I'm en route to Sado Island - my first stop in Japan
on the way to Korea and China.
I'm impatient to get there.
Sado Island is where the Kodo drummers live.
I first saw them perform ten years ago.
Their sheer power and energy has stayed in my memory ever since.
Which is why I've come to this modest, respectable, out-of-the-way island.
In the Middle Ages, Sado was a place of exile.
Now it's where the Kodos work and train, and they've invited me to join them for a day.
They're putting me up in a ryokan - a traditional inn -
called the House of the Red Pear.
It's run by the lady who grew up in it.
- Hello. - Michael Palin.
Michael. Michael Palin. Thank you.
Right, let's go.
Mamasan showed me up to my room.
Into the woods. Thank you.
It's lovely. Thank you.
Yes. Right.
- This... yukata. - Yukata. Right.
- Ooh! - Shoes are wrong, I know.
Oh. I'm sorry. Yes, yes. Oh, dear.
That's another shoe error.
- Yes. Lovely. - Haori.
That's like a dressing gown? Like you're wearing.
- Haori. Jacket. - Jacket. I see. Very nice.
- Obi. - Obi. Which is a belt.
Yes. Not quite sure how to put all this on.
That's lovely. Thank you.
That's in there, right. Sleeping... Where do I sleep?
Sleeping...
- This. - I see. That's put out. Futon.
You put it out? Yes, I see.
Yes, I think I'll lay it out. Good. Fine.
The ryokan is immaculate - like a newly finished dolls' house.
Everything has its place - even Mamasan's goldfish,
which are fed every afternoon at five.
Every morning at five, the Kodo apprentices begin the day with a ten-kilometre run.
I've asked if I can train with them and my bluff has been called.
There are ten of us, and in deference to my great age,
they've reduced the ten kilometres... to nine.
(WARBLING SHOUTING)
Then they make a lot of noise which welcomes the sun
and keeps down local property values.
This is where it all started - the old schoolhouse which Kodo bought in 1981.
Here, a few carefully chosen apprentices spend a year
in frugal, almost monastic conditions.
They cook and clean for themselves, may not drink or smoke
and have one shower and one stove between them.
They're here to drum.
The technique is based on the art of the traditional Japanese drum - the taiko.
The word "kodo" means two things -
"heartbeat" and "children of the drum".
The teaching emphasises the need to play with the innocence and energy of a child.
They drum for 90 minutes each morning and afternoon, six days a week.
It's like playing in the Cup Final twice a day.
At the end of the year, only one, or maybe two, of these apprentices
will be chosen to become full members of Kodo.
Sayo is 24. She's given up a job teaching English to attempt the near-impossible.
(SAY0) The sound of the drumming becomes together with my heartbreak.
Your heartbeat.
At first, I have to think, "OK. Rhythm... Oh, I have to raise my arm more."
I have to think at first. Then, as I get used to it...
Maybe 30 minutes or an hour. Sometimes it takes two hours.
But as I play taiko more and more,
then I become a part of like taiko.
In case you think it's a youngster's game,
this is Yoshi Kazu - one of the founders of Kodo.
In three years, he'll be 50.
Yoshi Kazu is one of the only two members of Kodo
strong enough to play the hugely demanding big drum - 0-daiko.
At their new headquarters, the other virtuoso, Eichi Saito,
is auditioning for a successor.
(SPEAKS JAPANESE)
OK. Is that right?
- Relax. - I'm not relaxed!
I've never hit anything this big in my life.
- More? - Power.
We British are not brought up to make a noise. We're brought up to be very quiet and retiring.
- Good. - How do you do it?
How long can you play this for continuously?
- 15 minutes. - 15 minutes!
15 seconds is my limit. We'll come back later to that!
Back at the harbour, the fishing boats are in.
Most of their catch seems to have gone straight to the House of the Red Pear.
Oh, I say.
- Seaweed. - Seaweed.
- Seaweed. This name - igonay. - Igonay. I'll try and remember that.
Not Egon Ronay, but igonay.
- Vegetables. - That's tofu, is it?
- Tofu. Shell... fish. - Shellfish, yes.
With the shellfish and the seaweed, there is bream and squid and scallops,
sea snails, abalone in soy sauce and teriyaki of tuna stomach.
Scarcely a denizen of the deep is unrepresented at Mamasan's table.
All served on quite different things.
Oh, magnificent. Magnificent. Absolutely wonderful.
- Sake? - Yes, thank you.
Thank you. This is hot sake?
Thank you. Well, cheers. Bottoms ups.
- Oh, shit! - (LAUGHTER)
I'm terribly nervous. I'm terribly nervous that I'm going to do everything wrong.
Isn't it beautiful? All I've done is knock the sake over. It's not a big deal.
Bottoms up and the bottom did go up. No giggling. Thank you.
Now, then... try and get this meal back on the road. Look at that. Isn't that delightful?
I'm going to have a little bit of this very succulent fish.
My crash course in Japanese cuisine is just a golden memory next morning.
This is modern Japan - fast food for people on the move.
(WOMAN'S VOICE ON TANNOY)
Even in the country, a spotless train arrives at a spotless platform spot on time.
We're on our way south across Honshu - the largest of Japan's three main islands.
From the rice plains of the coast to the rice terraces in the mountain valleys.
The journey to Tokyo surprises me -
two thirds of this crowded country still consists of woodland and forest.
Tokyo - fourth largest city in the world - is another kind of forest.
Dense, uncompromising and overgrown.
It's the first mega-city on our route
and it's especially confusing if you're not Japanese.
There is someone I know here who might help me make sense of it.
She's a girl called Mayumi who was Japan's first "Monty Python" fan.
- (COINS JINGLE) - In profit already.
I've fixed a rendezvous at a city-centre cafe.
But first I've got to find my way there, on my own.
(LAUGHTER)
Well, almost on my own.
Although we've exchanged many letters, Mayumi and I have never actually met.
Mayumi? Are you Mayumi Nobetsu? You are?
- Hello. Nice to see you. - Hello.
Am I allowed to give you a kiss? They don't do that in Japan too much.
How are you? What is this? Somebody told you I was coming!
- Welcome to Tokyo. - Thank you. How are you doing?
It's nice of you to do this. I thought we ought to meet after all this time.
- I think so too. - When was it?
- 20 years already. - When you wrote the first letter?
Uh-huh. I started learning English.
I just wrote, "I am Japanese. I am a girl." Like this. And you wrote me back.
I loved your letters.
20 years. So, I'd be a young lad of 32.
- You looked like this. - Oh, that is wonderful!
- Long hair. "Holy Grail." - Yes. You were in "Holy Grail".
We got to meet. That's really nice.
I've been trying to find my way around Tokyo and I thought you could show me around.
Sure.
Leaving the corporate tower blocks and cold plazas behind,
Mayumi and I head for the slightly shady street life
of a working-class neighbourhood called Asakusa.
This street looks like more gambling street.
These are stands for the newspapers of horse racing.
This guy is selling horse-race ticket.
- This gentleman, I think he won something. - How much did he win?
Excuse me. We're from England - a great gambling nation.
- He spent only 1,000 yen. - 1,000 yen.
With this ticket... 5,000... This means 370,000 yen he won.
On a thousand-yen bet? Good. Congratulations.
Let's stick around. Back to your place. I feel a bit of racing fever coming on.
OK. Why don't we try horse racing?
Cockpit Fever is number one. Or do you want to try seven - Super Licence?
- Super Licence? OK. BBC. Very appropriate. - Number seven. Super Licence.
I find horse-race commentaries difficult to follow in English.
In Japanese, it's impossible. Super Licence could have been taken by extraterrestrials.
It's finished.
- We won! - We won? Number seven. Really?
(SPEAKS JAPANESE)
- Won seven. - Hey! Well done.
There we are. Look at that. Number seven.
- All the money. - Here we are.
126,000 yen!
- On, what, a 5,000 bet? - Right.
That's about 12 to one. And the horse was called Super Licence.
There we are. We'd better not show this too much.
A grand total of £845.63 -
the most I've ever won on a horse in my entire life.
That's yours... and this is mine!
We celebrate at one of Tokyo's oldest restaurants.
For 190 years, undeterred by earthquakes and American bombing,
the Dojo Nabe has served the people of Tokyo
with something they could not get anywhere else.
There we go. Thank you.
- Here? - Yes.
I've been places without chairs before, but never anywhere without a table.
News of my win must have got about,
for the owner of the restaurant, Mr Watanabe, insists on joining us.
Mr Watanabe, what is it that you serve here?
- What's your speciality? - Dojo nabe.
- Dojo nabe? Yeah.
Cooked loach in a pot.
Cooked loach? I've no idea what loach is.
The loach is a freshwater fish with two attractions for the Japanese -
it aids both digestion and virility.
0nce selected, the lucky or unlucky loach are tipped into wooden tubs
and served copious amounts of sake - the Japanese rice wine.
- They become full of sake? - Enjoy!
- Enjoy drinking it. - They enjoy it, do they?
- And then die! - And then what happens?
The tottering loach are then upended into a soup of secret ingredients.
To complete the dining experience, each table is supplied with its own blast furnace.
So has this recipe been in use for 195 years?
No change at all from the beginning.
- I am sixth generation. - Sixth generation of people who run this?
Of the Watanabe family? Right. Is your son going to do it as well?
Maybe. I hope so. He working at other company.
- Is he? - Him a dishwasher!
Oh. Starting at the top!
(MAYUMl) Let's start now.
Mr Watanabe's enthusiasm for loach borders on the obsessive.
He even publishes a loach newsletter four times a year.
Do we eat the whole fish? Bones and everything?
(MAYUMl) Yes. And leeks on the top of it.
The whole fish goes in.
- Hot. Very careful. - Mmm.
The leeks, the onions are very good with it. They really just...
just add that nice sort of clean taste.
They tell me the restaurant has a famous slogan.
"If you keep eating, you can't die" because if you died you wouldn't be able to eat!
(HEAVY ROCK MUSIC)
This may look like a hallucination brought on by an overdose of loach,
but it's actually Tokyo on a Sunday afternoon.
(POP MUSIC)
A mile-long stretch of Yoyogi Park is closed to traffic and open to everything else.
0r so it seems.
In fact, it's all strangely clean and innocent.
By dressing as English heavy-metallers, Dutch punks or American rockers,
these young Japanese can be outrageous and blame it on somebody else.
(ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC)
It's a way of showing off in a country where showing off is not encouraged.
(ANN0UNCER) Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Shinkansen.
This is the Hikari Super Express, bound for Hakata.
We will be stopping at Shin-Yokohama, Nagoya, Kyoto...
(MICHAEL) It's time to leave Tokyo and Mayumi, and head south on the bullet train,
accelerating fast until we're lapping the Tokyo suburbs at 2.5 miles a minute.
The train will take us down to the island of Kyushu
from which there's a ferry for Korea.
But we're almost 200 miles out of Tokyo
before the urban sprawl gives way to something like open countryside.
We break the journey to look at a way of life which modern Japan has hardly touched.
This is the Zen Buddhist temple at Buttsuji.
It's been a place of silence and meditation for 600 years.
The immaculate grounds reflect the love of precision, order and formality
which lie at the heart of Japanese culture.
Seeing these spartan surroundings makes me aware of how much clutter I carry.
By the time I've climbed yet more stairs, I'm ready to renounce all worldly goods -
beginning with my suitcase.
Later that afternoon I'm summoned to meet the abbot - the Roshi.
As I wait, I find my mind full of ignoble distractions,
like "Do they have chairs?"
- Welcome to Buttsuji. - Thank you for letting me come.
I am abbot of Buttsuji. My name is Sokun. Please call me Sokun.
Sokun. I will indeed.
I know I'm only here for a very short time, but I hope I'll learn something.
Is it possible to say in a few words
what the difference is between the Zen Buddhism that you practise here
and more traditional Buddhism?
Yes. We mainly practise zazen - Zen meditation.
And... Not only by learning from books,
but also practising with our whole body - with body and mind.
(S0KUN) And with the unity of body and mind,
we can attain our true nature.
And from the morning till night - for 24 hours -
each moment is the practice.
(MICHAEL) The most important part is meditation - to which I have been invited.
It takes place in an old wood-beamed hall - the zendo.
The monks live here. Each one has a tatami mat three and a half feet wide and seven feet long.
And that's about all.
It's rather like the first day at school,
watching everyone else and hoping not to make some terrible gaffe.
When we're all sitting comfortably... nothing happens.
0nce I've accepted that nothing is going to happen, calm descends.
All I have to do is be.
(HIGH-PITCHED NOTE LINGERS)
After what seems hours, a bell indicates a break,
in which tired limbs can be rearranged before the next session.
(BELL RINGS)
Then, as calm is descending for a second time, something finally happens.
Just as I'm wondering what it must be like, I'm offered the chance to find out.
He can't do enough to make me comfortable.
And in the true spirit of Zen, I thank him.
I learn afterwards that this is the keisaku - the warning stick.
A means of ensuring that meditation does not become an excuse for a quick nap.
(S0KUN) You know, the monks should sit for over 15 hours a day
when we practise the big session.
As I am only here for one night, what will I be able to learn in that time, do you think?
You? But that is your problem. You must not ask me.
Oh, well. Interviewing never was a Zen activity.
(SOFT CHANTING AND BELLS)
The spirit of the past haunts Japanese life in the most surprising ways.
(JOLLY PIPE-ORGAN MUSIC)
For 200 years, Japan hid away from the world
and the Dutch were the only people allowed to trade with them.
It isn't a dream, you know.
You might think it's a dream - I almost did - but, in fact, it is reality.
Well, it's not actually reality. It's a fake.
You see, I'm in Holland... but I'm also in Japan.
It's all very Zen.
To celebrate this Dutch connection,
a Nagasaki businessman has raised $2.5 billion
to recreate 17th-century Holland on the shores of the East China Sea.
Most historic Dutch buildings, including the Royal Palace, are faithfully reproduced.
But thanks to Japanese technology, the canals are self-cleaning
and the merchants' houses are earthquake-proof.
(MOURNFUL BRASS BAND PLAYS)
Four million Japanese come here every year
to see what life in Europe is really like.
This theme park with clogs on has become Japan's favourite honeymoon destination.
This celebration of historic links with the foreigner
seems to me to be the fantasy of a country ill at ease with the rest of the world.
99% of all Japanese were born and still live in Japan -
a country with no minorities of any size.
The village is a success because it enables the Japanese to be part of the wider world
without ever having to leave home.
The wider world has always come to Japan through Nagasaki.
First the Dutch came here,
then the British and Americans set up Japan's first railways, coal mines and shipyards here
and, in 1945, the biggest bomb the world had ever known was dropped here.
At 11 o'clock on a Wednesday morning,
the equivalent of 22,000 tons of TNT exploded above this spot.
More people were killed in this one blast
than were killed in all the bombing raids on Britain in the Second World War.
More than 50 years later, the Japanese make a point of not forgetting.
School parties lay streamers made up of paper birds -
a token of respect for the dead.
They sing songs of peace a few hundred yards from all that remains of a Catholic cathedral
that lay directly in the path of the world's second atomic bomb.
(CHILDREN SING)
The bomb that wiped out a third of Nagasaki was intended for the Mitsubishi shipyard.
Mitsubishi survived and, with American aid, became the world's number one.
But as the Japanese learnt from others, so others learnt from them.
Across the water lies my next destination -
the country whose shipbuilders beat the Japanese at their own game.
We're just about to leave Hakata port in Japan
for the ferry trip to Korea - another country.
I feel all those things you feel about travel -
a bit harassed with getting bags on and off and tickets,
but also curiosity about the country we're going to see.
Though Japan and South Korea are a ferry ride from each other,
they've never been happy neighbours.
Tomorrow I shall arrive in Pusan.
As I travel north to Seoul, I hope to find out more about this tiny country
wedged in between Japan and China - our next destination.
As we approach the land of the morning calm,
I look out for images of Korean-ness.
But the busy waterfront could be any modern city
and the concrete apartment blocks stare blankly back.
The capital, Seoul, 300 miles north -
a new city ballooning out over the countryside
from which it has sucked in 11 million inhabitants.
These office blocks belong to the family conglomerates,
which have guided Korea through one of the world's fastest industrial revolutions.
In the short space of 20 years,
Samsung, Daewoo, Hyundai and others have won this old country new recognition.
I walk through one of Seoul's markets in the company of a young journalist, Shin-Na.
What do the Koreans think? Are they proud of what they've done in Seoul?
Yeah, they are proud. They just got out of a war 20 years ago.
Who do they measure themselves against?
They always measure themselves against Japan
because Japan was also levelled by war and they rose to become a great economic power.
- So the Koreans look to their neighbours. - Do they still harbour a grudge?
Yeah. There is still anti-Japanese sentiment, especially among older Koreans.
Japanese pop culture - music, cartoons, things like that -
are still banned in Korea and Japanese cars are banned.
This anti-Japanese feeling is a surprise until you read the history.
Early this century, the Japanese occupied Korea for 36 years - pretty ruthlessly.
The Koreans are determined to get their own back by winning the economic war.
But Korean single-mindedness is showing cracks, especially among the young.
Hanging here are photos of the victims of a massacre of 200 students in 1981,
which has since traumatised Korean politics.
There is outrage that the generals responsible for it
have been granted immunity from prosecution.
(STIRRING SONG)
Police are deployed in anticipation of a march which might well end in a riot.
Multiparty democracy in Korea is less than ten years old and a very demanding child.
Shin explains that these confrontations are increasingly common.
Protesters and police know each other's tactics.
But the cars are doing U-turns,
and to an outsider it looks pretty threatening,
as students and union leaders take to the streets.
- How many do you reckon here? - Several thousand.
Several thousand. Shouting what? What are they shouting?
The shouts of "Massacre the massacrers" are directed against the generals involved,
but there's also anger at a much wider corruption in public life.
This particular march was not in vain.
A few months later, the generals were arrested, tried and imprisoned.
Next morning, Shin and I are doing our best to cross the city.
We've been invited to a wedding.
In the South Seoul Marriage Hall,
every wedding-day worry is taken out of your hands by an expert staff.
Everything is for hire, except the guests and the person you marry.
Brides can be dressed, decorated and delivered to the altar in rented loveliness
within the hour.
Shin tells me that one in four Koreans is a practising Christian.
The ceremony is a mixture of Western religious ritual
and Korean business opportunism.
First, the Korean opportunism.
This is traditional. Everyone gives some dosh at the beginning.
- Is this instead of a wedding present? - Yes. Or in addition to.
- This is to help them pay for the wedding. - Thank you very much.
The proud parents - the women in traditional dress and the men dressed as band leaders.
Their daughter is prepared for the 2. 15 ceremony in the number two wedding salon.
(PIANO PLAYS "HERE COMES THE BRIDE")
This family has opted for the simple piano,
knowing that the money saved can be spent on something more spectacular.
Everyone is a bit misty-eyed by now
and the in-house video is there to record it.
0utside the salon, the atmosphere is less sentimental.
As the men of the family count the takings, the bride is prepared for one last photo opportunity.
This is all that's left of the way they used to get married.
The happy couple are immortalised by sophisticated camera equipment
in front of Korea's rented past.
This is the real thing - the Pulguksa Temple,
known officially as "historic site and scenic beauty number one".
In a place like this, you begin to get a clearer sense of what defines the Koreans.
They have a history 5,000 years old.
It's different from anyone else's and they're proud of it.
Despite constant invasions, they've kept their own language, alphabet and architecture.
Pulguksa stood for a thousand years
before being destroyed by Japanese invaders in the 17th century.
It's now restored, and after days among the concrete canyons of Seoul,
its colour and craftsmanship is like a breath of fresh air.
Today, we shall encounter our first serious obstacle to progress around the Pacific Rim.
It's called North Korea,
and no matter how nicely you ask, North Korea is not interested in seeing you.
There is only one way to approach it.
This is the start of a tour into one of the most militarised borders on earth,
so special restrictions do prevail.
First, I have to sign a visitor's declaration
which says, "the visit will entail entry into a hostile area
"and possibility of injury or death as a result of enemy action...
"Although incidents are not anticipated,
"the United Nations, the USA and the Republic of Korea
"cannot guarantee the safety of visitors and may not be held accountable."
So I just have to sign this, let them off the hook, and we can go on with the tour.
"In front of them all" is the motto of the 506th Infantry -
some of the 37,000 American troops still stationed in Korea.
The war they fight now is a propaganda war.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Freedom House.
Today's Gls double as guides, taking foreign tourists - no South Koreans are allowed -
right up to the border itself and right back in time.
Here, the cold war is still frozen solid. 0ut there is the enemy.
You are still under close observation, so refrain from any hand and arm gestures.
In front is the North Korean administrative building.
It was built on a man-made hill
to ensure its dimensions are one metre higher and wider than this.
We're in a world of minefields and tank traps,
B-52 bombers, attack helicopters
and quick-reaction forces - ready for combat in 90 seconds flat.
Momentarily, we'll be going in the vicinity of the MAC building.
From the way they talk, you'd think the Korean war had ended yesterday.
In fact, it's never officially ended.
In this hut, actually built over the border itself,
MAC - the Military Armistice Commission -
has been trying to turn a ceasefire into a peace for 43 years.
Welcome to the MAC building
where the meetings essential to the supervision of the ceasefire are held.
All the meetings last three to four hours - one lasted 11.
Everything is translated into three languages - English, Korean, Chinese.
Beneath all the military-speak, the fact remains
that these are the world's least successful peace talks.
Most of the time seems to have been spent discussing the placing of microphones.
Ours is on a two-tier base, theirs on three. They're both equal in height.
But the only thing that matters is the line running down the middle of the hut,
and that's not budged an inch.
Those on my left, welcome to Communist North Korea.
Those to my right are safe in the Republic.
If you wish to cross into North Korea, please do so at that end of the table.
If you have any questions, I'll be located to the southern end of the door.
It's a bit busy in North Korea. I'll try and get round.
I've been around a bit but I've never known a more bizarre way to enter a new country.
It's very...
Crossing the frontier is halfway between a parlour game
and a visit to the house of horrors.
Nearly there. Inches to go.
North Korea.
It's a chance for all of us from the lands of the free
to experience a frisson of Communism,
a hint of what might have been, a whiff of the old enemy.
As the tour rolls remorselessly on, my spirits remorselessly sink.
No one seems to care if nothing happens here.
The military get training, the South Koreans get their border watched,
and those like me, who believe in human contact, get depressed.
It's a place deserted by common sense.
When we are allowed a view of North Korea,
the village we see is just another piece of propaganda - no one lives there.
This is the end of the road.
We can't go any further into Korea without the risk of being shot or arrested.
It comes as a bit of a shock to find such a heavily fortified, potentially lethal border
in the middle of the open Pacific Rim area,
but I suppose the immeasurable sadness of a place like this
is that it's not a border between two rival countries.
It's a border that separates one country... from itself.
(PIPED BUGLE CALL)
As the flags come down,
so do our chances of passing unhampered around the Pacific Rim.
North Korea may be a brick wall, but it's not one on which I shall bang my head.
I'll leave that to somebody else. I've got to get to China.