couple of cans and joined the spectators on the kerb.



The atmosphere was wonderful. Everyone was in high spirits. It made such a nice change to have the road closed off from traffic which on a normal night, the flow of which one has to carefully dodge to avoid injury. A little further up however, the trains still clattered past; every few minutes the black and yellow barriers sliced down and bounced off the heads of unfortunate pedestrians hurrying over the tracks towards the safety of the pavement. Every time I have to cross the damn thing I worry that I am going to get mown down! If one starts to hear the ding of the gate then that is the time to run; and then you run and hope not to catch a heel in the tracks and weave between the cyclists and get to the other side. Phew!



The dancing drew to an end at around 10.30 and our merry goup moved onto an izakaya on the high street. Girls in kimonos and yukatas wandered around eating frozen ice cones or eating noodles. The stalls started packing up and after a little while the drumming ceased. A gentle breeze lifted the laughter and converstion of several hundred locals into the air and mixed it with sounds of brooms sweeping pavements and the lingering smell of cooked food. I felt so happy to have experienced this. Events like this make it all worth while. In the izakaya we discussed Japanese culture over half litres of very cool beer, sushi, salad and omelette.



I boarded the train at about midnight and watched a young girl as she spontaneously moved in time with the internal echo in her head of the music from the festival. It was enchanting. I took a seat which was by chance within near proximity of two westerners; who, like me, were plugged into i-pods and staring at the floor. I watched a dizzy mosquito blunder back and forth on the cream coloured plastic of the train floor and wondered how long it would be until someone trod on it. When I glanced up I noticed that the other two westerners were also transfixed by the dying bug. The guy even went so far as to move his bag to give the creature a clear path. I smiled to myself. None of the Japanese had noticed it. Why had we? The train drew to a stop and people rose from their seats and exited the train. Our eyes were locked on the fragile insect. Yet, as fated, a black rubber sole came down upon it and snuffed it out of existence. The three westerners stared down at the tiny corpse and felt a moment of sadness. I don't know if they were aware of what we had all witnessed but I was. I didn't know what it meant, but it felt significant at the time....