Around the World in 80 Trains

by Monisha Rajesh

  ‘You lot will do anything for a freebie.’

  ‘Don’t tar me with the same brush. Anyway, goodnight.’

  ‘NANDESHOUKA!’ came a voice from the table.

  ‘Oh, my god. That thing’s come on.’

  ‘NANDESHOUKA!’ Chu-ri-chan chirped again.

  ‘I thought you turned it off?’

  ‘There is no off button. It’s supposed to switch off on its own. Stop talking,’ I hissed. ‘It’s responding to the sound of your voice!’

  ‘You stop talking.’

  ‘NANDESHOUKA!’

  ‘I’m going to dropkick that thing off the balcony in a minute.’

  A spotlight went on above my head.

  ‘Did you just turn that light on?’ Jem asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why has it come on then?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Feeling around for the instructions, I squinted at the page and tried a number of commands to no avail. Giving up, I tossed them back onto the floor and yanked the duvet over my head to block out the spotlight in my eyes.

  ‘This is the worst hotel,’ Jem groaned into his pillow before we eventually drifted off to the sound of Chu-ri-chan chattering into the night.

  The Huis Ten Bosch Limited Express was an unremarkable service that cut through the countryside in a couple of hours, arriving in Hakata at lunchtime. With just over an hour to spare before our connection to Osaka, we now had an opportunity to browse the local ekiben. A hybrid of eki, meaning station, and bento, meaning packed lunch, ekiben are unique to each region of Japan, enabling vendors to showcase their specialities using local, seasonal ingredients – and to compete with rival stations. Sold through train windows by hawkers on the platform, the first ekiben are thought to have originated in 1885 at Utsunomiya station; a simple pair of onigiri rolled in sesame seeds and flavoured with pickles. As the train network threaded its way through the country, a niche cuisine had cropped up along its lines, inspiring a cult following.

  It’s not unusual for food obsessives to hop aboard the Shinkansen and travel around Japan on a quest for limited-edition ekiben that often become collectors’ items. Fitted into round, octagonal and rectangular bamboo boxes, partitioned Styrofoam or hermetically sealed cardboard, each creation is a work of art: mounds of green-tea rice are moulded into flowers, edamame peas arranged in lines, and grated radish scattered like snow. To buy ekiben is to treat yourself to a gift: wrapped in delicate paper and trimmed with bows, the boxes open up like Christmas presents, revealing whorls of noodles, dots of wasabi and slivers of eel liver. The dynamism behind Japanese train food certainly put British efforts to shame: what is a soggy Cornish pasty compared with these masterpieces, each one a miniature Kandinsky? Spoilt for choice by the variety of models on display, I walked back and forth inspecting the flashes of neon, curls of prawn and dumplings snuggled together, eventually selecting a lacquered box of beef on rice with a silky half-boiled egg. Drawn to the local speciality, Jem chose the karashi mentai bento – rice with tubes of sheathed spicy cod roe, and cubes of cold, brightly coloured pickles.

  Pleased with our purchases, we arrived on the platform twenty minutes before the Sakura Shinkansen was due. Our final destination was Kyoto, but the direct services from Hakata were not valid with our rail passes. In a cruel irony, the fastest Shinkansen, the Nozomi – meaning ‘hope’ – was not available to us, and we were relegated to the relatively slower train, which arrived an entire two minutes later. Part of the N700 series, the Sakura Shinkansen comprised six carriages, three reserved and three non-reserved. Marked out on the platform edge was a pair of blue feet indicating where the door would open, and where the queue should begin; and passengers had already formed a line, reading newspapers and tapping phones, with one lady squatting on a foldaway tripod seat, picking at a bento box. Counting them up, I was confident we’d get on. With just twelve minutes until departure, the Sakura Shinkansen slid up with the stealth of a creep at a bar, and a woman stepped out carrying a bin bag. She stood next to the door holding it open as passengers exited the train, and bowed as each one deposited their litter. So used to the carpet of crisps and cans of Carling on British trains, I couldn’t imagine anyone collecting their own rubbish, let alone being grateful for someone else’s.

  When the last passenger had disembarked, our line filed through the door, filling the rows one by one. No one broke rank and tried to bag a window seat, clamber across fellow passengers or hold up everyone by shoving bags overhead. They slipped into seats and swiped their phones in silence. It looked so easy, and yet I knew it would never work anywhere else in the world. Most people are simply too selfish to be sensible. From the window, I glanced up at the clock ten seconds before departure and watched the dial turn the moment the train set off. Beside us was a teenage girl with long auburn hair, wearing a pair of Beats by Dre. She scrolled through her music with her thumb, the nail of which was painted with a minuscule vase of red flowers. Humming to itself, the train leant into a corner and passengers opened up laptops and books, the homely, umami smell of cooked food filling the carriage. Unpacking our boxes, we poked at the seeds, sauces, nuggets, shreds, rice and pickles, as the girl pulled out a paper bag and bit into a Teriyaki McBurger, leaving pink lipstick on the bun.

  Jem, who had been staring out of the window, turned to me and whispered: ‘Is it weird that I’m secretly hoping there might be an earthquake while we’re here?’

  ‘Yes, it’s very weird.’

  ‘Do you not wonder what it would be like?’

  ‘No more than I’ve wondered what it’s like to die in a plane crash.’

  ‘I don’t mean a massive, swaying one, like those videos on YouTube where the filing cabinets fling out and the whole room looks like jelly, but a little one.’

  ‘I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation. We’re on one of the fastest trains in the world and you’re hoping for an earthquake that would probably kill us in an instant.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t.’ He held up a magazine article. ‘It says here that there’s a mechanism in place where tremors are detected almost instantly and then counter measures trigger automatic braking that can stop a train at 187 miles per hour within 300 metres. Isn’t that amazing?’

  It was amazing. And the trope that Japan was decades ahead of every other country was wrong. No one could ever emulate the way the Japanese designed, lived, ate or travelled. Everything was conceived with ingenuity and precision to make life easier and more enjoyable for everyone. Not only did public toilets have heated seats, they had buttons that played music or white noise for added privacy, and baby harnesses on the backs of doors so mothers could use the loo in peace. Packets of chopsticks contained toothpicks, taxi doors opened automatically, mirrors didn’t fog in the middle, shop doorways housed plastic bags for wet umbrellas, takeaway ice cream came with a chunk of dry ice to keep it cool, and hot dogs were served with a joint packet of mustard and ketchup that squeezed out in parallel lines. Japanese trains were unlike any other in Asia. Used to yelling, delays, hawkers, muck and mayhem, I couldn’t fathom how this single nation had mastered utopian travel: dubbed the ‘seven-minute miracle’, sanitation teams at Tokyo station took just under seven minutes to clean the Shinkansen from end to end, wiping tray tables and windows, scrubbing toilets, emptying rubbish and turning seats around before the next batch of passengers boarded; and the average Shinkansen delay was fifty-four seconds. At home, a Tesco carrier bag being caught on the overhead wires was enough to bring our train network to a standstill. So punctual are Japan’s services that railway companies issue train-delay certificates – known as chien shomeisho – for any journey delayed by as little as five minutes, so passengers can prove to employers or schools that the tardiness is no fault of their own. But despite the speeds, punctuality and perfect queues, something was lacking, and I realised that it was because of the yelling, delays, hawkers, muck and mayhem that I lived for train travel. From within my bubble, I thrived on
the commotion around me, drawing comfort from all that went wrong.

  After lunch, most passengers were napping. Some read and others were working when the conductor entered the carriage. He removed his hat and bowed deeply. I smiled as he passed and watched him working his way up the aisle checking tickets. Once he reached the top of the carriage he turned round and bowed again before leaving. No one looked up and I felt bad for him. But in that one small action I realised that Japan’s trains didn’t need to be falling apart or filled with noise to be endowed with a character and soul of their own.

  From Shin-Osaka station, a fifteen-minute Hikari brought us to Kyoto. After the Nozomi, the Hikari was the second-fastest service on the Tokaido Shinkansen line, followed by the Kodama, which stopped at almost all stations. Just the sound of the trains’ names was enough to make me want to ride them all: ‘Hikari’ means ‘light’; ‘Kodama’ means ‘echo’; ‘Sakura’ means ‘cherry blossom’; and ‘Kagayaki’ translates as ‘glitter’. Even without knowing the meanings, I loved the gentleness of ‘Midori’, the softness of ‘Asagiri’ and the aptly titled ‘Joy trains’, of which the ‘Aso Boy!’ sounded fantastic. A limited express service that took families up to the Aso caldera to see the volcano, the four-carriage train looked as though it were designed by Paul Smith, and was kitted out with rainbow-striped fabric seats. Complete with a supervised playroom, a wooden-ball pit, a picture-book collection, and a cafe with a child-height counter, the Aso Boy! was every child’s dream on wheels.

  With just under a week left, we had a couple of days to drift in Kyoto. For unknown, and probably ridiculous reasons, I never felt I had truly experienced a country until I had traipsed through a temple or two, or at least dragged my feet around a museum. A pencil museum was enough to legitimise my visit. And in the absence of religious sites, anything old and crumbling would do. Perhaps I needed to understand the past before connecting with the present, and Kyoto was one of the few cities to embody Japan’s ancient cultures. Surrounded by smoke and rubble, the country’s old capital had escaped the wartime bombings and endured as a city of stillness and beauty. While half the city soared on the wings of consumerist modernism, the other half was frozen into a time capsule of cobbled streets, traditional ryokan inns, and geisha tea ceremonies. Now, for the first time since we had arrived, Kyoto’s shrines, temples and maple trees whispered to us to slow down and breathe.

  On a pair of un-traditional electric bikes, we rode along the riverside to Shinto shrines, and hid in the shade of reddening leaves, watching families gather at the temizuya – the water pavilion where visitors cleansed before entering the shrine. Keiji, a night manager at the nearby Ritz-Carlton, Kyoto, saw us both lurking and called us over to explain the ritual. Ever nervous of offending in places of worship, I was grateful for the inclusion and watched as he picked up the long wooden ladle.

  ‘With your right hand, dip the ladle in the water and use it to wash your left hand. Then change hands, and wash the right hand.’

  Keiji then sipped a little water from his palm, gargled and spat it out, before draining the remaining water and placing the ladle face down for the next user. Beckoning us to join him, Keiji lead us to the Torii gate, the marking between the secular and the holy ground. He pointed out a large case of rice in a cabinet to the left, and a load of premium-quality sake to the right, both placed as offerings. Guiding us through the right of the gate, he explained that worshippers never walk through the middle of the entrance as it’s reserved for deities. Following Keiji over tiny wooden bridges that hooped over streams, we wandered around shrubs and flowers so dainty I felt like Gulliver on the island of Lilliput. Fresh spring water ran through the temple, so pure it was possible to cup a hand beneath the flow, as Keiji explained that in the absence of rules and religious texts, Shintos hold nothing but nature in reverence. It was the first time a religion had ever held appeal.

  That night we stayed at a ryokan and dined on the banks of the Hozu river. Like a scene from a medieval battle, fires raged in the darkness, lighting up the water from long wooden boats bobbing around. In the tradition of ukai – an ancient method of fishing – trained cormorants on leashes pierced the water’s surface, bringing back fish in their beaks, while tourists clapped and filmed videos. Sipping ice-cold sake, I examined the first of eight courses laid out on a black tray, too scared to disturb the display. A porcelain spoon was piled with what appeared to be shavings of fried onion, but on closer inspection, the shavings had eyes and revealed themselves to be dried shrimp. A fresh fig gleamed pink, and a cube of cucumber wobbled in a block of jam. Willing to try most things, I withered at the sight of the second tray from where a grilled fish glared and bared its teeth next to a pile of prawn tempura.

  ‘You can have my fish if you like,’ Jem offered generously.

  ‘I’m okay thanks.’

  ‘Are you … going to have all your tempura?’

  ‘Nice try. Just leave the bits you don’t like.’

  ‘What on earth is this?’ Jem picked up what looked like a piece of old ear.

  ‘Not sure,’ I replied, checking the menu. ‘Sliced abalone?’

  He pulled a face as though chewing cardboard.

  ‘It’s expensive stuff! It grows a millimetre a year or something.’

  ‘I don’t care, it’s vile,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s under the grilled cheese? Seared scallop?’

  ‘Can’t tell.’

  ‘I hope it’s not eel.’

  ‘Eel’s okay.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Ever since that ad on telly with the black eels thrashing around in the sink, I’ve never been able to stomach the idea of them.’

  ‘Christ, it’s a baked sea urchin. Aren’t they poisonous?’

  ‘Shush, just eat the pickles and nori.’

  ‘How is everything?’ our waiter asked, palm up.

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Lovely! Thank you.’

  He bowed and walked off, just as Jem hid a bit of chewed abalone under his tray.

  Wincing and swallowing our way through the meal, we smiled weakly at one another – prodding at fungus, sipping at hot, salty broth, and nodding at the waiter.

  ‘You’re the one who wanted the traditional meal,’ Jem reminded me.

  To my mind, there is no point in leaving home if the intention is to take home with you. To recoil from anything new and unnerving is to do a disservice to your hosts, but more so to yourself. Being willing to try another person’s way of living is the first step towards developing a spirit of empathy. But I couldn’t pretend to feel something I didn’t, and sometimes I had to concede defeat and accept the truth that there are times when only a fat cheeseburger will fill the void.

  ‘I know, and I’m glad we tried it. Anyway, what’s next?’

  Jem traced the courses with a finger. ‘Steamed egg custard with pike conger eel.’

  ‘Call me Lady BaBa … not Lady Gaga.’

  Swept up into an enormous crescent moon encircling her head, Hanako BaBa’s hair gleamed in the afternoon light. More than five inches high, it was so black it appeared blue – with the exception of one white stray wiggling at her hairline that her beautician had missed. Kneeling on the tatami mat – made from rice straw – her white-socked feet folded together, Lady BaBa gestured for Jem and me to move closer towards her. Earlier that morning I had spotted her in her doorway, adjusting the signs outside the Kaikaro teahouse and she, in turn, had spied me staring from across the street. Flashing an impish smile, she had raised a hand in greeting. The geisha underworld is renowned for its secrecy, and having glimpsed only a couple of geishas skittering around the cobbles of Kyoto, I was taken aback to see her in all her regalia, hovering around like a tout. Chatting to me in perfect English – which wasn’t common in Japan – Lady BaBa had invited us in to look around her teahouse, and had now sat us down to discuss Japan’s ancient profession of female entertainers.

  The previous evening, the fabulously named Thunderbird Express had sw
ept us into Kanazawa, a historic castle city known for its gold-leaf production, geishas, and gardens filled with bridges and koi. Like Kyoto, Kanazawa had escaped the wartime bombings, leaving its ninja temple and old samurai and chaya (tea) districts largely intact. Whereas Kyoto had sometimes appeared too perfect and stage-managed, Kanazawa’s unassuming neighbourhoods bore no airs or graces. Japanese tourists wandered its paved streets, twirling parasols, pushing French bulldogs in buggies, and licking gold-leaf ice cream – or they sat at sushi bars engrossed in Japanese baseball. Smelling of grilled fish, and lined by latticed doors, the blind alleys in Higashi district had been designed to trap invaders, and evidently still served their purpose as we had got lost, got into a fight, and now found ourselves upstairs in one of the old chayas, kneeling on the floor with Lady BaBa.

  ‘This house is a heritage site for Kanazawa city,’ said Lady BaBa. ‘When the foreigner visit to Japan each one of them want to know, what is a geisha, what is a teahouse? The geisha and the teahouse is very secret and mysterious, but it’s really nice culture so I decided to open the door of my teahouse to the foreigner, and the traveller, like this. Mmm, yes.’

  In keeping with tradition, evening entertainment at Kaikaro teahouse was restricted to members and referred guests, but during the day it was open to the public to take tea and talk to Lady BaBa. Dating from 1820, the teahouse was smooth with red lacquer and covered with gold-trimmed tatami mats.

  ‘When we have clients, the lovely geisha – ah, I use the word geiko, it is the same thing – the lovely geikos come to this room. We serve the sake to guests, then they play shamisen, like a Japanese guitar, and they sing a song and dance. Guests enjoy a really beautiful performance. But I have the limit of the time. It’s just ninety minutes.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked, my knees beginning to ache.

  ‘Ah, long, long time ago we couldn’t buy watch and clock, it was very rare, very expensive, so we measure the time with a stick of incense. One stick of incense takes forty-five minutes to burn. Two sticks take ninety minutes. It is very traditional time.’