I first experienced the way of onsen last summer in the most famous of hot spring towns, Kusatsu.  D. Futterman (from Chicago) and I were picked up early one Saturday morning by Mr. Hebi, a thin and uncommonly handsome devil in his early fifties.  He is well-loved by we A.E.T.s in Isesaki for his youthful exuberance, his excellent English, and his worldly knowledge, notwithstanding his often unsettling sense of humor.  We've never known anything.but kindess from him, yet we can can easily imagine him doing something terrible and then laughing calmly to himself, and we all feel he would be a frightful man if crossed.  Seemingly "blessed" with a mysterious perpetual youth, he is easily conjured with a phone call.  Our intrepid guide, he has led us on numerous roadtrips to countless out-of-the-way spots of great natural beauty.  Let our other friends introduce us to the well-known facets of Japanese culture.  I count on Hebi-san for the unexpected, such as driving for an hour to a town (the name of which none of my other Japanese associates have ever even heard) to eat freshly slaughtered wild boar boiled in a pot at our table.
        After an hour-and-a-half drive north-west through some of Gunma's most gorgeous green mountains, we arrived in the hilly resort-town of Kusatsu.  We had eaten on the way at a roadside vegetable market.  Though well-paid as an electrical engineer Hebi-san retains the thrift he cultivated in his youth.  He remains an unabashed master of economy.  Lunch on any one of our excursions usually amounts to a walk-though of a market, nibbling on the various samples.  We'll eat anything that's free: white onions, pickled cucumbers, daikon (Japanese radish), caramel covered grasshoppers.  We avoid buying anything souly on principle--the prices at these folksy roadside markets are often anything but folksy--and besides, who wants to eat a meal and then soak in hot water for an hour?
        Once in Kusatsu, rather than try subject us to an expensive onsen, Hebi-san led us straight through the town square to the public (free) onsen.  On the way, we'd walked across a footbridge, and looking down into the steaming open air reservoirs, we'd observed the high mineral content of the water.  Kusatsu's springs are extremely rich in sulfur, imbuing the water with a bright, green hue, and submerging the entire valley-town below a lake of sulfurous fumes.
        Inside the modest, one-room onsen, we removed our shoes and began to undress.  As you might guess there is an entire ritual of cleansing the body before entering the ofuro.  Not wishing to breech any rules of onsen etiquette, Futtermann and I awaited Hebi-san's instructions.
        Mistaking our hesitancy for shyness, he asked, "Are you alright?"
        "Of course," we answered.  "We're just following your lead."
        With his serpentine grin, he said, "Well, when in Rome, you know?"
        "Then lead on, O' Mephistopheles," I told him . . .

        Once disrobed, we stepped onto the wooden platform beside the ofuro, holding small hand-towels before our privates as we observed was the practice of the other six to eight Japanese men in the onsen.  They seemed greatly interested in our presence, welcoming us with warm smiles and amused laughter.  Before entering the ofuro, it is the custom to wash with an almost ritual care for detail.  Sitting on a small stool, one draws water from the ofuro and pours it slowly over one's head.  Then the hairs is washed methodically.  Then the body is washed.  Even one's back is carefully cleaned with a soapy towel pulled side to side around one's back.  Then the body is doused one last time for good measure.  One is now ready to enter the onsen.
        Suspecting that Futterman and I might be a little sensitive to high temperatures.  The men kindly cooled the water by pulling down a small wooden slat, which shut off the flow of water from a narrow hole in the wall.  Even so, the water turned out to be a little hotter than we'd expected, almost roiling it seemed.  Hebi-san informed us that the temperature was yon-ju-san do (43 degrees Celsius).  Neither Futtermann nor myself could remain in the ofuro for more than three to five minutes at a time.  The burning sensation was unbearable.  We'd both emerge dizzy, a bit nauseous, and bright pink.  Yet Hebi-san appeared quite comfortable, deeply inhaling the pungent vapors, his sinewy form immersed languorously the duration of our stay there.
        Although grateful for our initiation, we were soon ready to leave.  After cooling off outside, we meandered about the downtown a bit, happily eating several hot manju (small pastries filled with sweet black bean paste) generously given to us at three different storefronts.  As a connoisseur of manju, I can say with certainty that Kusatsu's are the finest I have ever tasted.  We even considered buying a dozen, but we'd eaten our fill, and besides, they never taste quite so good once they've cooled down.
        Outside the store we met a young Japanese woman who had recently returned from a two-year stay in the Western United States.  Observing our damp hair, she guessed we'd just been to the onsen.  She asked us, "Were you okay there?"  We didn't understand.  "I mean, weren't you shy to take off your clothes?"  There's a common assumption in Japan that Westerners are somewhere between timid and phobic about nudity.  With a heavy American accent she told us that after having spent two years stateside, she was now too shy herself to go to the onsen.  I have recently heard that even some young Japanese people are now wearing swimsuits into the onsen.
        Hebi-san, Futterman and I spent the remainder of the day taking in the beauty of Kusatsu's foothills, following a stream's winding way up a lazy grade, steam rising slowly into clean mountain air toward the hilltops, where long narrow stone steps lead to age-old-shrines.

        As ususal, Hebi-san rang my doorbell about twenty minutes early.  It was 7:40, not 8:00, and I was still in the shower.  Still dripping wet, but nevertheless happy to see him, I opened the door with a cheerful "Ohayo gozaimasu."  He returned my aisatsu with a demure, "Good morning," and a "Dozo, tsumaranai mono desu ga," handing me a clear container of the caramel-covered grasshoppers he knows I love so well.
        "Wow!  Thanks," I said genuinely pleased.  "I haven't had breakfast yet," I said popping a couple in my mouth.  "How long will it take us to get to Nagano?"
        "Eto (uh), about two-and-a-half hours.  If we leave by 8:00, we can maybe arrive at 10:30."
        "Then I'll call Tim and Futtermann and let them know we're on our way."
        "Futterman is in the car."
        "Then I'll call Tim."
        Hebi-san drove us through the most breathtaking mountain passes I've seen in Japan.  I'd thought the drive to Kusatsu to be gorgeous, but this scenery was far superior, because on this trip we were clearly in the heart of the mountain range.  The mountain ranges of Gunma and Nagano prefecture are green, and densely forested, the valleys of our route flowing strongly with the Tone river, which runs all the way to Tokyo.  This region resembles no other place in the United States more than the Alegheny mountains of Northern Pennsylvania, which I've had the pleasure of driving though four times.   The closer we got to Nagano, which is located at a significantly higher sea level than Gunma, the colder it became.  Then a light snow appeared, and the deep ravines through which we were travelling became whitened with jagged bands, snow resting on the branches of the the coniferous trees.  In a couple of months no one can drive through here," Hebi-san informed us.  "It will be all snow."  We took turns checking a few pages of technical instructions Hebi-san had written.  Between the three of us, we couldn't find a single mistake.  The text was flawless.  We drove though Nagano city.  Construction crews were doing road work along the main road, preparing for the 1998 Winter Olympics.  Hebi-san pointed at the largest of looming peaks.  "That's Mt.  Asama.  We're going to the top."
           Some time later we arrived near the summit, parked at a ski slope.   Nearby was a fairly steep hiking path down which we descended.  It soon leveled out somewhat, but continued a long way winding down the ravine.  "We can see many monkies at the bottom.  If you like you can take a bath with a monkey," Hebi-san told us, always full of half-truths.
        Indeed, as the path rounded one ridge, I looked down and saw a  number of dark specks moving with simian motions along the bank of the river.  Upon looking closer, I noticed that they were everywhere; there could
have been no less than a hundred to a hundred-and-fifty of them.  Anxious to get down there with our cameras, and redoubled our pace . . .

        Finally, we arrived at the bottom of the ravine.  No sooner had we reached the river's edge than the first monkies crossed the path.  They took little interest in us, a few dart only a foot or two before us.  We stopped at a bend in the river where shallow pools of the hot spring water collected in basins imbedded in flat rocks in which  monkies were enjoying their own natural rotenburo (outside onsen).  Others were running around so wildly that our every step had to be taken with great care not to step on one.  Hebi-san almost tripped over a large monkey, while backing up to take a photo.  Futterman was attacked by one after he tried to sit too close for a photo.  Evil Mr. Hebi was still laughing about that two hours later.
        We followed the river up the long path that continued to run along the shallow stream.  The path rose a bit as the river bed descended into a barren gully.  Twenty minutes later we arrived at the site of the onsen.  We crossed over the gorge on a small wooded bridge beside which a a tower of thick white steam, perhaps ten meters high was shooting fiercely from a crevice in the stone below.  Inside, we went through the normal procedure of trading our shoes for slippers, walking down a narrow hallway, admiring the rich woodwork stepping down a stairwell to the dressing room, disrobing and stepping outside onto a small rotenburo where we washed, and then stepped into the ofuro the dimensions of which I would estimate were about two-and-a-half by six meters.  The ofuro was backed by a low wooden fence beyond which was a deep ravine darkened by large trees.  Cool breezes encouraged us to stay under the water, which happily was nowhere as hot as the temperatures we'd suffered at Kusatsu.  An occasional gust blew leaves from the branches overhead into the water, and we occupied ourselves collecting them and tossing them over the fence.  All in all it was a pleasant day, although relaxing too much at the bottom of a deep ravine does present a problem when the time comes to walk back out.

        The third onsen that I want to describe to you lacks the fame and natural splendor of the previous two.  In fact this onsen is often the object of ridicule and derision.  Nevertheless, it has become a great favorite of we A.E.T.s in Isesaki.  I am referring to Isesaki's own Goshiki onsen.  The name originates from the high mineral content of the water, which is said to have five colors, "go" meaning "five," and "shiki," meaning "color."  I am still trying to understand how this is descriptive of Goshiki; the only color I've ever noted the to be there is brown, like rust.  This is no simile, however, as the mineral in which the water is rich is, in fact, Fe (or iron).
        It was only by chance that I found out about Goshiki.  After finding that we A.E.T.s enjoyed the onsen and that we weren't phobic about sharing our natural virtues with the kami (gods) and everyone, (i.e getting naked), Hebi-san was enthusiastic about introducing us to a multitude of onsens, all of which were at least an hour or so from Isesaki.  Furthermore, none of the people I spoke with on the matter gave any information about any onsen closer than forty-five minutes away in Ikaho.
        I'm afraid that Evil Mr. Hebi--God love him--was taking advantage of our ignorance, and spiriting us away on long expeditions, which while in no way were unpleasant, after three months did become a bit of a committment of our time.  Also, to the Japanese, a trip to the onsen is nothing like a trip to the 7-11 (which is around the corner from my apatto).  To the contrary, going to the onsen sometimes seems like an excuse for a long drive in the country.
        We met a man at an onsen in Shima who drove an hour every week from Ikaho, where he lived.  When we asked him why he didn't go the onsen  there, he said that he didn't like any of the onsen in Ikaho.  The water quality was inferior and he didn't like the atmosphere there either; but Ikaho is well-known for it numerous onsen and fine water quality.  As I recall, there was nothing particularly special about that onsen--in fact, I'd rank it fairly low.  Moreover, he only stayed in the ofuro for about fifteen minutes.  He was in, out and on his way.
        So it was only by chance that I learned about Goshiki.  Complaining to Kondo-sensei at Ue-hasu junior high that it was difficult for we A.E.T.s to get to an onsen without a car, he told me, apprehensively,"Well, you know that there is an onsen right here in Isesaki.  But it is maybe not so famous, I think."

        So it was only by chance that I learned about Goshiki.  Complaining to Kondo-sensei at Ue-hasu junior high that it was difficult for we A.E.T.s to get to an onsen without a car, he told me, apprehensively,"Well, you know that there is an onsen right here in Isesaki.  But it is maybe not so famous, I think."
        "Where is it,? I asked him immediately intrigued.
        "Do you know where the Royal Hotel is?  It is next to that building."
        "You mean there's an onsen only ten minutes from here, fifteen minutes from my apartment?"
        "Yes, I think you could get there that quickly; maybe but I have heard that it is not so clean there."
        "What do you mean, 'not so clean,'?"
        "I can't say for sure--I have never been there, but I have heard that it is not so clean."
        "We should go some time and see for ourselves."
        Kondo-sensei laughed, amused by the idea of going to Goshiki, then quickly explained that he was to busy with his new-born son and his school duties to go.
        Undaunted by the rumors that Goshiki was "kitanai" (dirty), I resolved to go there immediately.  However, half from procrastination and half from just being really busy, I didn't make it to Goshiki until a-month-and-a-half later.  Don't ask me why, but the day on which I chose to ride my bike there was probably one of the most miserable days this winter break.  The temperature was ungodly cold, the famous karakaze (mountain wind) was doing its best to stripmine the very topsoil from the ground, not to mention force any unwary cyclists in traffic with a malevolent gust.  The gray sky was burdened with even grayer clouds that looked like they might let loose any moment.  Nevertheless, it was a weird day; there was a strange tension in the air, or perhaps in my apartment--I'd been holed up there for three or four days and was feeling a bit edgy.
        So it was that I did undertake the perilous journey and thither did I cycle, crossing the great void between the north and the east.  Through the desolate mid-day city street did I wend, braving dust-storm, traffic, and impending downpour.  Past the sad and empty soba-yas and kiten-sushi-yas and empty karaoke booths I did perservere.  Even past the soul-devouring, smoke-filled pachinko parlor with the giant sphinx head on top, from whose eyes at night beams of white light do streak across the Nihon sky, whereby, the poor in spirit, as if siren-bewitched, are drawn in, did I press forward, my soul tied to the mast, as it were, until at last, weeping and weary at the threshold of capitulation, I did arrive at Goshiki onsen.

        From the outside Goshiki onsen looks like it might be a condemned building, and that's just from the outside.  It appears to have been built one addition at a time, each section stuck on without a thought for the form of the whole.  Besides that, it's badly delapidated and in need of a paint job.  The parking area in front is a mess, old pieces of scrap metal scattered here and there.  In the center was what must have at one time been intended as a small garden, but it looked as though no one had tended it for five or ten years.
        Inside, the furonto (front desk) was unattended and all was quiet.  I removed my shoes in the genkan (foyer) and stepped up to the floor of the reception area.  I waited.  I waited three or four minutes and no one came, so I rang the buzzer.  Through a window on the other side of the desk, I detected movement, and saw that an old woman turning in a room dimly lit by bluish tv light.  Still, no one came.  The glass case had the normal fare of semube, teas and jellies.
        Finally a woman in her thirties appeared, when she saw me she looked around for my Nihon-jin friend, and seeing none seemed surprised to find a solitary Gai-jin in this little known onsen.  Most Japanese don't go to the onsen alone, let alone most foreigners, and I'm sure this had never happened to her before.  This is one of the joys of living in Japan; I have the opportunity see people in unique situations every time I leave my apartment.
        I was curious to see how she would handle the situation, so I didn't explain who I was, just another person who came to use the ofuro.  She later turned out to be an alumni of one of my junior high schools and the mother of one of my students there.  She was cheerful enough, however, asked me if I'd ever been there before, and explained that the onsen cost go-hyaku-en, ni-jikan (Y 500 for two hours).  I let her know that I understood and she ushered me through a door, we turned right, and she led me down a very long and narrow hallway (probably thirty meters or so).
        As I followed her, I noted that what Kondo-sensei had said was right.  The ancient linoleum floors were as dingy and even bowed a little under my weight.  The walls were decorated with age-yellowed newspaper clippings from what had apparently been busier days: several photos of Goshiki's ofuro with several women soaking in the water.  At the end of the hallway was a display of the mineral deposits of the water.  A mound of ferric oxide (Fe), and some explanatory literature in kanji.
        The woman gave me a towel with a curious smile and gestured towards the dressing-room door with an amused, but polite, "Dozo," and disappeared back around the corner and down the hall.
        After disrobing, I stepped into the furoba, and was happy to find the room empty.  I sat on one of the low stools and washed, then stood, turning to the brick onsen.  I hadn't noticed it before, having left my megane (glasses) in the dressing-toom, but now I saw that the water was dark brown, and as I stepped in I noted that visibility was limited to no more than a depth of five inches.  This was a solution unlike that of the crystal clear waters of Shima or Shibakawa, which Hebi-san and I had bottled for drinking later, or even Kusatsu's hellish sulfer baptismal, nonetheless clear.  It was as though I was immersing myself in a thick rust soup.  Nevertheless, I found the temperature to be just right and easy to regulate from a tap in the wall.  I stayed for over an hour, and left confident that I'd discovered, contrary to all the negative rumors, a convenient and mineral-rich onsen.

                                                                April 1997