Naked in Nippon

This morning, as I sat beside the fire ring with three friends who had accompanied me on a weekend camping trip, I told a humorous story from my experiences in Japan. The telling of it reminded me that it's a tale I've yet to set down in writing. Though the punchline might seem anticlimactic to Japanese readers, my own compatriots are likely to get a kick out of it.

Earlier this year, I went hiking in Nikko National Park with my American friend Josiah, my South African friend Marius, and my Japanese friend Atsuki. It was a very pleasant hike, about four hours along a fairly level path, ending at a train station where we could easily catch a ride back to the trail head, where Atsuki's car was parked. Also near the end of the trail was a large, slightly famous and rather upscale hotel, with a proportionately famous and upscale onsen attached to it.

An onsen is a Japanese-style communal bath house. Traditionally, they are built around the offshoot of a natural geothermic hot spring, but many present-day onsen simply pipe in heated tap water. Though these bathhouses vary significantly in size, quality, and style, the system for visiting an onsen is fairly uniform.

The standard onsen is divided into two sections: one for men and one for women. After paying the entrance fee, men and women go through separate doorways, usually concealed by a blue curtain for males and a red curtain for females. After passing though the curtain, the customer enters a room in which she undresses completely and leaves her clothes and personal items in a locker or basket or cubby. Next, she proceeds to a room where she washes herself very thoroughly with soap. After completely rinsing off, she enters a steaming hot bath for soaking. Depending on the onsen, there may be just one bath or there may be multiple baths of different styles, temperatures, or even aromas. Some may have massage jets or bubbles, and there might even be waterfalls, saunas, and beautiful outdoor (but still appropriately private) settings. The visitor to the onsen will probably find the intense heat a little too overwhelming to stay in the baths more than an hour or so and, after completing her soak, will once again wash herself thoroughly with soap before returning to the locker room. All of these steps are done in the company of fellow same-sex bathers and, though potentially awkward for the unseasoned foreigner, make for a deeply relaxing experience.

I love onsen, and, on that day in Nikko as my fellow hikers and I made our way down that scenic path, the four of us agreed to visit the hot spring at the hotel before taking the train back to the trail head.

As we neared the end of the hike, the conversation was about on the different types of onsen that exist in Japan and Atsuki mentioned something I had heard of only once before: that there are, in some places, "mixed" onsen--called konyoku--where men and women bathe together in the same area. Atsuki said that such establishments, however, were very rare these days and he had never actually seen one.

We came to a bridge that marked the end of our hiking trail. The bridge stretched over a wide river. As we walked across, we could see, about eighty yards away on the opposite river bank, the back of the hotel. And there, along the back of the hotel, was the onsen.

"Oh my gosh, guys, look."

It appeared to be only the men's baths that were visible from the bridge, but there the men were, in full view of anyone who happened to pass along this public space. Given, we were too far away to really see much beyond the obvious fact that they were naked, but we all giggled and agreed that, of the three nationalities represented in our party, Atsuki's was the only one that would find such a setup completely acceptable.

We crossed the bridge and would have to walk along a path and cross another smaller bridge to reach the hotel. We walked up some steps and Atsuki, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped and turned around to face the rest of us. "Guys," he said, "the kind of onsen that we were just talking about--the one with men and women together in the same bath--konyoku--this sign says that there's one right here!"

We were all amazed by the improbability of the coincidence that had just taken place, and prodded one another jokingly about whether we would be willing to give it a try. But, rather than proceed straight forward toward the entrance, we turned the corner there to cross the smaller bridge. I stepped out onto the bridge, glanced to my side, and nearly screamed in shock.

It turns out that the konyoku had an outdoor bath overlooking the riverbank, too. But this time, rather than far enough away to prevent the unassisted eye from discerning any details, the baths were RIGHT THERE, and old naked men sat lounging without a care not fifteen feet from where I stood.

Oh, my. I instantly diverted my eyes. My hiking companions struggled to stifle their shocked laughter and teased me about my bright red cheeks. "That," even Atsuki felt, "isn't normal."

In the end, our perceptions of normal and abnormal are deeply ingrained in our own cultural backgrounds. Living in Japan taught me to reconsider many of my earlier assumptions about what is natural or universal in regards to common human behavior. It was a good learning experience. But there are certain images and situations that, at least for me, will perhaps never cease to be shocking.

To get to the train station, we had to come back across the same bridge and, though I tried to be polite, I admit I got another eyefull in spite of myself.

As much as I love onsen, I don't think that konyoku will ever be my thing.