48 hours of Sumo and Sushi

Our short time in Japan was a surreal affair, yet highly enjoyable. From the moment we arrived in Tokyo it was clear that this was a very foreign place. Despite the large population, everything was more serene than in other major cities, still fast paced yet somehow quieter. On the metro, everyone was respectful with crowds of people taking turns to let each other on and off, being careful to make no physical contact.

Once we had dropped our bags off to our tiny yet functional room we set off in search of sushi. We walked for over an hour, past ladies in Kimonos, business men shikoeing to their bosses as they left restaurants, but no sushi! We even took part in a police organised sort of public cycling proficiency in which members of the public were called over a tanoy to complete an obstacle course on byciycles, twice, once with an umbrella in their hand, once without. As the token white people we were sort out and persuaded to have a go. Needless to say we performed with that poor level of motor skills that we have come to expect from western people, yet we smiled and laughed our way through it and were applauded far to generously by the locals, we were even given a free key-ring and a packet of tissues.

Alex showing off her cycling skills

Eventually we found the fish market and with it, sushi heaven! We sat at a conveyor belt and spent the next hour sampling all kinds of raw fish related delights. The chef who spoke a little English asked ‘do you like oysters?’ Does Gary Glitter like the summer holidays? Bring it on! Not as good as Thailand but tasty never the less.

We were surprised, though in a way quite pleased that very few people spoke English, it was as culturally different a place as we had visited, and it got stranger. We were lucky enough to get tickets for a Sumo Basho the same day. I used to watch a lot of Sumo in my younger days, along with Kabaddi it was the highlight of my Transworld Sport Sunday mornings. I still remembered a ‘Yokazuna’ (champion I think) nicknamed ‘the dump truck’. Each week opponents would run against him only to be momentarily lost in his ample man breasts before he either exploded into them knocking them flying or picked them up and threw them to the ground. However, I’d never seen the massive ceremonial side to Sumo before. It was an art form and we both wish someone in the know could have explained the intricacies of it all, the significance of the big fat dudes staring each other out and wearing brightly coloured lower body tabards walking in a procession around the ring. The crowd all seemed to know at which point in the ceremony to shout ‘ha’ in unison.

Part of the ceremony

It was so much more than a sport, it had elements of art and even religion. It was an impressive sight and one has to respect any sport one can play and gain weight at the same time. The bouts, though short were dynamic and the big fella’s in nappy’s had an almost graceful look, except for the two non-Japanese ‘Dave and Darren’ we called them. They looked more suited to a building site than a Dojo. For want of a better way of putting it, their arses just didn’t look as refined.

Sumo arse (refined)

Sumo arse (unrefined)

The last thing Darren remembered, he was downing his Stella on a night out with the boys.

After some more sushi we went to bed. We were due to fly out the next evening and wanted to get up bright and early to explore this exciting city further. We decided the next day (after our sushi breakfast) to visit a traditional Onsen, which is like a hot baths but with a few customs that we were yet to learn. We wanted an authentic experience so we travelled a little out of the centre to find our bath of choice. It was hidden down a side alley but luckily a kind local walked us to the door. The first thing we realised was that they were separated by gender so we split up and began our own personal voyage of discovery.

Andy’s experience: I entered a bland changing room with a set of scales, heart pressure monitor, reclining chair and lots of naked, old Japanese men. Oh well, when in Rome, so I stripped and went through the next door. In this room I was greeted by rows of low taps and a few, sort of plastic milking stools. Sat on the stools or on the floor was an array of naked, old Japanese men either crouching or sitting cross legged, thoroughly shampooing their scrotums. It’s not my favourite mental picture of our travels, or my worst to be honest, but it did leave me in a dilemma: stool or floor? I eventually decided on floor and got stuck in. Once they were shiny I ventured through another door to a small outdoor area in which there were three pools, two hot ones, about 36 and 42 degrees respectively and a cold one (the shrivel pool). There was also a jet massage pool at about 40 degrees, and again, an array of naked Japanese men. The pools were really comfortable and relaxing, though I’m very grateful that I had my book with me to read. After about an hour of soaking I got changed, checked the scales (unhappily as my diet of red meat and wine in NZ had taken its toll), and left to meet Alex at the front of the building to compare stories.

Alex’s experience: Bathing in a steaming room full of Japanese women of all ages, was actually sort of lovely. There were no pretensions, no barriers at all, just all women together. As the only European woman in the baths it was only natural that I was stared at a lot. And no doubt there were a few chuckles at my skin costume (the vibrant tan marks from my swimming costume). But all in all it was really pleasant. I even helped a less-abled lady get into one of the baths, which caused a bit of a stir. Suddenly everyone wanted to chat, but speaking only one word of Japanese ('Koneecheewah') and being suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of sweating ladies was a bit too much, so I swiftly exited and grabbed a towel.

All that was left to do was collect our bags from the hotel, have one more sushi session and then head to KL and then finally to the Perhentian Islands.