Soy sauce and soda | Japanese heat complex | Lap-lane directives
12.10.19
This briefing is brought to you by a house-bound Julia working within the time and resource constraints of new boss, Hagibis. Japan is currently bracing for what is predicted to be the biggest typhoon to ever hit. Whilst not the first storm to bear down on the nation – the succession of typhoons throughout September and October wreaked their fair share of havoc – it will be the first to properly hit home. Although the tail end of Typhoon Tapah was caught in the back seat of a mini-van driving home from Rural music festival, I blame the vehicle’s fishtailing on the heedless tactics of the man behind the wheel rather than the force of extreme wind.
Having never looked a typhoon in the eye, I went into the mother of all storms with only a guide book. Page five recommended a stocked fridge and three-day’s worth of water in case the electricity and plumbing tapped out. However, something about shelf after empty shelf at the supermarket told me this was not insider knowledge. Instead, the aisles were filled with the string ensemble who famously played as the Titanic sank. Whilst rather calming as a musical sound it was hard not to associate the jingle as a marker of ‘the end’.
Music is one thing, language is another. Sadly, the storm stockpile was not the first time I left the supermarket empty-handed. Whilst in possession of a bottle of sake I believed to be shōchū – a distilled Japanese beverage – I asked the attendant whether or not I was holding shouyu – no less than soy sauce. When the answer came back negative I was directed to the vast collection of sushi companions to pick my poison. Although the absence of alcohol relieved my face of “Asian flush syndrome”, the red came rushing back when I asked a separate shop attendant in sober tones ‘what is nori’ as opposed to where I might find it. Shambolic supermarket strategy aside, not even Typhoon Hagibis could compete with the mayhem unleashed on humanity by a Japanese swimming pool.
My cold Melbournian upbringing has me as a staunch disciple of ‘death to the wetsuit’ and a long-running critic of the Sydney-sider’s temperate aversion to a winter dip. You can imagine my displeasure when I found out that despite the heat hanging around well into October, all Tokyo outdoor pools would shut by mid-September. It would be wrong at this point to not pay heed to the Japanese tolerance to hot water as this gives some insight into why pool temperatures are so high. I never believed it was possible to sweat so much whilst submerged in a body of H2O. The heat-complex may also explain why Japanese toilet seats are ever ready to serve your bottom with warmth. It took a while to detach myself from the long-held predisposition that warm seat correlates with time spent on loo by your forerunner. But I digress…
This aquatic centre was not shy of blue sky.
I had the pleasure of swimming in one of the 50m outdoor pools before a single cloud obscured the sun and the temperature dropped to 32°C. Of the eight-lanes, four were partitioned strictly for water walking, two were reserved for the elderly, and the remaining two were for the full spectrum of slow, medium and elite swimmers, with a catch: these two lanes functioned in one direction only. Standard lap-swimming complete with tumble-turn was transformed into a new swim-dodge-duck-dip-no dive-and dodge complex. Swim where you can; dodge incoming and outgoing swimmers; duck under the lane rope at each end to change lanes; dip to the back of the queue to wait for your turn to push off the wall, and don’t even think of diving.
The 25m pool upped the ante with an even higher concentration of human bodies. All of which was made more frantic by the hourly ten-minute break in which all swimmers were made to evacuate the pool. My first impression was that I had stumbled upon an industry where the grueling Japanese work ethic had started to wax and wane. But given the bedlam within the lap-lanes and the levels of stress associated with oversight, I decided the frequency of breaks in reality to be quite modest.
The second most dangerous activity one can embark on in Japan is the creation of an Amazon account. Living in the salary man district of Nishishinbashi where average-joe supply stores are few and far between, Amazon’s open-door policy has me hook, line and sinker. More than just a delivery service, the market giant supplies small-talk topics that far exceed the (not so) mundane weather chat. These dealings with new friends provide invaluable insights on how best to navigate the online retailer. In order to acquire the Japanese hiking and festival favourite – the Helinox chair – one must search the product, scroll to recommended, and select the cheaper copy.
Perhaps the festival goer is the exception, because the general rule of thumb is that Japanese brace the outdoors with only the latest iteration of outdoor gear. The modern art of browsing a store becomes relatively redundant when you have the full suite of top-of-the-range goretex modelled along the hiking trail. As an immersive commercial experience, high-altitude runways rate rather high. I have no doubt that a large proportion of this gear is justified with equal parts of advanced hiking and climbing, but the apparel and gadgetry stand as an adventure in their own rite.
Mountain-top fashion fair.
Kamikochi served as my first Japanese hiking experience. Venturing there on one of 2019’s 19 public holidays, it was no surprise that it was very busy. What was surprising however, was the civility of the tent cities in which the hordes of hikers would congregate at the end of each day. Karasawa – which sits 1000m up in elevation from the river and in effect serves as a basecamp to the surrounding peaks – played host to an excess of 200 tents. Not a whisper nor a camera click post 9pm.
Not a single camper was asked to lower the volume a peg or two.
In fact, it is much harder to quiet the camera of a Japanese person than the photographer themselves. Deemed the most effective way to counter up-skirt photography on crowded trains, the Japanese iPhone camera does not have a silent function. Sound or no sound, there is an undeniable addiction to the smart phone in Tokyo. This makes life easier as an entry-level Japanese resident, as many of my cultural blunders go unnoticed by the collective mass of bowed heads.
One space you would assume the iPhone doesn’t get a show is in a yoga class. Yet I found myself in a literal bind when simultaneously posing for a stretch and a compulsory snap by the teacher. Yoga has become a weekly occurrence with my new 60-year old Japanese friend Mitsue. To contact trace how we ultimately met, I recommend referring to the ‘correlation chart’ she prepared as part of my Japan induction. Whilst it is worth noting we have since changed from mid-class selfie yoga to a different studio, the weekly stretch is more an excuse for me to spend time with Mitsue and practice my Japanese. I am still in a position of having no concept of which yoga pose I am meant to be in but I believe the language compartment of my brain to be benefiting at my body’s expense.
Phase two of alternative Japanese language training came in the form of organised ‘learning parties’. The first of these was convened at Mitsue’s home with her husband Kaoru – next weekend I graduate to the full extended family. The printed ‘learning’ agenda had me cook okonomiyaki, followed by a lesson on how to properly don a yukata – the summer version of a kimono – and finally designated talking time. A number of suggested discussion points were included on pages four to eight. Although not listed, we spent a great deal of time comparing the politics of nudity between our two countries. I presented 19-year old John as a case study, explaining were he to regularly bathe with his three college housemates, more than a few eyebrows would be raised. Australia came away with the title of ‘greatest prude’ and it was decided that the land down under would serve well to lose the tie and the starched white shirt in way of a more liberal approach to the human body.
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HAGIBIS EPILOGUE
15.10.19
No better time to put down roots.
The alternative version of the story – one in which the protagonist was not played by the typhoon – had me at Labyrinth music festival. The jury was out on whether the entire event would be cancelled, but I was well prepared to file a claim on their policy of ‘non-refund in case of natural disaster’. My defense would argue that the intensity of the storm could only be a product of man-made climate change.
Fortunately, day two and three of the festival went ahead. In typical post-storm style, typhoon-plus-one day was your ‘pick-of-the-bunch’ whilst typhoon-plus-two bore uncanny resemblance to typhoon-day-zero. The dance floor gave birth to a mud pile, and Luke’s choice in white shoes was vindicated as one of his worst. It was a mildly odd sensation to be at a music festival – albeit drenched and 10cm shorter than normal due to sinking tendencies – when other parts of the country were suffering so much. Yet it articulates how Japan does not linger where others may. The mantra goes – shikataganai – it can’t be helped. It does not diminish the grief and sense of loss of those hardest hit, but rather draws attention to the importance of rebuilding. Train lines and roads damaged were up and running in hours, streets were swept clean and people could be seen out clearing crops lost the previous day to flood-water – their entire livelihood for the year gone. Things kept moving, and as disconcerting as it was to pick up my own plans where they left off, that’s how it goes.