Time Travel

Many of us have dreamed of being transported in time to a world entirely at odds with the one we live in. Suppose a time machine were invented and is now at hand. A question then: if you had a choice, which era / place would you want to end up in? Me, I always head a weak spot for the ancient Athens: it would be lovely to wash vegetables together with Diogenes or play poker with Socrates.

Well, last Sunday April 29^th, at Jōnangū shrine in south Kyoto I did experience time-travel of sorts. Twice a year – in spring and autumn – the shrine hosts a re-enactment of an ancient poem-composing ritual, called Kyokusui no Utage曲水の宴 (Wandering Stream Banquet). It is a ceremony going back to the late Nara period (8^th C.). The practice slowly died out as the samurai gained political power, until a revival in the mid 20^th century.  

© DiscoverKyoto

Seven waka masters (5 men, 2 ladies) dressed in rich silk robes gracefully proceed onto a moss-carpeted garden and, after receiving the season's theme from the shrine priests, seat themselves along a garden stream, and write their poems on strips of paper to the tune of a koto melody wafting through the air. As the small cups of sake are sent sailing down the stream on bird-shaped boats, the poets occasionally lift the cup and take a sip. Once the waka have been composed, the strips of paper are collected and what follows is the highlight: the poems are finally read, or rather chanted out by a mini-choir of Shinto priests: a powerful, expressive harmony of complementary voices.

‘This was life!’ I said to myself, gradually drawn into this world of elegance, ritual and beauty. In fact I don’t recall ever being so at one with the environs so peculiar. I would like to reconsider my first choice for the time-travel.

Click below to watch videos.

Gagaku music with Shirabyoshi dance

Composing cum sake drinking

Priests intoning one of the 7 poems

Finale: Poets tottering back to their seats (that sake must've been rich!)

Midorogaike Jizo

It is odd to imagine that once upon a time this stately piece lay buried in a peat bog on the outskirts of Kyoto city. The handsome fella is in fact a bodhisattva Jizo statue, and the bog none other than our Midoroga pond. This Jizo is believed to be one of six similar statues carved from a single tree by one Ono-no-Takamura, a scholar who lived, died, then lived again in the early Heian period. The legend tells how the man passed, spent time in the underworld, then rose from the dead after some serious worshipping the Jizo. Once back on earth Takamura set about carving the six statues in the heat of religious verve.

The finished products were individually distributed to guard each one of the six ancient routes linking Kyoto with various towns and municipalities, such as Fushimi, Toba, Nagoya etc. Kurama-kaido connected Rakuchu (inner Kyoto city) to Shiga and beyond. It had the statue – affectionately known by locals as Kuramaguchi, or Midorogaike, or Aneko Jizo – posted at the road’s entrance, serving as a safe journey guardian.

Kurama-kaido used to pass by Midoroga pond. Tradition has it that nearby lay ‘a demon gateway’. The demons were supposed to reside in Kurama and Kifune, a few kilometres north of the pond. In order to keep the wretches at bay, the custom of bean-throwing (mamemaki, 豆まき) sat about at a nearby Yoshida shrine and has been continued to this day as part of the Setsubun (節分) celebrations at the start of spring (Feb 3^rd).

It remains unclear though how this particular statue ended up in the bog, or the way it was found and retrieved from its muddy cradle. Currently the statue, all spruced up, sits enshrined at Jozenji near the present day Kuramaguchi subway station – once a boundary separating the inner city (rakuchu) from the suburbs (rakugai), or ‘the world beyond’.

Jozenji is one of those local ‘B-temples’, exuding a certain dose of neglect and lack of refinement (an odd carton box in the worship hall, a motorbike casually stationed by the main entrance). At the same time this semi-lax atmosphere lends it an air of intimacy that is largely absent from its more famous, touristy cousins. In late August pilgrims flock to the temple for the Kyoto Rokujizo Meguri – a pilgrimage to Six Jizo temples. The ceremony involves the worshippers walking along the route connecting the points of the ancient roads, as well as hanging paper amulets (ofuda) outside their homes for exorcising unquiet spirits. The powers of superstition drag on.

more info http://www.kyoto-meguri.com/rokujizoumeguri.html

Midorogaike

* A pond about 1,500m in circumference
* Creatures surviving since the Ice Age
* Biological communities designated as natural treasures 
* A pond of many legends
* The name’s origin unknown. One link to the discovery of      "Miroku Bosatsu Bodhisattva statue" inside the pond
* Midorogaike 深泥池: a straight reading of kanji impossible, loosely translated as ‘a bottomless muddy pond’

Hiyoshi Taisha

The first thing that catches one’s eye are two wooden structures nestled high up the hill in the midst of a thick, lush forest overlooking Biwa lake. The sight alone is intriguing enough to make one wish to visit the temple in the first place. A map by the footpath suggests large temple grounds. What sticks out is an odd-looking position of three bridges, situated in the very close proximity to each other. Our visit will show that bridges are not the only unusual feature at Hiyoshi Taisha.

At the south gate we are required to pay entrance fee, somewhat surprising as Shinto shrines in Japan are usually visited free of charge. I later learn that in the Middle Ages, the nearby Enryaku-ji temple influenced the shrine to include some Buddhist ethos: could this be the reason for fee inclusion? A middle-aged woman with an overly serious expression hands us the printed guides: the English version, being a single sheet of typed text on A4 sheet of paper, looks a poor cousin to its fancy Japanese counterpart. No complaints though, good intentions appreciated.

After climbing up a longish set of stone steps, we find ourselves in front of a vermillion gate (torii). The torii is built in Sanno style, unusual in that its two top lintels are crowned with a triangular attachment, a sort of gable, thus creating a ‘rooftop’, or perhaps an ‘arms-in-prayer’, effect (Wikipedia suggests Hiyoshi Taisha has the best example of Sanno torii in Japan).

After the obligatory bow, we continue sauntering up a wide gravel path. It is a beautiful, crisp autumn day. After a few minutes another surprise: inside a metal cage two snow monkeys! It strikes us immediately how small and dark the cage is. Poor fellas, they could certainly do with some exercise. Give them more elbow room for pity’s sake!

                    Messengers of God

                    behind metal bars:

                    a pair of macaques

We leave the caged creatures behind and soon come upon a rock apparently of certain import. My companion Y. kindly translates the adjacent notice, which states the rock is considered medicinal. It has a slight depression in the middle, allowing for rainwater to develop on rainy days. Thus formed, the water inside this puddle is believed to be therapeutic, for the ailing eye in particular. Should one then splash one’s eyes with puddle water and expect a miraculous recovery?!

Climbing up the Hachioji hill to reach the aforementioned ‘twin’ shrine halls proves a minor miracle itself. Y. is wearing flat shoes which invariably threaten to fall apart. It does not help that we are sweating like pigs with no towel at hand, that the path is steep and dotted with sharp rocks. It takes us forty or so minutes to reach the two shrines, Sannomiyagu and Ushiogu. The view of lake Biwa is spectacular and for it alone the climb was worth it. We sit down on the steps and take a few panoramic photos. At one moment the breeze carries a strong herbal fragrance over to our nostrils, so strong in fact that for a second I think I have just entered an essential oils store!

                    Hachioji hill:

                    smitten by the essence

                    of an unknown herb

      

We climb a few more steps to pay respects to a famous Great Golden Rock situated between the two buildings. The rock derives its name from the fact that the sunlight is reflected off it on sunny mornings. The rock is even mentioned in the Kojiki, the oldest written record of Japanese history. I imagine the golden sun reflection must be quite a sight. If I ever decide to come back here on some sunny day, it will only be me in full hiking gear, and with plenty of water!

It is time to walk back downhill. Y. wishes she had a pair of wings to put on then glide back to the lower altitudes! Walking, or more accurately, staggering toward the shrine exit we pass the three stone bridges we saw earlier on the map.  Why are they so close to each other? Y. and I venture a few guesses. Perhaps they were made to serve different social stratums: one for nobility, one for priests, one for peasants. Or were they built for aesthetic effect, as a kind of medieval take on conceptual art installation? The truth, we later find out, is more prosaic than that. After Oda Nobunaga’s army burnt the shrine around 1571, the new buildings were erected soon after. The rebuild included old wooden bridges, which were replaced by the fireproof stone ones, which stand to this day. But why three bridges? The more the merrier, we dare presume.

Two Faces of Our City

Today, on May 1^st, I went out on scooter hoping to locate workers’ gathering or a political rally of some kind. My expectations were based on witnessing a May Day demo five years ago (report here) that consisted of a rather well-behaved procession of some hundred chanting protesters walking in orderly fashion down Horikawa street. After all, they were allowed a single street lane at the same time obeying the usual pedestrian rules including waiting at traffic lights. Shepherded by the police uniform, the parade was nevertheless intent on drowning out the passing traffic, the marchers shouting on top of their voices.

Today, alas, they were hard to come by. After vainly riding up and down Horikawa and the adjacent streets for some time, I gave it up. ‘Well, so much for labour solidarity’, I mumbled to myself. Disappointed, I turned onto Oike street and headed east. Good thing I did, because once I reached the City Hall there it was, your proper workers demo – the crowds, the placards, chants, flags, whistles, megaphones. The place wasn’t exactly on fire, more like simmering in warm spring sunshine. At least it seemed livelier than what I remember from five years ago.

After a good quarter of an hour of incessant slogan-yelling and air-punching fists, it was getting a bit monotonous. Arms getting tired too. Thankfully the proceedings took a sprightly turn. Someone from the organizing committee (local JCP?) told the crowds to form a file and start tripping and skipping about the tarmac, which looked a lot like a Dragon Dance, albeit a dragon up in years. Gradually the chanting procession snaked its way toward the entrance steps to the City Hall where the smiling committee stood waving – too many marchers to shake hands with everyone.

What is strikingly different between a Japanese demo and say, one held this year in France or Turkey, is its non-threatening, almost celebratory nature. In Europe there was a lot of hatred, violence, crushed skulls and burning vehicles. In Kyoto, if there is hatred and dissatisfaction – and there must be otherwise there would be no protest – these are not overtly expressed. Are Japanese aware perhaps that violence or no violence, at the end of the day nothing will change? Is their ‘predicament’ worth risking neck for? Probably not.

May Day Kyoto Demos 2016

The last jumping member had been waved off, the committee disbanded, the Dragon fell to pieces. The crowds did not disperse though. Perhaps they were taking a well-deserved break before marching on south toward Kyoto station? Myself, I was delighted to have found my demo after all, and was reminded of that age-old truth: good things happen when you least expect them.

Filled up with revolutionary sentiments, I suddenly wished for different, more peaceful environs. I rode northeast and picked Enkō-ji temple at the foothills of Mt. Hiei. Just what the doctor ordered. The temple grounds are the polar opposite of the City Hall’s simmering stage. The protest pulled you in and you wanted to be a part of the crowd, the next person your ‘brother in arms’. At Enkō-ji a different game. All you really want is to be left alone; to give in to your senses; to hear yourself breathing.

The demo was about a need for change, be it social, political etc. The self-respecting air of Enkō-ji exudes resistance to change, a sense of fixedness. The only threat to status-quo is of an evolutionary kind, if that: young bamboo shoots springing up here and there in the shadow of their elderly cousins, or the bullfrog’s murderous bellow, only underline the permanence of things.

And so, today I have been a guest in two worlds, worlds that could not be more different. And no matter how hard I tried to find some kind of meaningful connection between them, I failed. There is no connection here, apart from physical proximity. Then there is the realization that it is possible to trespass on both worlds in a short space of time, and belong to both. Or more accurately, belong to neither.