Time would sometimes lose itself out on the road, the days and weeks rolling into a blur of swinging one leg in front of the other.
We paced on up and over steep inclines, breathlessly stumbling through the mountain village areas of Hitachinai before making tracks out onto forest-lined roads.
On several occasions I dug out the bear bells, ringing them like a mad woman, after having spotted signs warning of tsukinowaguma.
Eventually the forests and bear signs gave way to lanes skirting paddy fields.There, we sighted nothing more threatening than Hello Kitty and Doraemon scarecrows. Giant-sized Mickey Mouse and Pikachu cartoon characters stood on the pavement, reminding motorists to slow down and indicating that walkers should also take extra care.
But Akita Prefecture’s most striking roadside attraction had to be the Kashima-sama, a gigantic straw “god of war” that stood in a field we went past.
Towering some four metres high and wearing the wooden mask of the Namahage mountain spirit, the Kashima-sama is said to not only protect villagers from natural disasters and illness, but holds the power to assure bountiful harvests as well.
Along Akita’s lanes we noticed many of the ferocious-looking Namahage masks enshrined at trees and rocks, or on man-made altars.
In the Akita dialect, the word namahage refers to the blister a person gets from lolling too long under the kotatsu, the brazier, as well as meaning the word “peel.” Namahage therefore alludes to a visiting spirit that will peel the blisters of those who idle away the winter months in front of the brazier. At New Year, in Akita, young men often don the Namahage mask and, with the help of copious amounts of sake, go on a village rampage, barging into the homes of neighbours to frankly speak their minds or address family squabbles. Traditionally, visits of the Namahage have served to instill a sense of social cohesiveness, with those on the receiving end of the spirit’s roaring and teasing usually being children, young brides and newcomers to the community.We wheeled our trolleys further on, heading through the pretty streets of Kakunodate where we passed old samurai houses and cherry trees that would bloom the following spring.
All too soon, we found ourselves approaching the end of our fourth prefecture. It was with a twinge of regret that we realised we hadn’t yet taken a dip in one of Akita’s hot springs. The prefecture is renowned for having some of the country’s best onsen, as well as for its Akita bijin—the most beautiful women in Japan. It would be nigh on a sin to leave the region without testing its hot waters.
For me, nothing compares with soaking completely naked in an rotenburo, or outdoor hot spring. One of my most treasured memories is of wallowing in such a spring, snowflakes settling on my head, as I admired the view of Mount Fuji and sipped hot sake. I have relished bobbing around in a bath with a whopping load of red apples, soaking in tubs of orange peel, as well as treating my skin to the medicinal properties of Chinese herb baths. But not all Japanese bathing experiences have been so idyllic. I’ve had a few risqué times too, and especially during my early days in Japan. My first konyoku was a real culture shock, with my Japanese-language skills shamefully letting me down and being the cause of embarrassment. I had expected to soak in a bath of devil’s tongue jelly, a nutritious food renowned for cleaning toxins from the body.
Konyoku, however, turned out to be something entirely different from konnyaku, the jelly made from yams.
I had been soaking alone in the small bathtub, and was alarmed when two naked men came striding through the doors of the bathroom to join me in the waters. They were somewhat surprised too, and grinned at the sight of a Western woman. But when I started protesting their presence, the men explained that a konyoku is a bath for both men and women. Since then, I have enjoyed many a konyoku, and relished other unusual bathing experiences too.In the mountains of Nagano Prefecture,
I even once shared an outdoor spring with a group
of teeth-baring, loose-bowelled
macaque monkeys.
I even once shared an outdoor spring with a group
of teeth-baring, loose-bowelled
macaque monkeys.
And, with only the exception of India, where I once unwittingly bathed with a dead cow in the Ganges River, nowhere else, except in Japan, have I had a “near-death” bathing experience.
This terrifying ordeal took place not at an onsen, but at a sento (public bathhouse) in Kyoto.
Again, it was during those first “innocent” days in Nippon. Kelly, a Canadian friend, had invited me to visit her in the ancient capital, insisting that she would introduce me to the best of Japanese culture.
“Okay, well you may have tried public baths in Tokyo, but you have to experience my sento here,” she said on the night of my arrival in Kyoto. And, without a second thought, I tagged along, following her through the labyrinthine lanes. Shuffling along in a blue yukata robe, I carried a plastic bowl of toiletries and a towel. Little did I know that she was plotting against me. My first impression was that Kelly’s local sento was much like my public bathhouse in Tokyo’s Nakano ward. I soaked in the hot bath and found it to be pretty regular, the temperature just topping forty degrees Celsius. The cold bath was as expected — like immersing oneself in a tub of ice cubes — and the Chinese herb bath, as usual, left my skin silky smooth.
“Now, try that bath. It’s really special,” Kelly said, quite innocuously. She pointed to a tub that a little old biddy was climbing out of. The grandma bowed and gave me such a tender smile that, for a moment, I thought my heart would melt. I couldn’t begin to imagine that she, too, was in on the plot. I stepped into the clear waters of the bath without a second thought. It really looked pretty much like the other baths, and it was somewhat nearer to the temperature I liked — or so I thought. As I slumped down, I became aware of a tingle running up my legs. My buttocks were turning numb. I was being electrocuted … slowly.
“Now, try that bath. It’s really special,” Kelly said, quite innocuously. She pointed to a tub that a little old biddy was climbing out of. The grandma bowed and gave me such a tender smile that, for a moment, I thought my heart would melt. I couldn’t begin to imagine that she, too, was in on the plot. I stepped into the clear waters of the bath without a second thought. It really looked pretty much like the other baths, and it was somewhat nearer to the temperature I liked — or so I thought. As I slumped down, I became aware of a tingle running up my legs. My buttocks were turning numb. I was being electrocuted … slowly.“Holy Moses!” I screamed, jumping from the bath like a bolt of lightning. “I’m gonna die. Help! There’s something wrong with the bath. Danger!” I yelled. Granny was laughing at me as I slipped on the wet floor tiles. I fell, tit over bum, landing flat on my back with legs akimbo. Kelly and the old dears loved it.
“Yaaaah! Bikkuri desu, ne? Denki-buro desu, yo! (Yaaaah! Shocking, isn’t it? An electric bath!),” the old girl cackled. Kelly insisted that I wouldn’t die — and I didn’t. But I never stepped into a denki-buro again, regardless of the fact that an electric bath is reputedly good for the heart, as well as arthritis and a number of other ailments.
I chuckled to myself as I recalled this incident while walking on towards Ogachi town.
It was now our last day in Akita Prefecture, so if we were going to sample the hot waters here at all, it would have to be tonight. I certainly wasn't imagining that yet another bathing shock lay in store for me. It turned out that Ogachi boasts of being the home of the renowned Heian period beauty Ono no Komachi, who was born in the town in the year 809. At the age of thirteen, Ono no Komachi was adored for her beauty and poetry writing skills.
Although she became a lady-in-waiting to the emperor in Kyoto, in later life Ono no Komachi returned to her hometown. It is said that she retained her stunning looks up until the time she passed away at the wonderful old age of ninety-two. I later found a translation of one of her poems:
The flowers withered,
Their colour faded away,
While meaninglessly
I spent my days in the world
And the long rains were falling.
Their colour faded away,
While meaninglessly
I spent my days in the world
And the long rains were falling.
But it was the actual bathing experience that would make Ogachi unforgettable. Although my good friend Joni has long entertained me with stories of how Japanese grannies love fondling her breasts, I had yet to have my boobs molested by some old dear whose curiosity was tweaked by Western women’s bosoms. That is, not until I took a dip in the hot spring waters at Yokobori Onsen. With a lecherous squeal of delight, a fat grandma grabbed hold of my left breast and gave it one almighty squeeze.
“Yeah, it’s like a bean paste bun,” she informed her chums with toothless glee.
The grandmas all howled with laughter while I — with a mixture of shock and embarrassment — turned the crimson hue of boiled octopus.Then, a hunchbacked hag with breasts that almost touched her kneecaps teetered into the bath. I could see she intended on adding to the mischief.
“It’s a bijin (a beautiful woman),” the crone drooled. She stroked my lily-white shoulders and then took a lunge at one of my boobs, so I blocked her just in the nick of time. The rest of my time in the bath was spent swinging my arms karate-style at the old girls. I was determined to defend myself in the event that any of them made a grab for my “bean paste buns”— or anything else, for that matter.
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