Land of the rising sunburn
So here we are. If my last blog entry was the debut album, then this is that difficult second one. As I crack them writing knuckles, and stretch the neck - this week’s password for entry: guilty pleasure.
Back once again
It’s May 2019. I’m sat at Split airport, feeling fragile. My brain feels like a fishbowl, as I wave goodbye to fellow survivors of the past three days. I’ve been on a stag do and am a shell of the person that flew in a few days back. I’m dying (literally) for some of that good old ‘R and R’.
My better half is flying over to meet me, for an extended stay here in Croatia (two birds one stone). As I intermittently check the time table, her flight arrives on time, so I muster up enough energy to look vaguely alive. It looks like she’s moving here, based on the size of that suitcase! We jump on the coach to head back into Split, where we’re booked on a boat trip to a nearby island.
A few hours later, we arrive in picturesque Hvar (see below). It looks exactly like the postcards - result! Under the palm trees, we’re greeted by the hotel concierge; the sun bouncing off their bright white uniforms. They take our luggage and point us in the direction of the Amfora Grand Beach Resort.
We have a wonder, sampling some of the local spirits, before zig-zagging back to our base for the week ahead.
Channel hopping
We’re now a few days in, and slipping into the holiday routine nicely. You know the one: Buffet breakfast, beach, lunch, pool, cocktails, watch the sun go down, back to room, get ready for the evening, table booked as you stroll into town, holiday garms so new you have to pick their tags off.
You find me in the ‘back to room’ bit. Fresh out the shower, nursing my slightly sunburnt exterior! I fire up the TV in my crispy fresh shower robe and slippers, as I start wondering aimlessly through the hundreds of channels at my disposal.
As she tries on another outfit, I’ve already chosen mine without even looking (skills). I’ve got a Gin on the go, smugly taking advantage of these bonus minutes my ‘forward-planning’ has allowed me. Something in English, or sport - my desired destination.
As I jump from channel to channel, each holding my attention for as long as it takes for the channel number preview to disappear - I eventually stumble across a Japanese channel… in English (tick). The camera is focusing on a crowd, so it looks like this could also be sport (tick).
As the camera angle pans out, it reveals some sort of ring? And an official? Oh god, is this Channel Four in the nineties? It’s Sumo wrestling!
Select player start
Up until now, the only Sumo wrestlers I knew of were vaunted characters from my childhood, namely WWF’s Yokozuna, or E. Honda from Street Fighter II… Both notorious for their size, strength and finishing moves - my mouth nearly hits the floor as the next guy enters.
Gargantuan he is not: more a child in comparison! His name is Enho, weighing in at 15 stone (basically me after a weekend), and just 5’5 in height (I’m borderline 6ft, dependent on the weather)… even I’d fancy my chances against him. I’m intrigued: I’ll give it a few more minutes!
His opponent enters the dohyō (Japanese for ‘ring’), and is literally DOUBLE the size of him. Surely this match is only going one way? The Gyōji (pronounced ‘ref-er-ee’) stands in the middle of the two, looking pretty fly in his colourful kimono and matching hat! The match starts as both wrestlers knuckles touch the sand, before charging at each other (which the commentator calls the Tachi-ai).
As this 30 stone beast leaps towards our half-sized hero - he’s about to feel the same impact as being hit by a car! So I’m left gawping as Enho swerves his grapple, spinning around to leave his opponent bamboozled, before grabbing his leg and pushing him out the ring.
“OMG - The impossible has happened. David has defeated Goliath!”
Okay you have my attention now. As I put the remote down, to watch the remaining bouts, before I know it, credits are rolling and I’m getting tuts mixed with death stares: we’re going to be late for dinner!
What are the odds!?
It’s the morning after the night before, where we made the booking on time - balance restored! One lay-in later, we decide to venture up some mountains to a fort, sampling the local wine (hiccup). Before we know it, we’re back in the room. Once again, I find myself channel hopping: ‘Bloomberg news (more stocks), Al Jazeera (ooh football for about 5 mins… skip), NHK World Japan (next up - Sumo World). NO WAY. IT’S ON AGAIN!’
For the next 30 minutes, even she’s now watching (more impressive as she ‘doesn’t do sports’). We both happily glance at the TV, as we get ready for the evening ahead.
Now this is getting silly
Another beach day passes… and yes, we’re back in the room. TV on, we hit that channel just as that programme is about to start. This stumble may not have been as coincidental.
Nerd mode activated, we learn the tournament is held every few months, starting on a Sunday, and ending a couple of weeks later. Every day there are a round of fixtures, and the amount of wins they get can affect their ranking (Yokozuna is the highest). Each wrestler wants to win more matches than they lose (known as a kachi-koshi). We’re hooked, it has everything:
Action - There’s loads of it! Bonus lols when the ref gets knocked over!
Bitesize - Bouts are roughly 20 seconds (so highlights done in 30 mins)
Culture - The outfits, entrances, ceremonies, crowds… it’s another world.
For the remaining few days of our stay, we don’t miss an episode - it’s pandemonium perfected! But as our stay in Hvar draws to an end, so does our access to a TV (meaning we’ll miss the final day 15, where the winner is decided - bad times).
As we board the boat ready to spend the last few days back in Split; we wave goodbye to the island and our Japanese holiday romance!
Who knows? Sumos
Arriving back in England that following Monday, no sooner had we landed, gone through customs and jumped on a train, we were piling through the front door back home in Brighton.
As we begin to unpack, we stare at each other, waiting for one another to crack! ‘If you want to watch it just say?’. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ I smirk. We call a truce and find a stream for the tournament, huddling around her iPhone, where we catch up on the final days to see the winner crowned!
One year on, and we’ve just finished watching our ninth consecutive tournament. Already looking forward to the next one, I’m looking to master the ritual dance with my lockdown bod. I think it’s official…our Croatian fling, turned into a thing. Hai!
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