Kabukicho

On our final full day in Tokyo I rose extra-early to attend the pre-paid, optional activity entitled 'Sumo Experience'. This apparently hadn't been a popular choice as only myself and one of the couples, (I want to say Christina and Martin?) had signed up for it.

I'd intended to purchase breakfast the previous night before going to bed but, as I've often held as irrefutable fact, its impossible for a person to know what they're going to want for breakfast until the time comes. This is why I have five different breakfast cereals on-the-go at any one time and still more often than not choose to grab something out and about where there's range and choice. For too long Overlord Kellogg has controlled and constrained our fundamental breakfast freedoms ; Rise up! Revolt! Or buy variety packs.

I wandered down to the ever-open Family Mart and picked up a chocolate croissant and a large coffee. Contrary to expectation, instead of sugary cream the croissant actually had a strip of solidified chocolate running through its centre, making it taste more like a mis-shaped pain au chocolat than a standard filled croissant. I preferred this to such a degree that it was worthy of mention in this blog, which is an inarguably high bar. I noticed I was inadvertently wearing two socks from different pairs, so went back to my room to correct the situation before we headed out.

Yukko led and directed us via the train network to the Sumida City ward of Tokyo then abandoned us to get back to the hostel in time for the rest of the group to wake-up. Martin, if his name was Martin, and I bonded briefly by discussing our shared affinity for the Zelda series whilst Christina, if her name was Christina (or even, thinking about it, if it wasn't), endeared herself to me by permitting this conversation to proceed. I feel somewhat bad I'm not 100% on their names, but whilst they were technically in our group they opted to spend much of their time following their own itinerary, so our subsequent interaction was minimal. They seemed nice, if demonstrably forgettable, and I deeply hope I made a similar impression.

We were soon collected by the Sumo Experience organiser, who led us through some of the nearby backstreets to a 'sumo stable'. These are places where sumo wrestlers train and, most of them anyway, live. Apparently, as we were told via brief lecture/Q&A prior to entering, only around 10% of sumo wrestlers are sufficiently successful to be actually paid for what they do, with the rest receiving only room and board as recompense until they can reach the lofty salaried echelons. Sumos wearing black-belts are the unpaid, 'junior' types whilst those in white-belts receive payment and the privilege of being permitted to live elsewhere should they so choose. Every morning they train for five hours before eating lunch for a full two-hours. I was content we were here to witness a portion of the former as the latter, and the requisite 'portions' it must entail, I expect might have turned my stomach.

After taking off our shoes at the door, a mildly annoying custom prevalent across Japan that must really extend the product life-cycle of flooring and consequently frustrate interior fittings retailers seeking to maximise recurrent consumer spend, we were funnelled into what I'll call the 'training room'; a rectangular space with wood-paneled walls and a dirt-floor furnished with some benches/cushions on the near side for us to sit on.

The sumos wrestlers were already training and didn't skip a beat as our prying eyes entered. There were around ten of them in the room, sharing around forty chins between them, and we had an excellent, unobstructed view of their morning training regimen. We were close enough to smell the sweat, so I opted to breath through my mouth. On the ground beneath the dirt were two white lines and sketched into it was a circle surrounding them, representing the starting points and arena boundary for their practice bouts. Only two fought at a time, with the others observing, stretching and quietly chatting amongst themselves, occasionally punctuating whatever their point was with a friendly slap of each others' ample body fat.

After observing numerous bouts, dramatic rolls and lunges (putting on my best fighting game announcer voice) "a new challenger entered the arena". Though not really a 'challenger' per se, as this guy wore a white belt and so was likely rolling in a little late from wherever he lived independently. As the largest and sweatiest (before he'd even begun) of the bunch, perhaps rolling in would in fact be a preferred locomotive option for him, so as to mitigate what must be massive strain on his disproportionately stubby legs and fat-rippled back.

At one end of the room sat a man in a portable chair reading a newspaper. Less overweight than the Sumos, and far less sweaty, it transpired that this guy was the sumo trainer and so present to guide, instruct, develop his squad and clearly, given his reading material, catch-up on current events and possibly have a crack at the daily crossword. Do crosswords work in Japanese? Given their logographic approach to written language I'd imagine they'd be fairly complex to both design and complete. Especially if they go with cryptic clues.

Cryptic crosswords are dumb. I'm not ; I've got certificates to prove it, but I cannot comprehend how anybody derives enjoyment from 'solving' a cryptic clue. Relying upon reading then essentially 'un-reading' a clue to distort it's meaning and arrangement to identify and extract the 'deviously' concealed anagrams, homonyms, homophones, homographs and then filtering the remaining lexical wreckage through a strainer of common phrases, idioms and quotations to return a result that, even if quite logically obtained and fitting the designated space, has a strong likelihood of being 'wrong'. Getting good isn't fun and the learned skill has nil transferable value. Trial and error isn't challenge, it's grind, with the exercise ultimately devolving into 'what was the crossword-setter thinking?' ; a telepathic feat you'll need to consistently replicate twenty-or-so times to evade mistake. And let's not forget that mistakes on a crossword require either a firm rubbing-out if you had the foresight to use pencil or the application of liquid paper should you have had the foolhardy confidence to attempt with pen. Crosswords suck and I sincerely hope the Japanese aren't subjected to them.

After leaving the Sumo stable we went to meet up with the rest of the group at the Edo Tokyo museum down the street. The building in which the museum is housed is fairly impressive ; elevated above a congregation space and accessed via escalators. Primarily concerned with the history of Tokyo through the Edo period, a circa-250 year period of peace, development and shogunate administration, perusing the exhibitions felt like the most educational and sincerely tourist-y thing we'd done so far. I learnt that 'Tokyo' and 'Kyoto' are essentially the same word, only rearranged. How cryptic...

To satisfy the curiosity of my tour group I at one point climbed into a reproduction 'litter' ; one of those vehicular capsules that would be carried by underlings to transport persons of royalty or other high social standing. The enquiry was whether I, as the tallest of the group, would be able to fit. I did. Anticlimactic I agree, but I don't seem to have many pictures from this day so will likely include this one and therefore needed to define the context.

Once we'd had our fill of history, Yukko lead us through the nearby streets to a restaurant where we'd be indulging in a meal not dissimilar to, aside from portion size, what Sumo wrestlers eat called Chanko Nabe. Essentially a 'hot pot' containing meat and veg, again being cooked (or at least kept warm) via cooking apparatus fixed into the table, it was reasonably tasty without being mind-blowing. There were no seats with the intention being that we sit cross-legged on the floor, something that I, as somebody who has skipped their weekly yoga class so consistently that you could argue I never signed up for one, find rather painful. Honestly, how the Japanese can extrapolate the technology of a lavatory chair to unnecessarily complex degrees whilst seemingly un-inventing the dining chair is beyond me... But I was sat with Veronika so, conscious that my British penchant for complaining might be misinterpreted as a personality trait, I kept my moaning to a minimum.

Particular attention was drawn to some jellified balls that were floating around in the pot, with us being invited to try them and attempt to guess at what they were. There were two variants, white-ish and black-ish, but they both tasted of very little; the novelty being purely the texture, which was admittedly quite odd. Rubbery and gelatinous, we would have never guessed what they were so consequently didn't. It transpired thst they were Konnuyaku, a substance derived from the corm of a Konjac plant. So that's that cleared up then.

We next had some general free time in the local district, the name of which I didn't record. Regardless, myself and a few others decided to stick with Yukko and she obliged in taking us on a brief tour. Much of the area was residential, but we wandered down to the bank of the Sumida river and absorbed Tokyo from a fresh angle. There were a few men there, fully dressed in business attire, seemingly fast asleep on both the benches and the various rocky/grassy outcrops. In a city with a vigorous corporate culture and long working hours, some people are apparently accustomed to grabbing a little shut-eye whenever and wherever they can. None of them looked particularly comfortable however ; definitely an untapped market here for portable, sartorial neck-pillows.

Returning to the station, Yukko and I decided to stage a mock Sumo battle; to show those that didn't visit the stable what they had missed out on. Mid-grapple, I'm told an actual proper Sumo-wrestler wandered past and chuckled at our amateurish attempts. It's condescending attitudes toward plucky up-starts such as this that ensures the elite/trainee divide and 90%-unremunerated status quo will remain unchallenged.

Our next, and final non-optional, stop of the day was Tokyo's Samurai Museum, located a short 5 minute walk from the hostel. An exhibition space detailing the history of, shockingly, the samauri concluded in a live demonstration from a not-samurai (as they no-longer exist) apparently trained in their combat methods. It was fun, though in a post Kill Bill world I expect a little more blood for my buck. The trivia the demonstrator was most keen to share was that George Lucas had been inspired by samurai technique when scribing the lightsabre culture in Star Wars. Of course, if you know and care about Star Wars you knew this fact already and if you don't you wouldn't be that much impressed anyway and instantly forget it. Much like how George Lucas forgot all about this thematic stimulus come Phantom Menace.

We also got the opportunity to dress-up in some samurai gear, which some people saw as tacky/childish/uncouth but some of us considered tacky/childish/uncouth and also possibly fun. Ruth and I dressed as combating warriors and staged a faux-fight with our faux-weapons and it was indeed faux-fun.

In the evening a selection of us attended the optional activity of the 'Robot Show'. Held in a multi-storey venue in the heart of Shinjuku, it had no robots and was barely a restaurant but was a diverting slice of tourism-focussed entertainment clearly designed to deliver on the stereotypical perception of Japanese craziness. It's genuinely hard describe what it was/is and will likely continue to be, but I'll try.

Upon arrival you climb the steps to the top-floor for a sort-of 'reception', where they try to sell you over-priced beer to enhance your appreciation of the live entertainment; a genuinely competent singer supported by a band dressed in cheap Halloween-standard robot costumes. Everything is grey and shiny in that way people thought the future was going to be back in the 1970s.

After a bit, you're told to take your seats for the show so go back down the steps, deeper than where you began, to what I'll describe as the 'arena'. Sat in rows on either side of a rectangular space you're again invited to buy over-priced beer and do because by this point you're realising that whatever this is going to be it could only be enhanced by being tipsy.

The show starts. House lights dim. Then sound; heavy beats, chords, an instant cacophony of noise as brightly-lit, colourful, fast-moving parade floats enter from either side, loaded with scantily-clad people banging drums like their lives depend on it. These floats move and spin about for a bit before being intermittently joined/replaced by a procession of increasingly weird constructions, sometimes ridden sometimes sailing solo, sweeping and dancing across the staging zone.

There are four 'acts', but their distinctions are ambiguous. One seems to attempt a narrative, concluding a post-apocalyptic conflict with a mage-princess riding a dragon versus a battle-queen controlling a giant mecha-man (all because the good giant panda failed to best the evil animatronic serpent literally seconds earlier).

Eventually some people adorned with glow-sticks come out and dance to a Michael Jackson medley (I'm guessing Leaving Neverland hasn't been localised yet) and it ends. We notice now, house lights back on, there's barely a single Japanese person in the audience. This wasn't for them. This isn't them. This was for us; and we had it. So job done.Read more