The quiet of an Arima spa is a world away from the crowds and noise of Osaka.
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Ooohs and ahhhs fill the steamy room as Japanese salary-men, worn out by years of toil, soak their weary bones in the yellowy iron-rich waters of Arima Onsen. The Japanese have a knack for turning the most ordinary daily activities into complex rituals; making a simple cuppa evolved into the intricacies of the tea ceremony, and even going to the loo can be bamboozling, as a toilet seat can have a dozen buttons. The Japanese passion for having a bath has long since grown from just scrubbing off the day’s grime to an exercise in the art of relaxation; across the country spas, or onsen, cater to the national pastime of soaking in extremely hot water.
Thirty minutes north of the city of Kobe, or an hour’s drive from the stadium-sized shopping centres of Osaka, the roads steadily shed lanes until our little car is speeding through glades of trees dressed in the reds and browns of the Japanese rural autumn landscapes.
Arima sits in a tangle of mountains in the Rokko Range and was once a favourite haunt of the 16th-century ruler Toyotomi Hideyoshi. He came here to take advantage of the healing waters and is said to have enhanced his stay by hosting the occasional tea ceremony. The town’s rugged topography means the streets are laid out in a confusing muddle and we have to stop more than once to ask directions to our onsen ryokan (spa hotel).
Arima’s spa hotels look like 70s buildings that have seen better days, which is probably true, but the point, in inward-looking Japan, is what lies within. After checking in we are guided to our room, and since we’re staying in off-peak midweek, we’ve been upgraded to a deluxe suite at no extra charge. All the rooms are traditional Japanese-style with tatami mat flooring, sliding screens and polished wood panels complete with hanging scrolls of calligraphy and arranged flowers. Guests are provided with comfy yukata gowns, slippers and warm robes in winter.
After cups of green tea, it’s time to take a dip in the baths. Japanese holidaymakers like to make the most of their precious onsen visit and spend as much time as possible in the water. Our room has an illustrated instruction manual on how to use the baths; these are to be studied carefully, as incorrect bathing procedure is taken as an offence and seriously frowned on.
At most onsen, men and women bathe separately; if you can’t read the Japanese symbols for male and female, you might want to check with someone first. Bathing costumes aren’t worn, and although technically those with tattoos are barred, an allowance is usually made for foreigners. The rule is mainly to keep the ornately inscribed Japanese mafia, or yakuza, out; they tend to get a bit rowdy.
My companion and I shuffle down from our room to the baths in our step-restricting yukata. She slips off to the ladies’ wing, leaving me to navigate for myself the elaborate rituals of Japanese bathing. Inside, I take off my room slippers and exchange them for plastic sandals. Then I undress completely and stash my robes in a secure locker before entering the steaming bath room. Mirrors line the walls and in front of each is a little plastic stool, a shower nozzle on a hose and a bench stocked with body wash and shampoo. Using the small towel provided, one soaps oneself all over; etiquette dictates that you do this seated on the stool – standing and soaping is a no-no.
When you’re fully soaped and scrubbed, you rinse yourself off again; no soap of any kind is allowed in the baths. The little towel is also not allowed in the water. My dilemma of what to do with the item is solved when I see other men fold it up and place it across their head. You don’t put your head under the water, either.
With formalities complete for now, it’s time to soak. A quiet bliss settles over the bath as everyone zones out for a while as they take the waters. Small talk is acceptable among the complete strangers with whom you find yourself naked in the bath. Someone asks where I’m from. My reply is met with: “Ah! Nyu Zealand-o! Many sheeps!”
When the heat gets too much, the other men get out, soap, rinse and get back in to soak again. Through a sliding door is another outdoor bath open to the skies where the winter stars and the waxing moon can be easily contemplated. Lying in the steaming water and gazing at the cosmos, I am struck by a sound almost unheard in the madding rush that is Japanese society: silence! Only the trickle of water into the bath accompanies the rare emptiness of noise.
Back in our room, a seasonal kaiseki dinner, which is included in the price, is served. A woman in kimono lays the table with a dozens of tiny dishes. None hold more than a tasty morsel, but collectively they quietly and effectively fill you up without the need to overindulge. When she’s finished, the table resembles an edible chess set, with each dish mirrored by its counterpart across the table. Next to the array she leaves a kind of map explaining what the different dishes are: wild mushrooms, sesame tofu, tara cod, the legendary Kobe beef, and tsukuri sashimi.
After dinner we return to the baths and repeat our earlier ritual. We’ll do the same thing in the morning before checking out. While we are away, the futons in our room are mysteriously unrolled and made up, complete with hospital corners.
The next morning, after a breakfast only slightly less spectacular than the previous night’s dinner, we wander around the village’s temples, shrines and souvenir shops stocked with the local crafts for which Arima is renowned: bamboo products, traditional brush pens and odd little tansan senbei crackers made using carbonated spring water. As luck would have it, there’s a festival, and the local fire brigade entertains the crowds with a rousing chorus of shouts and taiko drums. Cups of green tea are passed around with chewy balls of mochi rice cakes. It’s a rare chance to enjoy small-town Japanese life.
By late afternoon we are back in downtown Osaka in crowds that carry you along like a flooding river. There are the omnipresent recorded announcements reminding me to mind the doors on the subway, to hold the handrail on the escalator and to wash my hands after using the toilet. Bored girls with impossibly high-pitched voices stand in their shop doorways, screeching monologue tales of the wares within. Everywhere you look there is something being advertised, an overwhelming and oppressive command to consume. When we finally close the door of our tiny budget hotel room, which barely keeps out the racket, the stars, steam and silence of Arima seem far away.