Attempting to go native in Japan
was never going to be easy. It had taken a long time to find a local family who
not only had a self-contained 'furnished
aparto' within their traditional Japanese wooden home, but were also
prepared to rent it to a Gaijin Sensei
– a foreign-devil teacher from ‘En'grand’.
Home Sweet Home
The first-floor apartment was
minimalist to say the least. It had just a low coffee table, a large
wall-hanging scroll featuring a brush-painted floral arrangement, a sink with a
single gas ring and a screened alcove in which to store clothes and bedding in
cardboard boxes.
My two rooms were separated by
sliding paper screens, each with soft thatched tatami floors, honey - coloured timber ceilings, white walls and
an 8-foot length of ill-fitting sliding wooden windows, which flooded the rooms
with enough light and air to fill a stadium. All this, to an idealistic
22-year-old ‘traventurer’ to move into during the hot humidity of summer, had
seemed just perfect – real cool!
However, it was now the middle of
January; for months the bitingly cold dampness of Tokyo's winter had gnawed
relentlessly at my extremities. Spring seemed a long way off.
The view through my wall of
curtain-less single-glazed windows was now hidden by a set of external wooden
screens - they helped dull the wind-rattled loose panes, but added as much
warmth as a bulb in a fridge.
Keeping Warm
Winter scene in Roppongi Japan |
This fiendish saucepan-sized device was my only form of heating; it burned smoke-choking charcoal that cooked my nuts at one end, whilst I breathed clouds of vapourised Sapporo whisky at the other – all an essential part of my frostbite prevention scheme.
Every discomfort has its comfort;
tonight was one of my thrice-weekly visits to the local ofuro bathhouse, where for two hours I would enjoy and endure its
tortuous heat.
Typical shoe racks in Japanese home |
Cold Crisp Snow
I slid open the front door and a
cold crisp silence reflected back at me: four inches of freshly fallen snow lay
outside: making the house feel positively warm.
Pair of Japanese Geta |
My route took me along a labyrinth
of unlit alleys, lined with wooden homes; many doubled as laundries, noodle
shops, bars and rice stores, their doorways glowed with the yellow light of
lacquered lanterns or wooden lamps.
A soft scrunch of snow from behind
prompted me to step to one side to allow a home-delivery boy to cycle past. He precariously balanced a foot-high stack of red lacquered food trays in one
hand, and trailed an aroma of steam noodles in his wake.
The snow-blurred sound of Tokyo's
traffic sharpened as I rounded the corner, I cautiously waited for a tram to
rattle past before carefully clomping my way across Roppongi Road and into Yasuda
Lane.
Brrr! |
My clogs clattered noisily on the
stone entrance porch as I entered the curtained doorway marked ‘Male’ in large Japanese characters. I exchanged my clogs for a pair of communal bath slippers
from the scores that lined the wall.
The Bathhouse
The familiar Buddha-like form of Mrs Nakasoni greeted me in the wooden changing hall, she sat on
her high rickety perch, overseeing both the male and female changing rooms.
She was the cashier and collected
the thirty-five yen fee, sold soap and peered owl-like through perfectly round
glasses; she kept an eager eye on everyone as they undressed on their respective
side of the dividing screen.
From my vantage height of nearly six
feet, I could glimpse the grass being greener on the other side.
I left my clothes in a locker,
tied the wooden key around my wrist, collected a three-legged stool and an
aluminum pan from the sterilizing pool, and went through to the bathing room.
As I did so, I gave Mrs Nakasoni a friendly naked smile.
Japanese public bathhouse ofuro |
The Public Ofuro at Roppongi is used by about eighty per cent of the local
community, so it was a great source of lively debate and exchange of gossip. I
had been going long enough to be recognized by most people and to know that a
nudge from a neighbour was a common practice to indicate they wished you to
scrub their back.
Not for the Faint Hearted
Once the cleaning ritual was achieved,
it was time to enter the bathhouse proper and suffer the palpitating pleasures
in the brightly lit, veritable ‘Temple to Aquarians’.
The steamy chamber had as its altar a cascading waterfall of scalding water that fell into a small pool, where on this particular day, the hairless head of a solitary wizen Japanese monk floated. He unblinkingly watched his small pool overflow into a larger pool where a dozen or so other heads floated, each grimacing with pleasure.
The steamy chamber had as its altar a cascading waterfall of scalding water that fell into a small pool, where on this particular day, the hairless head of a solitary wizen Japanese monk floated. He unblinkingly watched his small pool overflow into a larger pool where a dozen or so other heads floated, each grimacing with pleasure.
Roy being cooked in traditional farmhouse wooden Ofuro - just add carrots and onions, stir gently. |
As soon as the bone marrow felt pink and before the brain started to curdle, I retreated to the cool of the changing hall and the lustful gaze of Mrs Nakasoni. She always gave me a small bottle of X-Energy to drink. I never did quite fathom out what she hoped it would do for me – or her – but I hadn’t the energy or inclination to reject her kind gesture.
by Roy Romsey