nara-Koyasan, Japan
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Second bike trip to Japan (Nara-Koyasan)
Night flight - the first encounter in the morning was at the bus-stop by a man who engaged me in conversation on the works of Alan Sillitoe. In fact, this was in reply to, “Does this bus go to Nara?”
He had travelled to Nottingham because Sillitoe had worked at the Raleigh bike factory there. Between us we couldn’t remember who directed ‘Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner’. He was gutted. Now go back and swap all the Rs and Ls in the author and film to fully enjoy what was a great conversation! He did say ‘laylee’ bike factory as well, which slowed me down a little, but luckily I had read some Sillitoe short stories about a chap cycling through Nottinghamshire in the 50s, so I was onto it in a trice. I even said, “Remember when he stopped and asked for a cup of water and that housewife answered the door?” But I did remember and immediately thought better of it.
Nara – old capital, circa 800s. I stayed in a Ryokan – that’s a traditional Japanese Inn. Everything is on tatami mats. So, when you are lying, reading on your bed on the floor, and you then go to get your glasses from the table on the floor, it is hardly worth standing up. So you pad across on your hands and knees. I wonder if Japanese families’ technique is more advanced? I padded around a lot to switch the telly on or get a glass of water (hard padding whilst protecting a full glass of water). It was a useful exercise in imagining losing the use of your legs. But you would value having the stumps I concluded – otherwise you would be dragging rather than padding.
I liked Nara but there was nowhere to leave my bike bag which is big and made of canvas. The man said, “You won’t get that in there, forget it.” He should know as his job is to oversee passengers’ use of the feebly small coin-operated lockers at the station. He said it with his eyebrows and curled lip. “Watch this,” I said in plain English (we don’t do eyebrows) and promptly origamied my bag and head-butted it into the only empty locker which was slightly above head height (like going up for a corner). Ne’er an eyebrow or lip moved in response.
Because all Japanese luggage has wheels, there are no trolleys at stations. My bike in the bag weighed 18 kgs. How far away do you think platform 30 is? It sounds a long way away, especially if there are really 29 platforms before it. This is Japan – THERE ARE 29 platforms before it. A bike in a bag does not present a handy carrying shape. My wrist is still bandaged three weeks later. This bike-bag conundrum dogged me throughout. The coin lockers are $4 a day; they become $8 at midnight. This is Japan, midnight means a new day. You can’t take a bike on a bus or train unless it is in a bag. You can’t ride it unless it is outside the bag. In one case you have luggage and no wheels, in the other you have wheels and some luggage that is too big to carry. Hmmm.
Night flight - the first encounter in the morning was at the bus-stop by a man who engaged me in conversation on the works of Alan Sillitoe. In fact, this was in reply to, “Does this bus go to Nara?”
He had travelled to Nottingham because Sillitoe had worked at the Raleigh bike factory there. Between us we couldn’t remember who directed ‘Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner’. He was gutted. Now go back and swap all the Rs and Ls in the author and film to fully enjoy what was a great conversation! He did say ‘laylee’ bike factory as well, which slowed me down a little, but luckily I had read some Sillitoe short stories about a chap cycling through Nottinghamshire in the 50s, so I was onto it in a trice. I even said, “Remember when he stopped and asked for a cup of water and that housewife answered the door?” But I did remember and immediately thought better of it.
Nara – old capital, circa 800s. I stayed in a Ryokan – that’s a traditional Japanese Inn. Everything is on tatami mats. So, when you are lying, reading on your bed on the floor, and you then go to get your glasses from the table on the floor, it is hardly worth standing up. So you pad across on your hands and knees. I wonder if Japanese families’ technique is more advanced? I padded around a lot to switch the telly on or get a glass of water (hard padding whilst protecting a full glass of water). It was a useful exercise in imagining losing the use of your legs. But you would value having the stumps I concluded – otherwise you would be dragging rather than padding.
I liked Nara but there was nowhere to leave my bike bag which is big and made of canvas. The man said, “You won’t get that in there, forget it.” He should know as his job is to oversee passengers’ use of the feebly small coin-operated lockers at the station. He said it with his eyebrows and curled lip. “Watch this,” I said in plain English (we don’t do eyebrows) and promptly origamied my bag and head-butted it into the only empty locker which was slightly above head height (like going up for a corner). Ne’er an eyebrow or lip moved in response.
Because all Japanese luggage has wheels, there are no trolleys at stations. My bike in the bag weighed 18 kgs. How far away do you think platform 30 is? It sounds a long way away, especially if there are really 29 platforms before it. This is Japan – THERE ARE 29 platforms before it. A bike in a bag does not present a handy carrying shape. My wrist is still bandaged three weeks later. This bike-bag conundrum dogged me throughout. The coin lockers are $4 a day; they become $8 at midnight. This is Japan, midnight means a new day. You can’t take a bike on a bus or train unless it is in a bag. You can’t ride it unless it is outside the bag. In one case you have luggage and no wheels, in the other you have wheels and some luggage that is too big to carry. Hmmm.
Koya San – this is a temple retreat on a mountain about 3,000 feet up. Cycled 60 kms or so, tethered bike outside the station with a flotilla of Mary Poppins models (standard Japanese commuter bike with a thing on the handlebars for fixing an open umbrella for riding along when it is raining). My bike won’t get nicked I thought, as it has no umbrella accoutrement, it doesn’t even have mudguards. It is not high-bred but rather a hybrid. So I got to the temple late via a funicular. “Quick check in now, prayers are at 5.30,” said the monks. “That’ll be $136 for the night.” Prayers had better be uplifting I muttered. So, first we were shown how to sit in the lotus position. Fearing the worst I grabbed a cushion in the back row, practically shoving an old lady out of the way as you do in musical chairs. Can’t keel over backwards if you are in the front row I thought. Prayers were spectacularly hopeless. The monk sat in silence facing the altar whilst we sat in lotus position for 30 minutes trying to emulate his mind’s state of empty worldlessness. My mind had things in it like, “Ooh my leg/back/arm hurts.” “I hope he doesn’t turn round” (as I was craftily leaning back on my hands). “Bloody, hell, get on with it.” That sort of thing. I didn’t feel that I was advancing steadily upon Nirvana. I did think, rather irreverently, “I wonder what the sound of one hand slow-hand-clapping is like?”
And on to tea. I hate tofu, I prefer food. So when they announced that tea was 14 different ways or preparing tofu, I was sorely tempted to pipe up with, “Yes, and they are all shite!” I was turning into a naughty boy at the back of the class. My meal became ‘14 horrible things to put in your mouth – some with horrible flavours, some with horrible textures, but all horrible’. As the monks watched I feigned delight with some improvised lip and eyebrow work. Dash, I wish I had smuggled a Mars Bar in. It was rather a long evening in my cold room with only the rumble of my stomach to vibrate the rice-paper walls. It was too cold to scuff down the corridors in my monk-slippers to the communal washrooms too, so I had to piss in the sink. Heavenly.
Morning prayers were at 6 and I had been awake since forever. But when I tried to stand up to go for another satisfying slash I felt dizzy, nauseous and faint. What was it – altitude, blood-sugar, a new mental state? I decided there and then that my dalliance with Zen could wait for another time. Such as a book-beer-sofa combination. Cheerily I checked myself out pronto, forsaking prayers and tofu and was happy to wait at the bus stop, breath visible in the sharp 5 degrees air. “I can pick up a Mac-breakfast at that place near the station. I wonder if they have got maple syrup?”
Next stop Kyoto
And on to tea. I hate tofu, I prefer food. So when they announced that tea was 14 different ways or preparing tofu, I was sorely tempted to pipe up with, “Yes, and they are all shite!” I was turning into a naughty boy at the back of the class. My meal became ‘14 horrible things to put in your mouth – some with horrible flavours, some with horrible textures, but all horrible’. As the monks watched I feigned delight with some improvised lip and eyebrow work. Dash, I wish I had smuggled a Mars Bar in. It was rather a long evening in my cold room with only the rumble of my stomach to vibrate the rice-paper walls. It was too cold to scuff down the corridors in my monk-slippers to the communal washrooms too, so I had to piss in the sink. Heavenly.
Morning prayers were at 6 and I had been awake since forever. But when I tried to stand up to go for another satisfying slash I felt dizzy, nauseous and faint. What was it – altitude, blood-sugar, a new mental state? I decided there and then that my dalliance with Zen could wait for another time. Such as a book-beer-sofa combination. Cheerily I checked myself out pronto, forsaking prayers and tofu and was happy to wait at the bus stop, breath visible in the sharp 5 degrees air. “I can pick up a Mac-breakfast at that place near the station. I wonder if they have got maple syrup?”
Next stop Kyoto