Under the Osakan Sun

by Hamish Beaton

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ I replied. ‘Don’t monkeys bite people?’

  ‘No, they’re really, really cute. I want to have a monkey for a pet. Do New Zealand people keep monkeys for pets?’

  ‘No,’ I replied again. ‘Monkeys have diseases and bite people. Plus they throw their poos around.’

  ‘But they’re so cute!’ my friend protested. ‘You really should go to Monkey Mountain. It is a very, very natural place. I think it will remind you of New Zealand.’

  I dipped my eyebrows sceptically. Monkey Mountain sounded about as similar to New Zealand as Harvest Hill. However, the idea of spending a day hiking up a big hill appealed. The great Lake Biwa bicycle expedition was now only three weeks away, and my training was yet to get off the ground.

  I set off for Monkey Mountain the following weekend. It was an overcast day, so I packed a jacket and jersey in case it started to rain. Monkey Mountain is located on the outskirts of Kyoto prefecture. Like all significant tourist attractions in Japan, it can be easily reached by train or bus.

  I arrived at the base of the mountain shortly after midday and began my invigorating trek uphill, my eyes peeled for any sign of the cute monkeys. The trail zigzagged through wooded areas that became increasingly dense as the altitude rose. I could feel my leg muscles straining, and congratulated myself for having chosen such a suitable workout.

  I certainly had no need for my jacket and jersey, and decided to take a quick break to catch my breath. I wiped my brow. I was perspiring nicely – my physical training was obviously having an effect.

  I looked around. I was yet to see any sign of the cute monkeys. I had been told, however, that they mainly congregated around the feeding station at the top of the hill. A marker suggested that I was only halfway up, and had a steep climb ahead of me.

  I set off again. The trail grew slightly steeper and my legs protested. I heard rustling to my left. I peered into the undergrowth. Were the cute monkeys in there?

  My eyes adjusted to the shadows. Two scrawny flea-ridden male monkeys with bright-red swollen bottoms stared back. The bigger monkey hissed and made a rude hand gesture. It then bared its fangs and scampered up a tree.

  The other monkey ran directly at me. I shrieked, unsure how to deal with an enraged primate. The monkey bounced on to the path in front of me and held up an open hand like a beggar. He looked up at me with imploring eyes. I looked back at him, terrified that I was about to be bitten.

  The tree-top monkey hissed again, this time at his companion, and the beggar monkey ran back into the undergrowth.

  I checked my pockets. I still had my wallet, cellphone and keys but I had very nearly been mugged by a pair of scrawny monkeys. My friend who had recommended Monkey Mountain was going to receive a stern telling-off.

  I decided to press on uphill and seek shelter in the feeding station. I had not come all the way to western Kyoto only to wimp out halfway. I increased my pace and broke into a slow jog.

  Eventually, the feeding station came into sight. It was, in reality, a small wooden shack in the middle of a grassy clearing. It was surrounded by hundreds of scrawny monkeys with bright-red bottoms. Wire mesh covered the windows, and a heavy wooden door prevented the monkeys from clambering inside. Human visitors, meanwhile, were free to enter the station, purchase bags of food, and hand or throw the food to the waiting monkeys through the gaps in the mesh. We were sternly instructed not to carry food outside the feeding station, as this was likely to trigger violent riots.

  I eyed the monkeys nervously. For the most part they were babies or small skinny females. The babies were certainly cute, performing rolypolys in the dirt, playing games of tag with each other, and clinging helplessly to their mothers.

  The large male monkeys, however, were not nearly as adorable. Packs of them had staked out territory in front of the feeding station. They hissed savagely, chased each other, and beat their chests to ward off anything that dared to encroach on their area.

  Doing my best to appear bold and self-assured, I strode towards the entrance. The smaller monkeys scattered, chattering wildly, but the dominant males glared at me, baring their fangs and hissing. Several made rude hand gestures.

  Inside the shack, a withered old woman sat behind a counter on which were arrayed bags of fruit chunks. I purchased two. ‘The monkeys have been very naughty lately,’ the old woman warned. ‘It’s mating season and there are too many males, so there are many fights. Don’t take any food out of here with you. They will attack you if they think you have food.’

  I gulped. Monkey Mountain was certainly a lot more dangerous than my friend had led me to believe. I pondered the fact that Japanese people were perfectly content to stroll among rabid untamed monkeys, while fretting about potential accidents on escalators, walking in the rain without an umbrella, and contracting mad-cow disease at Korean barbecue restaurants.

  I opened my bags of fruit and stepped towards one of the large mesh-covered windows. Sensing movement, the monkeys started yelping. The dominant males rushed to the windows and rattled the wire meshing wildly, biting and clawing each other in the process. I stepped back in alarm.

  Short, stubby fingers curled through the mesh, ready to snatch any fruit that might be on offer. I looked around for any needy baby monkeys that may have been brave enough to approach the feeding station. A small pack had gathered to one side. They shivered nervously and looked at me with wide saucer eyes.

  I quickly thrust a handful of apple pieces through the mesh to the dominant males. As expected, they rushed forward and fought among themselves over the small pieces of apple. I then bounded across the room and emptied half a bag of fruit pieces through the window to the baby monkeys below. They grabbed as much fruit as their little hands could carry and raced away.

  The dominant males gave chase, but the infants had fled to the safety of their mothers, and the males returned testily to the feeding station. The tin roof clanged and banged. The males had scaled the walls. They were now jumping up and down on the roof in protest at my trickery.

  ‘Oh, they’re being naughty again,’ the old woman said disapprovingly. ‘They like to jump up and down on the roof to make a big noise. I’d better go and tell them off.’ She stood up, picked up a broom and stepped outside. There was a sudden cacophony of screeching, and the banging on the tin roof ceased. I watched through the window as several males leapt from the roof and fled to the safety of the undergrowth.

  The woman returned. She put down her broom and took her seat behind the counter without a word.

  I looked at her in amazement. Japan and its people were still managing to surprise me after more than two years. This little old woman, probably in her eighties, spent her days climbing Monkey Mountain and warding off packs of savage male monkeys with a broom.

  My physical training was now amounting to little more than cycling to work every day. This thirteen-minute doddle was not going to prepare me for my three-day expedition to Lake Biwa. I needed a more prolonged cardiovascular workout to get my heart and lungs into suitable shape.

  My friends had planned a big night out for the following Saturday. I decided that dancing until dawn in a nightclub would count as a good workout, and condition my body to extended periods of exercise.

  After the night out with the young male teachers, I had vowed not to touch another drop of alcohol before the expedition. So far so good: I had managed to go two weeks without being invited out and forced to drink beer and sake. When Saturday evening rolled around I staunchly drank only orange juice and water. I frolicked on the dance floor from midnight until dawn, and when my intoxicated friends staggered out the door to catch their respective trains home I was still feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  I was now with a group of female Japanese friends who had also spent a sober night dancing and were keen to go and get a hearty breakfast. We exited the nightclub and wandered down the road to a twenty-four-hour restaurant. We were in the heart of Shinsaibashi, a district famed for its de
signer clothing stores, red-light activities and Yakuza-controlled businesses. Several metres ahead of us a large white van was parked on the footpath outside a small jewellery store. Something peculiar about the van caught my attention. I gestured for my companions to be quiet and stop walking.

  Suddenly, two masked men brandishing crowbars leapt from the van’s side door. They sprinted to the entrance of the jewellery store and attached a thick steel cable to the store’s iron grill. One then signalled to the driver of the van, who revved the engine and sped off. The steel cable went taut, there was a large cracking sound, and the entire iron grill was torn off the front of the store.

  The masked men raced back, stepped around the shattered security front, and smashed their way through the window. All of this had taken less than 30 seconds.

  ‘Wow!’ I said in shock. ‘What’s going on here then?’

  ‘Do you think they’re real gangsters?’ one of the women whispered.

  ‘Hmmm … I dunno.’ I considered the question carefully. ‘I guess they could be. Should we do something?’ My friend was way ahead of me. She was holding her cellphone and taking photos of the van and its number plate.

  Smashing sounds could still be heard from inside the jewellery store. The masked men were obviously having a lot of fun. The smashing stopped and the men stepped out on to the street.

  My friend took a photo of them. ‘Um, do you think that’s such a good idea?’ I stuttered nervously. I suddenly realised that I was the only male in the group; if anyone was going to receive a tap on the head with a crowbar, it would be me.

  The masked men froze and stared at my friend angrily. They retrieved their steel cable, leapt into the van and sped away down the street.

  One of the other women was on her phone, calling the police. ‘There’s been a burglary,’ she explained calmly. ‘A jewellery store has been broken into.’ She gave the address. ‘The police will be here in a minute,’ she announced as she hung up. They want us to give evidence.’

  We were suddenly very happy. This was proving to be a most exciting start to the day.

  Fifteen minutes later, two antiquated Japanese police officers arrived on equally antiquated bicycles. They stopped outside the jewellery store and scratched their heads in bewilderment. ‘What happened here?’ the skinny one asked his chubby colleague.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. It looks like the security grill has been removed. What do you think?’

  ‘Hmm, yes, I think someone has removed the security grill.’

  I nodded in agreement. The twisted and buckled security grill was now lying in the middle of the street. It was, quite obviously, no longer attached to the jewellery store.

  The two men bent down and examined it. ‘It’s definitely been removed,’ they deduced. ‘I wonder who did it?’

  ‘We saw it happen,’ one of my friends offered brightly. ‘We even took photos of the people who did it.’

  The policemen ignored her. They scratched their heads and turned their attention to the shopfront. ‘I think someone’s smashed the window,’ the chubby policeman noted sagely. ‘I wonder how they did it?’

  ‘They smashed the window with crowbars,’ another woman volunteered. ‘Do you want to see a photo of them?’

  The policemen ignored her and stepped inside the trashed store. ‘Oh, I think they’ve broken all the display cases,’ I heard the skinny one exclaim. ‘I think they’ve taken all the jewels too.’

  Several minutes later, the policemen stepped outside on to the street. ‘Did anyone see anything?’ one asked.

  ‘Yes!’ my friends chorused impatiently. ‘We saw everything. We even took photos.’

  ‘Oh.’ The policemen scratched their heads. ‘May we see?’

  My friend handed over her phone and the policemen scrolled slowly through the photos. ‘I think they attached a steel cable to the security grill,’ the chubby one announced. ‘That must be how they removed it.’

  I was losing patience with the policemen’s incompetence. ‘That’s their white van,’ I said, pointing at the photo. ‘We wrote down their licence plate.’ I handed the skinny policeman the details. ‘They drove off in that direction.’ I pointed down the street. ‘You should look for the van.’

  The policemen scratched their heads again. ‘I guess we should write a report about this,’ they mused. ‘Do you think we have enough details?’

  We had grown tired of their inane bumbling. It was time for breakfast. Osaka’s finest would have to solve the case on their own.

  Justin was bubbling with excitement over the telephone line. It was the night before our keenly anticipated departure for Lake Biwa. ‘It’s all set,’ he enthused. ‘We’re good to go. I’ve got two bikes ready and waiting at my place. I’ve checked the brakes and pumped the tyres. The weather forecast is good for the next few days – sunshine and blue skies all the way to Lake Biwa and back. I’ve booked accommodation for Friday and Saturday nights, and I’ve plotted our route all the way from Osaka City to Kyoto.’

  ‘What about the rest of our route?’ I asked. ‘How do we get from Kyoto to Lake Biwa?’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘I’m not so sure about that bit,’ Justin admitted. ‘I couldn’t find a map for that section. But I’ve done the trip by car, and I think I can remember most of the way.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Justin said reassuringly. ‘We can stop and ask directions at convenience stores and petrol stations. It’s honestly not that far. We’ll be fine. Remember, we’re from New Zealand.’

  I listened apprehensively as Justin repeated our three-day schedule.

  Day One, Friday: Cycle north from Osaka, cross the Kansai Plain, up and over Mount Ise, and spend the night in Otsu City. This would take only six hours. Apparently.

  Day Two, Saturday: Cycle around most of Lake Biwa. Spend a couple of hours sightseeing at a local castle, and then spend the night in an inn overlooking the lake. Possibly an eight-hour ride.

  Day Three, Sunday: Complete the circumnavigation of Lake Biwa, cycle back over Mount Ise, cross the Kansai Plain and return to Osaka. Get home nice and early and have a good night’s sleep before starting work on Monday morning. Possibly ten hours.

  ‘It’s going to be a piece of cake,’ Justin said. ‘I can’t wait to see my coworkers’ surprised faces on Monday.’

  ‘How’s your training going?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘What training? I haven’t even cycled to work for the past three weeks. I ride the train. We don’t need any training for this. Apart from crossing the mountain, it’s going to be dead flat all the way there and back. Not a hill in sight. Anyone could do this. Look, don’t worry about a thing. Just turn up at my place nice and early tomorrow morning.’

  I spent a nervous night fretting about the upcoming trip. I had visited Lake Biwa with Mr Tokunaga the year before. We had driven around the lake in Mr Tokunaga’s trusty campervan and returned to Osaka in a single day. However, we had encountered numerous traffic jams and the trip had taken thirteen hours. It had been a long exhausting drive. I was not looking forward to repeating it on a bicycle.

  I arrived at Justin’s apartment shortly after nine the next morning. He was waiting impatiently. ‘Good! You’re here. We should get going. You choose which bike you want. Have you had breakfast? Good. We should get a few hours’ cycling under our belts and then stop for lunch once we’re well and truly out of Osaka.’

  I looked at Justin’s pair of bicycles. Both were gearless ‘old lady’ antiques. This was going to add a challenging aspect to our mountain crossing. I chose the silver bicycle, stowed my backpack in the basket on the front and hoisted myself into the seat.

  Justin took one last look at his map, folded it, and stowed it securely in his trouser pocket. ‘Let’s go!’ he roared and we pedalled off down the road. The Great Lake Biwa Circumnavigation was finally underway.

  I was suddenly very excited. Justin and I were embarking on an am
bitious adventure. We were attempting the apparently impossible, and I was on my way to being able to smugly prove Mr Higo and Mr Hioki wrong. The sun was shining brightly, and Justin’s forecasts of blue skies and no headwinds seemed to be on the mark.

  Justin cycled merrily ahead. He sang to himself loudly and grinned from ear to ear. It was difficult not to share in his happy mood. He had memorised the local street layout, and was cheerfully heading in search of a quiet, well-marked cycle lane that ran northwards alongside the Yodogawa River, bypassing the mind-boggling mazes of central Osaka and the snarled inner-city traffic.

  We made good time and found the cycle lane with ease. Just as Justin had promised, it was beautifully smooth tarseal, completely devoid of traffic or bewildering intersections. We zipped along with the wind in our hair, and my enthusiasm rose.

  After an hour and a half, the delightful cycle lane came to an end. We had left Osaka City far behind and were now in the northern suburbs. Our surroundings had changed dramatically. We began to encounter an increasing number of chemical plants, and smoky factories with dirty chimneys. Residential areas were limited to run-down, grimy concrete-block apartment buildings.

  Justin reached into his pocket and pulled out his map. ‘This is the tricky bit,’ he said slowly. ‘We need to find Expressway 127, which will take us up towards Kyoto. We follow it most of the way and then veer off towards Mount Ise. I think we’re here,’ he stabbed his finger at the map, ‘and Expressway 127 is over here.’ He traced a line across a maze of suburban streets to a bold straight line that had been highlighted with yellow marker pen.

  ‘How far do you reckon it is to Expressway 127?’ I asked. I was impressed with the distance we had covered thus far. Judging by our current location on the map, we had covered a great deal of ground.