Nagano to Gifu, Edo Style

"For one?"

The matronly ticket lady looked at me with interest. I nodded, smiling apologetically for my lack of companion. As much as I love to travel solo, I have not gotten used to the occasional bout of loneliness. At that moment, I wished I had some company, for it was going to be quite a walk.

"There you go. Please take care!"

The lady handed me my ticket and a map, looking slightly concerned. It was a slow day at the valley, and there weren't more than a handful visitors going on the trail beyond the first village. She was probably worried that I might get lost, and thus shouted after me to keep going on my left.

I started off a little disconcerted, as I was expecting more tourists at this Tsumago end of the trail, since it was so accessible -- just barely a minute from the JR Nagiso station. I've read that the Kiso Valley is a very popular tourist destination in this part of Japan, and the lack of visitors seemed most strange.

Five minutes down the path, I still did not see anyone else within sight. Not that I minded, of course, I was just worried that I was going the wrong way. Fortunately, the trail was well marked by signs, and after ten minutes, I forgot about navigating. Instead of looking out for directions, I was soon absorbed by the changing scenery at every turn of the trail. The idyllic forest and smattering of traditional houses, combined with the calls of birds and insects made it more than just picturesque. I didn't have the foresight of bringing my own water (I really thought they put vending machines everywhere and anywhere in Japan), and almost wanted to take a sip from the refreshing streams of water running alongside the pavement, where bunches of lovely wild flowers danced in the sun's reflection.

The valley had the kind of tranquil beauty that could move a grown man to tears, although I most certainly did not weep that day. I was too busy for that. As an avid photographer, I was stopping after every other step to take pictures. Pictures of flowers, birds, trees, butterflies, manicured gardens, rice fields, graveyards, stone Buddhas... It was indeed a very fruitful morning, and more importantly, I was walking on the famed Nakasendou!

The Nakasendou is the name of one of the two Edo period routes that connects Kyoto to Edo (present day Tokyo), and one of the five official routes for the Tokugawa shogunate. Cutting across the central mountains, it spans 544km with a total of 69 stations. Today, a few stretches of the original route remains, including this 8km trail between the post towns of Tsumago in Nagano Prefecture, to Magome in Gifu Prefecture, which has been painstakingly restored and preserved. As such, the architecture style of the houses along this trail remains mostly unchanged, and walking down the restored paving evoked nostalgia even to an outsider like me. I could almost imagine samurais hurrying by as I strolled along this historic path.

Come to think of it, I came close to being history there and then, together with those aristocratic warriors, when I nearly stepped on a snake! I was ambling along the wooded trail, and boy, am I glad to have looked up the slope ahead of me! It was approximately 6 ft long, lying straight across the road. It must have felt my footsteps, for it had its head up high when I approached, ready to attack. I did not scream, only because I was instantly devoid of breathe. My legs seemed to take on a mind of their own and managed to scramble backward until it was far enough for the snake to understand that I wasn't keen on intruding. In fact, the thought of turning back to avoid the path of a sunbathing serpent did crossed my mind, but I soon decided that it was too wimpy a choice for someone in the origin of kamikazi. I mustered all the courage I could possibly have to stand still for a good minute before the snake slithered off the pavement and into the bushes. Very much later, I continued on my hike, quickly.

The episode with the snake shook me up a little, especially when there seemed to be no one else in the vicinity who could possibly come to my rescue if I did get bitten by it. I never felt worse about traveling alone. In a desperate bid to keep calm, I started a funny conversation with myself, taking longer and faster strides as I rambled on, and finally saw the first person in the valley, across the rice fields. It was an elderly local resident in yellow rubber boots and a big floppy cloth hat who seemed to be in a great hurry. Either that, or she must have seen me talking to myself and thought I was a madwoman, for she sped into her cottage before I could smile and say hi. I bowed to the koi in her fish pond anyway.

Finally, after passing some of the most beautiful rural homes I've seen in Japan, I entered the Tsumago post town. Yes, it was just the beginning, but I wasn't in a hurry to walk to Magome, my feet were tired and I need something to drink quite badly. I hesitated outside an old, pretty teahouse, wondering if they specialize in strange food like horse sashimi, a regional delicacy that I wasn't too keen to embrace, yet. Most of all, I wondered if they serve soft drinks. I was really, really thirsty.

After walking up and down the charming cobbered main street and not finding any better bets, I decided to take a risk at the teahouse I had came upon earlier. A friendly staff led me to a table by a pretty Japanese garden, I almost gave a loud whoop when I saw the wide open view of it from my seat. The ambiance was amazing -- imagine a dining area on tatami, with low, aged tables and cushions dyed in traditional indigo. The only illumination was the soft sunlight peeking through the row of pine trees lining the garden. Sounds of chopsticks against rice bowls reverberated in the light breeze like a wind chime tinkling softly.

Of course, a major source of happiness for me was that they had Kirin orange soft drink! I ordered the local specialty, goheimochi, a skewered and grilled rice cake smeared with a sweet miso paste. It was excellent, much to my surprise, as I was never a big fan of mochi. The lone ojisan sitting at the next table had a huge bento set, which looked really... erm... huge, I was quite glad I didn't order one of those, or I'll be there all day. As I was paying at the counter, I read from one of the signs that the teahouse had been in business since Edo times, and warriors actually frequented it! This information really made my day, for I had walked, and now dined, in true samurai fashion. I left feeling immensely smug.

Back on the street, I took in Tsumago with renewed enthusiasm. It is a wonderful little town with quaint teahouses, traditional inns and omiyage shops that are usually packed with tourists who arrive by the busloads. I mingled among them, happy to eavesdrop on a tour guide's commentary at the post office museum. An ice cream, countless photos and some sightseeing later, I proceeded on the next stage of my Nakasendou hike. I headed out of Tsumago feeling energetic, happy to note that there were a few other people on the same trail this time. However, I was soon left behind by them, despite valiant attempts to keep up. Till now, I really wonder if they were ninjas.

It was amazing how different the touristy main street was from the trail further down. I seemed to have left the rest of the world behind, it was just me alone, again. This part of the trail was just as attractive as the one just preceding Tsumago town, but it required much more effort as there were some steep slopes involved. I slowed down to a crawl after twenty minutes, and raindrops began to fall. Dang, I had no rain gear!

It must be due to my good karma that I had just crossed a motorway and was halfway up the steps when it rained. I couldn't possibly walk any further in the rain and it was getting dark too, so I ran back down to the road and voila, a bus stop sign! I didn't have to wait long in the rain before the bus plying between Tsumago and Magome arrived. Acknowledging how ridiculously lucky I was, I made a mental note to buy some sort of lottery when I get back to the city, and drifted to sleep on the cushy, air conditioned bus.

When I peeled my eyes open after what seemed like a long time, I was in Magome. It looked bigger and more touristy than Tsumago, but I didn't quite have time to sight see. It was getting late, and I really didn't want to continue on the trail to the JR Nakatsugawa station and risk getting lost in the woods in the dark. The only option for me is to catch the last bus to the train station, which was scheduled to depart in less than thirty minutes' time. I was pretty disappointed for not being able to take more photographs of the Nakasendou, but I managed to console myself by browsing the omiyage shop just opposite the bus stop and spending some yen on two packets of traditional chestnut cakes. Shopping does heal, and I was soon over the fact that I did not complete my hike.

By the time I got on the bus, then the train, and arrived back in Gifu, it was past dinner time and everything reverted back to normal. There was no death threatening reptile, no post office from the past, no obasan and her koi pond, no delicious goheimochi on a stick, much less sword wielding samurais. Why, I couldn't even find that Kirin orange soft drink in any of the convenience stores! It was as if I had just returned from a visit to the past... Or was I simply dreaming?

Maybe. The Kiso Valley is such a beautiful place, it can't be real.

Unadulterated Bathing

Strip. Scrub. Soak.

Aahhh... I'm finally back in home base. While I can't say that I have accustomed myself to all things Japanese, one practice I've taken like fish to water is, literally, Japanese-style bath water -- still, steaming and stylishly zen.

Looking back, I was quite abruptly introduced to the wafu way of self-cleansing twelve years ago, when I joined the Yoshimuras-and-friends on a camping trip to Fukui. We drank, made merry and hardly slept. On the next morning, everyone agreed that a bath was the next sensible thing to do. Before I could protest that I just had my morning shower, I was whisked off to a nearby sento, shoved the standard two towels, one large and one small, and told to undress in a room with two dozen other stark-naked women. I felt strangely dizzy.

Putting on a brave front, I knew I had to do what the nihonjin do and recovered quickly to to strip myself into my birthday suit, not daring to stray my eyes all the while Keiko and her mom peeled off their layers. For the record, I had never bathed with my own mother before this, let alone someone else's. With steam floating around my giddy head, I was initiated into the surreal world of Japanese mass bathing.

For the uninitiated, communal bathing in Japan involves taking off your shoes at the entrance, stowing them on shoe racks or shoe lockers and changing into slippers. Then, you enter the correct changing room for your gender (look out for blue curtains for male and red for female), you undress and put your clothes into individual baskets or lockers. Towels are usually provided and are either found in these baskets or given to you earlier at the reception. However, some establishments expect you to bring your own or you can buy a small one cheaply from them. Once you're stripped to nudity, grab the smaller towel and head for the shower area (usually separated by a glass door).

Now, at this point, if you are expecting to see shower cubicles, you are in for a shock. What awaits ahead is a long row (or more, depending on the scale of establishment) of mirrors, taps, removable shower heads, toiletries, plastic basins and stools, on which women (I suppose the same goes for men on the other side) of varying shapes and sizes are busy engaging in head to toe scrubbing, scrubbing and more scrubbing. The idea is not to fix your gaze on anyone (it's rude to stare, as in most other cultures) but go about cleansing yourself in a matter-of-factly manner.

Quickly, find an empty stool, sit down, and start soaping and shampooing. Next, fill the basin with water, wet the small towel and scrub every part of your body with the towel. Some ladies bring their own little bathing kit that includes scrub pads, razors, brushes and whatever they may need for a bath. There's no right or wrong procedure here, just take your time and wash yourself like how you'd do it back home. The only thing to make sure is that you clean yourself thoroughly before stepping into the pool, as it is very, very inappropriate (not to mention unhygienic) to share the bath with others otherwise.

Once you are squeaky clean, you may step into the oyu, or hot bath water. Note that long hair should be tied up or wrapped with the small towel so that stray hair will not find its way into the water. If you are shy, feel free to use the small towel to cover up a little (frankly, there's not much you can hide with a towel that tiny), but never put the towel into the bath! The Japanese will feel offended by such inconsiderate behavior. Remember, that towel just scrubbed every single inch of your body.

If you're in a regular, no-nonsense sento, or public bathhouse, there will probably be just one pool for everyone. Enjoy the hot soak for no longer than 15-20 minutes (less if you are a first-timer), and rinse in cold water before going back in the bath. The hot-cold-hot cycle aids blood circulation and I heard it's better to end with a cold shower. Again, there is no rule to the number of times you go into the bath, the point is to enjoy and relax yourself fully after a hard day's work (or travel).

However, if you are in one of those more touristy hot spring bathhouses, usually in famous onsen towns, expect multiple pools containing different combinations of minerals or herbs, each touting to relieve a different ailment, which is why onsen-visiting is a popular recreation among seniors. Most of these upmarket establishments have outdoor pools with pretty Japanese-style gardens or rock features. Some have great mountain, sea or city views, and some are open round the clock for those who want to combine a hot spring bath with sunrise viewing. I had personally tried a few outdoor baths on snowy winter nights, and I must say that the combination of snow flakes falling on your head, semi-frozen cheeks and a hot, almost scalding, body is one of the most wonderful things that can happen to anyone.

I remember one time in Tokyo, I stayed in a dorm-style hotel that didn't come en suite, and had to take my bath at a specific time in the common bathroom downstairs (it was same bath but different time slots for men and women). Believe it or not, after I checked out one week later, I actually felt lonely bathing by myself. Somehow, it had become a cleansing ritual performed with strangers; there was an unspoken camaraderie among all who shared that same pool of water.

As you can see, I am totally sold on this bathing-together business. And it's not just out in the public; the Japanese people bathe in a similar manner at home, with stools and mirrors for careful scrubbing, and a common bathtub of hot water for the whole family. From the way I see it, it's an art that embodies attitude. The Japanese take pride in their bodies, like how they take pride in everything else.

Why so serious?

Why not.