There’s no Monkeys like Snow Monkeys

Our breakfast this morning is Japanese: W was wanting to try it out in Tokyo, but I figured we would experience it soon enough, and stuck to croissants and coffee there. Here is a different story – we are in a Ryokan, surrounded by people in Kimonos, and as they say: “When in Rome”… I stop short at wearing my hotel-provided kimono to breakfast. And outside for that matter, because unless I am dashing from one hot tub to the next, sipping hot sake in between, I am likely to freeze off some vital part of my anatomy.

Anyway, back to breakfast. We are ushered into our own tatami-screened room, where a series of porcelain dishes are arrayed elegantly on the table with various items in each. Thank goodness it’s a regular height table with chairs, because I’m not sure my knees would last through the meal.

I recognise a piece of salmon, miso soup, and the rest is a taste mystery. Rice is served, and it occurs to me that it’s like bread here – we have toast for breakfast, they have rice. Green tea is also served, which makes me yearn for coffee. (I manage to get some for the next breakfast – hooray). Well, we certainly got a culinary experience.

We’ve booked our hotel minivan for 10 am to the Snow Monkey Park. We will need to catch a public bus back from there.

Off we trot rugged up in our cold weather gear with sensible shoes. Good thing too – we saw some very un-sensible shoes on a Japanese couple; she in ballet shoes with no grip, wet stockings emerging above the shoes, and him in a very trendy pair of brown leather leather shoes that are looking much the worse for the wet snow and salt.  A short walk up a hill is a cafe that sells COFFEE! Must stop for that. They also serve fries with ketchup, in case I get the urge to diverge from rice.

A 1.6 km walk further along the trail takes us to the entrance to the park. The trail is relatively flat for the most part with only a couple of steep bits. The snow is mostly gone from the path, though in places there is still a residue of slush or ice, so one has to be careful of the footing. Where the snow is gone, it’s muddy and wet, and soon enough W has mud splatter up one side of his jeans where it’s flipped up from the back of his shoe: a bit like the mud trails one finds on bicyclists who don’t have a rear mudguard. Funny it’s only on one side….

A dear friend did this walk in the middle of winter a few years ago – I don’t want to imagine what it would be like trudging through a meter of snow on the ground. But right now it’s easy, and we have a relatively sunny day for it. At the trail head they rent crampons, a clever gadget to be strapped over your shoes with spikes so you don’t slip, we didn’t avail ourselves of those, but managed to avoid going a over t. At the end of the trail is the ticket office – we are admonished not to touch, feed or otherwise aggravate the monkeys. On the other side of the entrance, we emerge into a small valley, the centre-point of which is a large hot spring.

There are monkeys everywhere – in the spring as well as on the snowy slopes surrounding us. They are happily going about their business, completely ignoring their tall cousins – a couple of young ones play-fighting on the bridge we cross. They run between our legs and around us within touching distance. It’s a surprise that one of us isn’t used as “Uncle” when the little ones are chasing each other – I wonder if any of their cousins have ever acted as a post to climb to safety. The urge to pet them is strong – their long fur looks so soft and enticing. But they also have very long canine teeth, and we want them to feel safe. There is much scolding and carrying on, as one or another decides they want to occupy a particular space.

One in particular has caught my eye; she is sitting up to her elbows in the water, holding her feet, in a pose that looks particularly Zen. After a while an infant runs along the edge and takes a flying leap to get to her, they cuddle for a while and then little one takes off and climbs back out, dripping water from its long fur. Reminds me a bit of afghan hounds – all fluffy and big until they get wet and then they look skinny and bedraggled. How they don’t emulate the proverbial brass monkeys, I have no idea…

One of the guys working here is moving around with a bucket, throwing food onto the snow. Suddenly all the monkeys have left the water and busily help themselves fastidiously picking the pellets out of the snow with both hands and stuffing it in their mouths.

When W has had enough (I could stay for ever), we head back down: in the small entry building, there is a monkey pelt which we are encouraged to stroke – it really does feel fine and soft. I want one – monkey that is, not pelt.

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Sake and Karaoke

We are in luck, the day dawns bright and sunny, and dear hubby stumbles downstairs to get me a morning coffee from the cafe in the lobby. Considerably refreshed and no sign of the wobbles, we set off into the jungle of Tokyo; a jungle of neon, shopping, trains, restaurants and bewilderment. Having picked up a map of Shinjuku, we brave the elements and wander about quite clueless. I just can’t get my head around the geography – every direction I turn my head is another department store, complete with neon. The main roads are wide and bounded by skyscrapers – think Sydney CBD on steroids. And this is only ONE of the precincts of Tokyo.

Pedestrian crossings at intersections are wide and the green light lasts long enough for even a snail to get across. I realise why when I see the crowd trying to cross the road later on – truly it’s one of the great migration stories, worthy of Attenborough. A gazillion people all trying to cross a major intersection, about half of them looking at a mobile device rather than where they are going – gobsmacking. Makes a mockery of my phobia of Sydney’s crowds – take that number and times 1,000 and you have some idea. Well, population Tokyo is 13 million.

Just off the main drag with the highrise boutiques, is a maze of small alleyways with equally small houses. Every third one boasts a restaurant complete with either garish photos or shiny plastic replicas of the dishes in the more up market ones. Fortunate, since I wouldn’t know what I was ordering otherwise. Lucky for me, most of the places have an English translation of the menu, so I am safe ordering and not at risk of eating insects or smething equally unspeakable.

By accident we take a turn down a winding narrow path flanked by trees on either side, and stumble across a large Shinto shrine. Just when you are at risk of being overwhelmed by consumerism, the Japanese seem to be able to create these little oases of sanity. There are several people who come to pray; the ritual consists of rattling a rope, clapping a couple of times, and then bowing to the shrine. The trees around the shrine are just starting to bloom – portends well for cherry blossoms on the way back.

 

 

On the way back we’re looking for local food and find a nice little restaurant serving a selection of tempura – must be good – there’s lots of Japanese people eating here! Ha ha, Andrea.

We wander on back to the sanctuary of the hotel for a bit of a lie-down – visually and physically overwhelmed after pounding the pavements for hours.

Right – off again; this time to visit the Tokyo Government buildings, on the 45^th floor of which they have a lookout across the city. What’s more, it is entirely free! The view lives up to it – but OMG, how BIG is Tokyo. It reminds me a little of the view from Sears Tower in Chicago – the entire city spreads out as far as the eye can see, peppered liberally with skyscrapers. One of the indications of just how complex this mega-city is, is the metro system: I don’t think I’ve ever come across such a vast network of lines. I think I’d need a degree in quantum physics to untangle the lines.

The brown bit that looks like the ‘blob’ overtaking part of the city is in fact one of the many huge parks that are spread throughout the city. Currently brown because it’s still the end of winter, rather than the fact it’s some nasty disease state.

After that we wander the streets again at night; everything lit up, and Tokyites out in force. We stumble across a tiny bar just wide enough for two people side-to-side and drink sake from a small square container while those around us sing karaoke. Great fun. We continue on until the lights hurt my eyes, and then repair back to our Inn.   

Business Class, Jetstar Style

I must confess, I should’a known….

For such a cheap seat price, my expectations were pitched too high, and definitely wider than the seat pitch… We did get a pre-take-off drink. We did get metal cutlery. We did get a little bag with four goodies in it, and there were (mostly) noise cancelling earphones. So on the whole I should not complain – what is it they say about gift horses; that’s right we paid for this one.

The seat was marginally wider than in economy, the seat in front not squished into my knees, and I managed to recline to about 45 degrees, as opposed to 30. But it was not the wide plush that I was expecting – and this is Jetstar…

But we arrived safe and secure in Narita, transiting from a temperature of 22 degrees with sunshine to 12 with rain. Brrr. The first thing I did when I retrieved my bag was to pull out my waterproof Kathmandu jacket with warm lining. Now I’m good.

Unlike the airports at home, when we have to make our way across the tarmac from the plane we are exposed to the elements: here we have a stair with cover, and a walkway that concertinas out across the pavement with its own rain cover. Terribly clever, and I have no concerns about arriving in the terminal dripping and cold.

We manage to navigate our way easily enough to the Narita Express train – N’EX to its friends, and only have a 30 minute wait until our carriage arrives. The 60k trip takes a little over an hour to deposit us in Shinjuku on the west side of Tokyo.

As is usual during my initial exposure to the Northern hemisphere, my sense of direction deserts me. No sun to orient, and I can’t even use the stars, since it’s overcast. In addition, the whole place is bedecked with signs, mostly in Japanese, and our map is not terrifically helpful. So off we set through the crowd, heading in what I think is the right direction. After a short walk, I consider it might be good to check, (that’s a turn up for the books – Andrea asks directions) google maps tells me where to go, but it’s still confusing so we ask a taxi driver, who is also clueless – or maybe he can’t be bothered with a 7 minute taxi fare.

As we are standing on the pavement in the wet, a young man asks us where we need to go, so I share google with him, and he says he knows exactly where to go, and he’ll guide us. Off we trot, burdened with our luggage like beasts, and trundle our way through the streets – sure enough it’s not too far away, though by this time my cheeks are feeling decidedly cool. Our young friend is a surfer, and he’s off to Hawaii for a surfing trip this year – he thinks the surf there is better than in our fair country. He’s probably right, and Hawaii is the home of surfing after all! I’m still a bit miffed, but not being a surfer myself, I cannot refute his claims, and I wouldn’t know Bells Beach from any other bunch of waves.

Once he deposits us outside our Inn, he wanders off into the neon-lit dark to go to his home, and we gratefully enter into the warm world of our hotel.

Our room is scarcely big enough for the proverbial cat swinging, and I need to rearrange some furniture in order to make space for our bags. W wants to eat something, but I am wonky from the flight and the thought of being horizontal again is too much for me, so all I do is brave the loo before collapsing into a comfortable bed. The tech-toilet is too much – heated seat and requires a PhD in something to decypher the gadgets: front or back spray, deodoriser, probably a dryer to avoid loo paper? I don’t even realise it has a normal flush until the next morning. Don’t worry – it was clean when I left it.

The sink in the bathroom is about half height – I swear they are expecting height challenged guests: Werner quips that he could shave his navel but not his face with the mirror located at this altitude.

But the beds are comfortable and warm, so before long I am off in the land of nod.

The Garden Route

Having swapped the four wheel drive and sent our friends off to their return plane, we take a little Honda Jazz and drive off south west towards Cape Town.

The dark clouds are rolling towards us, and the fat drops of rain soon settle into an intermittent but insistent drizzle. I am not too disturbed, though my camera doesn’t get much action because of the grey, gloomy light. If it has to rain, best be when we are driving from A to B, not while we are sightseeing.

Before long we have come into the Western Cape, and hit the Garden Route as it’s called here.

The drive to our first stop at Plettenberg Bay is through mountainous and verdant country. Our first rest break is at Jeffreys Bay, a relatively short drive from PE. Rain and driving have taken their toll on W, so we pull in and look for a nice place for a refresher. The rain is lashing down, and we manage to enter a cafe relatively dry and settle by the window for some lunch. Sweet little place, delicious food, and it’s a joy to be indoors staring at the rain, on my window pane…

Our next stop is the Bloukrans Bridge spanning the dramatic gorge created by the Bloukrans River. We pull into the layby, have a liquid rebalance,

and I duck out into the fat rain drops and try to take some shots. Moody. They obviously love their bridge, because they have a whole wall full of bridge photos – London, Golden Gate – what??

Where’s Sydney Harbour?

 

On our way, I persuade W to take a couple of long cuts to see what’s there, and a circular route takes us down to Nature’s Valley; the weather isn’t conducive to stopping for a good look, but it is enough to see how spectacular the geography here is, and a bit of the humour of the locals.

We pass through Tsitsikamma, where there is a vast range of things to do; game parks, a monkey park, a bird park, zip-lining through the forests, a forestry adventure, and that’s only the inland tours.  Conscious of the tiring nature of driving, I don’t suggest that we stop everywhere, but content myself with watching the scenery zipping by.