Snow Monkeys by Julie Miller

I’ve been wearing thongs (and by that I mean the rubber variety worn on the feet, not the floss adorning beachside posteriors more delectable than mine) since I was a kid, so I am well versed in the art of flip-flopping. But add four centimetre wooden platforms into the equation, not to mention two ungainly planks centre front and back, and a nose that tips at a 60 degree angle and ambulation becomes a definite challenge.

My daughter and I are scuffing our way up the cobbled main street of Yudanaka-Shibu, a small spa village in the Japanese Alps in the middle of Japan’s main island of Honshu, wearing cotton kimonos, or yakata, white camel toe socks and geta, traditional Japanese footwear.

On being shown to our room at the charming ryokan, or Japanese inn, where we are staying, the landlady had insisted on dressing us in these robes, telling us in broken English that “Guests like to wear. You try?” Happy to embrace the culture, we’d complied, and I’d promptly had my belt removed to reduce bulk around the waist. All decked out, but with my jeans falling down underneath, we had several obligatory photographs taken against the rice paper screen doors, before being informed, ”Now you go for walk outside, yes?”

“What, in this?” my daughter asked, aghast at the suggestion of parading around in what amounted to a bathrobe. “Yes,” our charming hostess smiled. “Guests like.”

Ohhhh-kay. I guess we do as we’re told.

At the back door of the inn we were shown a neat row of geta, petite ones with velvet bands for women, larger and wider for men. Sadly, our size 39 European hoofers (an ungainly Large Large in Japanese sizing) required the men’s variety; and our hostess stifled a giggle as she sent us on our way up the stone street, advising us to slide our feet rather than lift them to prevent a horrible accident. After several close calls, however, our Aussie instincts kicked in, and before long we’d mastered the art, clopping our way up the hill like Clysdesdale horses, giggling at the ridiculousness of the situation.

The “main street” of Shibu is actually more a back alley, just a car’s width and lined with simple shops, mossy shrines and public bath houses with steaming taps and the delicate ambience of trickling water. Quaint and rustic, the town evokes the romance of old Kyoto; with great imagination, my daughter shuffling down a winding laneway could be the vision of a geisha, disappearing silently in the dappled light. If you disregard the blonde hair and lack of grace, that is.

Fortunately for us, the town is deserted – there is no-one around to be offended by our shrieking, laughing and cursing as I stop to yank up my pants, or we inevitably stub our toes on steps and gutters. Shopkeepers, hearing us coming a block away, rush out to invite us in to explore their collections of tea, pickles and souvenirs; we are clearly the only tourists in town, and they are keen to make at least one sale that day.

Later I discovered that we were actually a week early, the ski season having been delayed by a late winter; very soon, the place would be bustling with Japanese tourists, keen to “take the waters” before hitting the slopes at nearby Shigakogen, one of Japan’s premier ski resorts.

Shibu is one of nine spa towns in the Yamanouchi district, with nine public baths as well as several private onsens attached to inns and hotels. It has a long history as a hot spring resort, its source of boiling volcanic water on the banks of the Yokoyugawa River having been discovered by a priest 1300 years ago.

According to legend, bathing in all nine of the town’s sotoyu (public baths) washes out worries and results in good health and longevity; and during a weekend break from the city, Japanese visitors will spend all night and morning soaking away, before relaxing in their robes and strolling around the town during the afternoon. A tourist map outside a shrine, showing the walking route with a cartoon mother and child trotting along in yakata and geta, confirms that this is, indeed, what guests do during a visit – it was not just a ploy to publicly humiliate us.

After poking around back lanes, clambering up stone steps to admire an ancient hilltop temple then clomping down again, we eventually arrive back at the ryokan to attempt another Japanese tradition – the onsen. Once again, our landlady insists “we try” – there is no question that we won’t be spending at least an hour that afternoon and another in the morning soaking away our cares.

My daughter wasn’t so sure – she was clearly nervous about the etiquette involved, particularly when I explained to her that in Japan, the baths are gender specific, which means you simply strip off, wash yourself down, then plunge into the hot water for as long as you can bear. The thought of getting naked in front of strangers frankly horrified my body-conscious 17-year-old; even worse was the disgusting thought of her wrinkly old mum in the raw. So rather than bypass the experience altogether, I agree to donning my swimming costume, reserving the right to strip should I consider it necessary to avoid offending someone – an argument my daughter said was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard!

Fortunately, we have the basement bath to ourselves, so are spared the embarrassment of being seen – gasp! – fully dressed as we edge our way into the 40-degree indoor pool. It hardly felt like a traditional Japanese experience; but it was certainly pleasant, very hot and ultimately relaxing. Even more enjoyable was the smaller outdoor pool, the cool air of evening soothing our overheated pulses.

My daughter may have been reticent about the traditional onsen experience, but there is a group of Japanese locals who have no qualms about plunging into the healing waters in all their nubile glory – the region’s celebrated snow monkeys. Up in the hills above Shibu, in a place called Jigokudani, or Hell’s Valley (so named because of a thunderous geyser that spews boiling water from the centre of the earth), around 200 Japanese macaques have discovered the lure of hot water pools, spending their days soaking in their own personal day spas. It’s become one of the area’s biggest tourist attractions, with the monkeys protected and fed on a daily basis and allowing visitors the chance to encounter these creatures in their natural state.

During the snow season – up to a third of the year - the Jigokudani Wild Monkey Park can only be accessed on foot, a 40-minute walk from the nearest carpark. But once again, the late snows are working in our favour, and we have the luxury of driving directly to the park, then strolling for just ten minutes to the riverside setting.

Nearby is the simple Korakukan ryoka; it was here, back in 1964, that the monkeys discovered the outdoor onsen constructed for human guests was a great way to beat the intense cold. The monkeys were subsequently given their own pools to soak in; but guests at the ryokan often encounter hairy interlopers sharing their bathing experience – yet another thought that horrifies my ebola-phobic daughter.

While the monkeys are technically wild, they are now accustomed to human interaction, and will scamper along the path within inches of visitors without any fear or aggression. We were advised, however, not to carry plastic bags (as they associate these with food and will snatch violently at them) or to look them in the eye – in monkey society, this as an act of enmity and they will bare their fangs at you accordingly. Observing them through the camera lens, however, doesn’t faze them, as they can see their own reflection in the glass.

Along the river bank, dozen of family groups scamper around, foraging for food. Droopy-nippled mothers cuddle newborns in their arms, while the older kids hitch a ride on mum’s back, perching precariously in her plush brown fur. The males of the group – outnumbered by three to one – share themselves around, picking at the fleas of their chosen mates, chasing their rivals with an ear-piercing screech, and doing what comes naturally to male species worldwide. It’s a scene of friendly chaos, and a fascinating look into a simian society rarely observed in the wild.

But it is at the steaming pool that you have the most intimate encounter with these charming, funny animals. Like humans, the monkeys slowly edge their way into the hot water, the red hue on their faces intensifying in the heat. Some dip their toes in languidly; others stare for hours at their own reflection.

I can’t help but fall for one little fellow, who swims over to the edge of the pool and rests his head on his skinny, waterlogged arms, relishing the heat soothing his bones. He lies in this position for at least half an hour, eyes closed with bliss, occasionally raising his head to gaze out at the activity around him, before once again chilling out in the rising steam.

It’s clear that this smart little guy has got his priorities sorted, and has long appreciated what we are just discovering – that life in a Japanese onsen is very good, and an experience really worth savouring.