Two young women enjoy an onsen. Not pictured: Jonathan Kingston. |
While in Nasu, Tochigi-ken back in April, I went to Shika no Yu, which I still declare to be the 'realest' onsen I've ever been to. It sat rather uncomfortably astride a river at the top of a valley. The air was full of that sulphurous smell that is the hallmark of famous onsen areas. The gents' side was made entirely of wood that had obviously been salvaged from Noah's Ark, and there was a distinct lack of jet-baths, body-showers, steam-saunas etc. There were just six small square wooden tubs in the floor and a trough of water with which to wash yourself down before and after.
I slipped blithely into the one containing the fewest other patrons, and emerged a minute later with what felt like at least second-degree burns to 80% of my body. Only then did I notice the little hand-painted signs with kanji numerals next each bath; they went from "41" to "48", and I was sitting next to "46".
I went back to 41 where I belonged, and gradually worked my way back to 46, but the whole time my eye was on the people in and around the '48' bath; an assortment of tanned oji-chan and wizened ojii-chan who would sit motionless in the milky water for 10 minutes at a time, emerging bright red and steaming all over to sit serenely on the floor and look on disdainfully as one curious "Club 48" wanna-be after another stepped gingerly into their bath only to jump straight out hissing "Attssui!!" I felt a growing realisation that I would never again be able to look myself in the mirror having wussed out on probably the only chance I would ever get to try a 48-degree bath.
I approached cautiously and asked the nearest Club 48 member (rather pointlessly), "Is it hot?" "Nah. In ya get." I did as I was told. I had some misgivings when I felt the skin on my butt start to blister, but I was already being shown the Method. "Yer in too deep. An' keep ya hands out - ya need 'em ta disperse the heat." He plonked down his egg-timer (they all had them) and said with a hint of a challenge, "Righto. Three minutes." I realised I was probably representing all gaijin in the eyes of Club 48, so there was much more than personal pride at stake.
I survived the first minute by telling myself over and over, "It's not as hot as I thought." I survived the second by concentrating on maintaining my "yes, it feels great, and no, my toenails don't even slightly feel like they're about to pop off one by one and float to the surface leaving little trails of blood" face, especially when I felt the eyes of the aforementioned wanna-bes on me. I survived the third minute by trying not to imagine myself served up on a suitably large plate with chips and a slice of lemon. And when the last few grains of sand slipped triumphantly through the little glass tube, I stayed in for a few more seconds just for good measure and then leisurely pulled myself out, bright red and steaming all over and sat serenely on the floor. It struck me that Club 48 was not unlike those guys in the Monty Python film who hit themselves over the head with planks of wood because "it feels good when you stop."
I eased myself to my feet, nodded silently to my new clubmates, and left.
