Koya San (高野山)

Leaving Nara behind me, I took the train up to Osaka, the pulsing heart of central Japan. It's a busy place, full of life, but somewhere to live, not a place for travelling. I passed straight through and picked up a fast train out of the city, heading for Koya San - the mountain-top home of Shingon Buddhism, and an absolute world away from urban Osaka.

In half an hour or so I was out of the tower blocks and highways, and another half hour and I was surrounded by rolling valleys and stepped paddy fields. The landscape grew increasingly precipitous, and the hills rose and valleys dropped, until I found myself in mountain country. The last ten stops were all tiny village stations on sloping mountain sides, a single, smartly dressed station chief saluting the train with his gloved hand. Finally it pulled in around 3pm to the station at the base of Koya San, from where I queued with a few tourists, twice as many townsfolk, and a couple of smartly dressed commuters, to board the cable car.

The ride took us up the mountain slope at a 45degree angle, the mechanics creaking loudly as it pulled us uphill. My ears popped as I watched a black man in a white jacket sit on the front seat, looking up excitedly like a child queueing for sweets, and talking in broken Japanese to a friendly granny.

At the top we boarded waiting buses, which took us into the main town. I sat behind the white jacket, listening to their conversation. Seeing his Japanese stutter and fail, I joined the chat. It turned out he was a Londoner, who had just completed the Shikoku Pilgrimage, a mammoth 88-shrine marathon that took him a very fast 38 days, on which he wore out 9 pairs of sandals (apparently single-thong Japanese flip-flops create the Lucifer of blisters). He was chummy, and appreciated the help - he'd been in Japan as long as I had, but the time I'd been spending learning Japanese he had spent walking. His white jacket was covered in assorted decorative stamps from each of the shrines he had visited, and to collect his final stamp he had to return to Koya San, the start and end point of the epic trek. With a plane to catch back to England the same day, he took the cable car up rather than walk. Fair cop really.

I got off the bus on the central street (one of four in the town), and as I was still early for my accommodation, I took a walk around. The town is almost entirely made up of Monasteries, of which there are around 120 (though at its peak in the C17th there were over a thousand). They are adorned with delicately sculpted wood and beautiful deep-brown thatch, on that day laced with thin patches of snow. It was much colder than Osaka, but the air fresher, the sky clearer.

At the heart of the town is the central sacrosanct area known as the Garan, comprised of the the great halls of the buddhist sect, and a grand, central red pagoda.

Recently rebuilt and shining with red lacquer, it almost looked TOO new - with a bright sheen and bold colour contrasts. Inside, a 3D mandala of statues; 16 pillars of the different emotions, and four great figures representing Wealth, Health, Intelligence, and the Path to Heaven - the four attributes of a good life for Shingon disciples, hardly the ascetic Buddhism that we know in the west from Zen. In the centre of them all sat a great Buddha, serene on a lily pad. Their gold leaf bodies shone brilliantly with their indigo blue hair, their faces bright and stylised in a way that reminded me of Bollywood posters. But then, Buddhism came through the silk road form India, and the roots stay close.


With the short winter day drawing to a close early, I made my way up to my accommodation, staying in a Monastery lodging recommended by the Rough Guide (these temple lodges are called Shukubo). I picked Haryoin (巴陵院) for the simple reason that it was cheap (by Koya San standards at least - about £35 p n). If you're going, not bother staying there; there's much nicer places to go. It's on the edge of town, and from my first entrance it was clear this was not an ordinary place. I walked in through the gate, and went up and took my boots off and placed them on the rack. I knocked on the closed shutters, and no reply. I stood in the cold waiting, until I heard a rattling coming my way. Then the shutters burst open, and a monkey-like, inquisitive face shot through the gap in the door, followed by a sloped body in work clothes and green wellies. I bowed and said 'Konnichi wa'. Unimpressed, he told me to come in, and shuffled off, dragging one useless leg along behind.

Signing in didn't go so well. He wouldn't let me give a Japanese address for my permanent residency. I was a foreigner, and so I had to give a foreign address. I tried to explain in Japanese, but he would only accept English from me. Not worth arguing about, but rather un-monkish. Carrying my bags upstairs, I saw some more dubious signs - large, framed photographs of Japanese battleships, and draped Rising Sun flags (the ones with red and white stripes, that went out of fashion around the second of September 1945). Not very Buddhist, some might say...

The room was quick-fit tatami, small and with a view of a leafy hillside (rather close to the window, about 2m away). Clearly that's why this place was cheaper than the rest. you pay for what you get. Tired from my travels, I rested up and drank green tea in my little room, waiting for the dinner gong. Hearing it bang on schedule, I went down to the prescribed room. It was large, with a spotless tatami floor, a single heater, and a single floor cushion, for me. So I would be dining alone then.

As soon as I'd sat down, the paper door slid open again, and another monk brought me tray of food. It was delicious. Shukubo are famous for their cuisine, serving a special vegetarian diet called Shojin Ryori (庶人料理). There were sweet lentil pastes, fresh vegetables, mushrooms, a delicate miso soup and a wonderful local speciality - light, clean-tasting, Koya Tofu (高野豆腐). The kind of food that makes you smile.

I polished off the whole lot, and felt pleasingly full despite the slight appearance of each individual portion. Feeling much better about the world, I went back to my room, and played with the heater to get some of the chill out of the room. I don't think the full glass wall helped. Soon, I could see my breath.

Retreating from the cold, I went down for a hot bath. Shivering in the freezing air, I stripped off and entered the onsen room. It was a sparse tiled room, with a steamed window, a couple of plastic squat pots and a large, steaming bath. I got down on the pot and lathered up, before scooping up a large bowl of very hot water and dowsing my entire body. Blissful heat on a shivering body. I got clean as quick as possible, swept the soap off and prepared for the plunge. Three steps and I was in, lost in the overwhelming heat. Pure joy. I leaned back with a sigh, and looked up the ceiling, where thousands of bobbling droplets hung like bats. Occasionally they dropped down onto me, like ice on my lobster pink body. Before long I was so hot I felt sick, and I had to make my escape (the best things never last). Wrapping up my deeply warmed body, I went upstairs to my futon and hid from the world, with just a whirring heater for company.

I was woken at 5:55 by my alarm, and lay, stunned by the world. At 6am the insistent, muted temple bell rung began to toll, repeatedly. I dithered and dressed, putting on EVERY jumper I owned, before going down to see the dawn prayer service. I went down 5mins early, and found an empty, dark corridor. Still night outside, I could see my breath, almost solid before my face, and the thermometer read -2 Celsius, indoors.

I'd been expecting a troupe of chanting monks to parade into the room, but they failed to appear. Instead, the first monk rattled up, this time dressed in full ceremonial regalia. He wore a purple robe over his lopsided shoulders, with large brown pom-poms hung all over his body. He seemed much happier in this outfit, more confident and so more friendly. We entered a large, darkened room with a dividing wall - I sat alone on the large tatami space, while he walked through the doorway into the barely visible room behind. He bustled around, lighting candles, gradually revealing the hidden statues, glinting in the gloom. Then he set himself up on a high cushion, and all I could see was his bent back, as I sat on the tatami, attempting to hug the heater without burning my skin. Glimpses of ritual movements could be seen over his shoulders. At one point, he flourished a short sword, and swept it in arcs to the sides and in front, stabbing and shouting with all the force he could muster. He chanted in a deep and ragged voice, monotonous and growling, and then rather ineptly blew a conch, teetering on the brink of tonality. Later, he lit a fire, sending two-foot flames and smoke up into the air. Steam rose from before him, as from boiling water. But then, I realised, it was just so cold that his breath was visible from the other side of the dark room.

One monk, observing the same, essential rituals each morning, alone in the depths of winter, high on a mountain-top and praying for the souls of the world.

The ceremony ended abruptly, and the priest unfolded his knees with an audible creak. He went around extinguishing the candles one by one, drawing a curtain of darkness back over the statues. He then pulled back the sliding doors, and the night finished suddenly as the harsh light of dawn filled the room. Blinking with exhaustion, I strained to understand the priests opening gambit in Japanese. Seeing my incomprehension, he shifted to English, and spoke with the air of an over-rehearsed, ill-remembered speech.

His story was not what I expected. He had an brain aneurism nine years ago, and had to be taken off the mountain and send to various hospitals. "You'll never walk again," the Doctors told him. But another Doctor told him he would recover the use of his legs. His present ability to hobble around, carrying his useless left side around with him like heavy sack, was for him proof of Buddha's divine grace and mercy, for which he was truly thankful.

He then told me that he had prayed for me in the service, and for peace in our world. However, Buddha had told him that he did not perform the ritual well enough, and he would have to perform it three more times. My aching knees were relieved to hear that during the repeat ceremonies, I should go ahead and eat my excellent breakfast in the dining room.

Up at such an early hour, I decided to make the best of the early start and head out to see one of the most keenly anticipated places on my travels. The 奥ノ院 (Okuno-in - 'the hall deep inside'), the most holy shrine in Shingon Buddhism, reached by a 2km walk through an ancient cemetery, hosting literally hundreds of thousands of graves.


You approach from the road and quickly find yourself immersed in a forest of towering cedar trees, moss-covered gravestones, and a heavy silence. At 7:30am, the visitors were few, and the morning light brilliant between the trees.

The air was fresh and clear, and smiling workmen calmly swept leaves on the path.




















There was nothing sinister or pessimistic about this beautiful place.



The cold night had turned the puddles into hard ice.



Bunches of flowers, stuck fast in the solid crystals.



The biggest surprise of the place had a rather less religious air. With Shingon representing around 10% of Japan's population, many of the larger companies keep their own mausoleums in the cemetery. Yakult is there, Toyota, and many others. Some have a mail box for you to post your business card to mark your visit.

The designs are also pretty special - a coffee company have a coffee shop, Sharp have a giant TV set.



And best of all, I came across this in one corner of the cemetery.



Have you ever seen a spaceship mausoleum before?












Dotted around the cemetery, hundreds of tiny statues, wrapped in red bibs and woolly hats, protected from the cold.










They are statues of Jizo Bosatsu, the Buddhist guardian of Children and Travellers.

Travelling as I was, I felt rather fond of these little guardians watching over the paths.

Deep inside the cemetery, a river cuts across the path. On the other side, the inner sanctum, the Okuno-in.

And standing in ranks in the middle of the river, rows of wooden stakes, their reflections rippling in the water.




They are the graves of unborn children.

Across the river, the atmosphere was very different.

The tallest trees stood alone, without the density of graves found elsewhere in Okuno-in. Their trunks were immense, ridges soaring into the air to the high canopy above.

Inside the actual shrine of Okuno-in, stacked ranks of lanterns hung glimmering in rows, their dull light barely illuminating the faintly glowing room. The atmosphere was serious, holy. A single man knelt on the red carpet, deep in prayer. A priest knelt on one side at an altar, performing the same burning ceremony I had seen a few hours earlier.

This ceremony has a particular elegance. Believers write their pleas and prayers to Buddha in black ink on wooden slats. These are blessed by the priest, arranged in a neat stack, and amid droning chants are ritually engulfed in flame. As the wood crackles, heat and smoke floats up into the air, and carries with it the hopes of the petitioner. It’s both prayer and metaphor in one, as are all the best rituals.

Shingon Buddhism was hugely popular among the elite of Japan in the C9th and C10th, partly because of its aesthetic approach – quite unlike the sparse austerity of Zen. For its founder Kobo Daishi, all beauty was a sign of Buddha, so he encouraged art as an expression of divinity.

The other reason for its great popularity is its exclusivity. It's known as esoteric Buddhism; not everyone can understand it, and even those who do must be taught it. The truth cannot be written, but must be shared from a teacher to a student, and in Shingon this largely occurs through ceremony and ritual.

Around the back of the Temple stands the Mausoleum of Kobo Daishi, the founder of Shingon Buddhism who died in the mountain temple he set up. An extraordinary man, not only did he found this strand of Buddhism, along the way he invented Hiragana, one of the two syllabaries of Japanese. No spaceship or TV set or other grand folly to mark his passing here, just a simple wooden hut, unpainted and peaceful, his body entombed inside. Pilgrims stood before it, in twos or threes, calmly chanting their prayers before the smoking incense cauldrons. No hysterics, no commercialism, no jostling crowds or hordes of tourists. This was a religion at peace with itself and the world.

Underneath the temple, 50,000 Buddha statues, each the size of a fist, stood on shelves. Every one had a name inscribed below it, and a reference number, I presume so that a visitor can trace their own statue. The room was hushed, but strangely industrial, feeling new and a rather plastic.

Nearby stood an ancient, wooden hall, its shutters closed to the world. Only one was open, and through the slats I saw row upon row of hanging lanterns. On passing through the entrance, I found the hall full to two storeys of these lamps, each with electric wires feeding power from the mains. I’ve always been fascinated by humanity’s desire to fight the lack of light in the world by burning candles and lamps, and so I found this closed room, burning with hundreds of lamps that no one could see, particularly alluring. It’s like the closed monasteries of monks sworn to silence, but praying for peace and happiness in our world; it can have no tangible impact on the outside world, but I find its existence very comforting.

The Okuno-in sits in a perfect location. It is nestled in a valley between three peaks, and the dense forest is sheltered from the elements, making it a calm and peaceful place. I set off to find the path that circles round these peaks, and trudged up the path from the cemetery. Called the 高野三山道 (Koya san zan dou – ‘path of the three Koya peaks’), it is a traditional pilgrimage route that traces the boundaries that surround this holy plateau. Well maintained and well used, the path was occasionally marked by gaudy pieces of rubbish tied to the trees – red pet bottles, blue plastic ribbons, green bags. The path is far older than the trees that line it, and so they rank up neatly along its edges, never encroaching on its well-trodden earth.

The path climbed up to each peak, where there stood a tiny shrine surrounded by half-melted snow, before swooping down and up again for the next one.

I saw three kinds of people on this path – robed monks, tooled-up hiking tourists, and teenage baseball players from the high school on their training runs over the hills, dressed in 1920’s knickerbockers and matching shirts. Everyone wore fancy dress on this mountain.

Reaching the last peak, I began my final descent, and ended up right back in the holy inner core of the Okuno-in. The pilgrims looked a little surprised to see the sweaty foreigner crossing the stepping stones over the river and popping up in their temple, but nevertheless they smiled benevolently.

I walked back through the town, and up to the traditional main entrance to the town, before the cable car took over. Marking the entrance stood a vast red gate 大門 (Daimon – ‘great gate’), holding the 二王 (Ni-O – ‘two kings’). The Ni-O are the traditional Buddhist guardians against evil, and are often found on temple entrances. They are serious, powerful, scary monsters, and they really hold the eye. They looked out over the hills towards Osaka, the modern world invisible in the distance.


I then followed the ancient path up the hill from the gate, another pilgrimage route. This was called the 女人道 (Nyonindou – Women’s path); as women were banned from the mountain until barely a century ago, female pilgrims had to march the boundaries to pay their respects, catching only fleeting glimpses of the treasures that lay within.

Though it was no substitute for the town itself, the view was stunning, and must have been some consolation for the barred pilgrims.


The one disadvantage of travelling alone is there’s no one to take your photo. However, an obliging tree stump agreed to hold my camera, and a rather untimely timer took this photo.


Nearly back at my lodging, and the sun slowly sinking behind the hills, I looked back and caught this last glimpse of the central pagoda.

Finally it made sense to me. The pagoda, holding inside its mandala of Buddha, the four attributes and the sixteen emotions, was the core of a far larger mandala. The pagoda sat in the middle of the mountain peaks, which cupped it like the curved leaves of the lotus flower on which Buddha sits.

The next morning, after taking the long train ride down the mountain and out over the plains towards Osaka, I took out my water bottle. It had been squashed flat by the change in air pressure, as I dropped down into the modern world.

Somehow, I knew how it felt.

Nara

I'd been planning my Christmas travels for weeks - a big deal, my first extended trip that I'd ever done alone, travelling for three weeks across Japan, after only learning the language for two and a half months.

A virulent stomach bug kept me in bed for a week before my travels began, and I was still pretty shaky when I got up for my first morning's travel. I had a three-week rail pass, valid across the country; but, of course, I still missed my first bullet train of the day.

Spending most of the day on trains, I arrived in Nara around 3:30. I'd left Fukuoka in the far west, and was now close to the middle of Japan - to simplify horribly, I was in the bit of Japan that the history comes from. Nara was the capital of Japan from 710-784AD, after which it moved to Nara's more famous big-brother, Kyoto, about an hour away on the train.

It's a very small city, centred on a pedestrianised high-street which leads onto into a large, green park, full of mangy deer that flock to the tourist like pigeons in Trafalgar Square. But I guess the better comparison would be to Oxford - it had the same venerable air of peaceful dust - almost nowhere to go out at night, but steeped in ancient buildings and great treasures. It would be a great place to retire to, if anyone's looking to give up on work anytime soon.

But by the time I arrived there, the temples were shutting, the light dissipating to dusk, and tiredness was setting in. I stomped grumpily around the parks, and got a bit lost in the wooded pathways to the east. Wandering in the deepening gloom, listening to the sporadic deer shrieks, feeling a little unimpressed with the world. And then I saw a sign saying 'Pathway' (in English). It didn't say what to or where from, just 'pathway'. But it seemed like a good omen, and take it I did.

I found myself in the quiet back streets, a fair way from where I wanted to be. But then I came across a couple of wonderful instances of unusual light. Whipping my camera out, I began to feel a lot happier...


Warped, bare trees in neon street light.


A cat hunched on a flood light for warmth, by the historic Sarusawano Ike (but then everything in Nara is historic - it's basically just a nice pond).


The great wooden pagoda of Kofukuji, rebuilt after fire in 1426.


The next day, I went to see 東大寺 (Todaiji - 'Great East Temple') - the biggest wooden building in the world. And it really is BIG...


Photos always shrink things, but click on the pic to make it big, and look at the people on the steps for scale. There's something about its sheer bulk, a shape so familiar from a hundred temple roofs but stretched far beyond the scale of anywhere else. But it doesn't feel humbling, more uplifting to see something man-made and so monumental.


Inside sits the 大仏 (Daibutsu - Great Buddha), a vast bronze statue of Buddha that stands (or rather sits) over 50ft high, completed in 751. The next year, a ceremony was held to bring the statue to life, ceremonially painting in its pupils to see the world. It took so much bronze to cast the statue that it left the fledgling kingdom on the verge of bankruptcy.

The result really is wonderful, and it and the surrounding artwork has a clear, strong aesthetic. The shapes are bold and clearly defined, but abstracted into stylised forms. The pastel red wooden walls are as faded as the green wooden ornaments and dull bronze statues - it felt dry, but warm and accessible.

I timed my visit to Nara in order to see the On Matsuri, one of Nara's biggest festivals. It is a Shinto festival, in which the resident gods are invoked in a midnight ceremony, and housed within a single, portable shrine that is carried down from the hills and set up in state in a temporary temple in the woods for the 24hours of the festival.

During the day, hours of festivities see all manner of traditional costumes and outfits parade through the town; little kids stuttering along in wooden sandals, and rather tubby would-be samurai seemed to make up the largest part of the participants. It was fun, but didn't really set me on fire.


Around 4:30, as the light began to fade, the event began that I really wanted to see. In front of the portable shrine, a large covered stage had been set up, brightly lit and surrounded by braziers, flames billowing in the wind.

The wind picked up, and blew flocks of crows overhead.

A series of extraordinary figures appeared. One robed man walked elegantly on half-foot tall platform sandals, and carried a 3ft diameter headdress with a 2ft high diorama balanced on top, featuring seven dolls in full traditional dress.

An entire Gagaku ensemble was ranked up on the right, playing the ancient music of the Japanese Court (a very rare treat) - its history goes back over a thousand years, though it has changed much over that time. The music has an extraordinary, ethereal quality, with clangs, booms, whistling flutes, and harmonic voices. Underneath it all is the rasping Sho, sounding like an opening accordion, and looking like hands pressed together in prayer.





And to that unearthly music, dancers emerged dressed in fabulous, bright costumes, and wearing large, elaborate headdresses. I've seen them elsewhere, sitting dull and lifeless in museums, but here they were, in part of a real performance.



Four orange dancers walked slowly onto the stage, and spread out into a wide pattern. They danced slowly and gracefully, making curved, sweeping movements with one limb at a time. A circle with the arms, slow spin on the heel, step forward, sweep with both hands. They moved with glacial slowness, and an intensity that demanded attention.

The weather tried to steal our gaze, with scattered rain and a strong wind that blew away priest hats and music papers, shaking the marquees as the musicians tried to pipe over the blustering elements.

A later dance saw a proud dragon skip through the sparks of the fires fanned by the wind, flicking its arms and and legs in the air; a loose jaw hanging free beneath its face, its shining green eyes bulging large.

Another dance featured an orange insect with a long white beard, flicking its heels then sweeping into a protracted, slow turn, drawing its long orange train behind it.


These dancers were serious, powerful, and possessed a real gravity. I spent a lot of time staring at their moving backs, because they danced facing away from the audience. Instead, they danced to the shrine, making their purpose clear - this was a ritual, not a performance. As was partly true of the Yokagura, the point of these dances are that they are performed as well as possible, NOT that the audience enjoys them. But by performing them with such intensity, they drew the eye and had a powerful effect on the emotions.

That's a lesson artists in the west could certainly do with learning - we're too obsessed with the audience's view, their experience, whether its in the judgement of academic theory or arts funding. If the artist keeps looking at they're audience, they'll fumble the ball and stop listening to what's inside. It takes a real arrogance (or confidence) to just concentrate on your own work - maybe you need centuries of tradition to give you that confidence, and so we've lost it in much of our contemporary art.

That power derived from a performance of total, absorbed conviction sent shivers down my body.

Or maybe that was just the wind, rain, and biting cold.

Miscellaneous Eccentricity 2 [Muzak]

Muzak 1
The powers that be pipe music into my dormitory canteen. It’s always changing: one day its the New World Symphony; the next, Britney. But yesterday the music sounded like a ten year old on a Xylophone. In fact, I think it probably was a ten year old on a Xylophone. And then I recognized the song. Tinkling along in well spaced notes was the tune from

Hitler, has only got one ball,
The other, is in the Albert Hall...

Muzak 2
I’ve been in several bars that, at the end of each night, play Auld Lang Syne over the P.A system.

Muzak 3
The major pedestrian crossings in the city play loud music when the lights turn green. North/South intersections play a jaunty little tune - apparently it's from a Scottish folk song. It's a very electronic noise, but even that cannot deaden the irritatingly upbeat jingle. In stark contrast is the music of the East/West intersections - a maudlin death march played on a Wurlitzer. I much prefer moving with the sun.

Miscellaneous Eccentricity 1

It being Autumn, there is a lot of leaf sweeping to be done. There are often university workers to be seen clearing up the heaped drifts, in a suit with broom in hand.

At times, they get a little over eager. Last week I saw a smartly dressed man standing five metres up a tree, using his broom to sweep leaves straight from the branch.

Christmas Tree 2006

A funny Christmas it was.

Sumo

Every November, Fukuoka plays host to the last Grand Sumo Tournament of the year. The sumo circus starts in Tokyo, and holds contests in cities all over Japan, before it finally comes into town here. For weeks, Very Big Men in equally big kimonos stroll around town, turn up in bars, spread over two seats on the subway. Then, they fight one bout a day for the two week tournament, their ranking changing with every win and loss.

Sumo has its origins in ritual wrestling bouts, performed at shinto festivals and ceremonial gatherings since at least the eighth century. Sumo rings are not uncommon at bigger shrines, though they tend to be small, dusty affairs - few things can look as forlorn as an unused stage. The arena in Fukuoka is more like a western boxing stadium, huge banks of seats, ranks of faces all staring intently at the brave men who stand up in the middle.But there are some very real differences - no ropes around the ring, so when the loser is hurled off the stage they land on the front row (no laughing matter, these guys average over 300pounds); the more expensive ticket buyers sit cross-legged and shoeless on cushions in their own little box; a stylised shrine roof hangs from the ceiling over the ring.



Underneath the seating, a neon-lit warren of waiting giants and busy henchman is there for all to see. Silverware is stacked up for the winner (and it ALL goes to the winner), while not so far away a chilling sign of the dangerous side of the sport - a huge wheelchair, the seat at least 3feet wide and back even longer, in wipe-clean tanned leather.

The wrestlers line up before the bouts, faces blanked in concentration, with a chaperone wrestler in charge to look after them. Understandably, just before a fight, they're far from friendly, and strongly resent having their concentration broken by fans. One middle-aged woman tried to take a photo, and a mere glare from the chaperone was enough to send her away.

That look. It seems to be key to sumo, the ability to hold and out stare their opponent. It's a lonely place up there. The integrity and strength of personality it requires is immense. Sure, 300pounds of fat and muscle help, but there is so much more to it.



The arrogance it takes for a smaller man to take on one of the lumbering giants is immense, but they often come out with a win. Some of those giants are real ogres - patchy body hair, jowls creasing into squashed faces, no grace, no style. They would crush you if you let them. The smaller man spin and trip with great agility, trying desperately to stop the vast hands from pinning them down and flinging them out. Other bouts are less subtle - I saw one fight where the winner leapt forwards, thrust his opponent once in the chest, and then one further push saw him out of the ring; the whole thing took mere seconds of overbearing force.

But then, sometimes wrestlers emerge who step out of the big-fast divide, and simply have everything - power, size, arrogance, strength, both in body and mind.

The current Yokozuna - world champion - has all of those. He fights under the name Asashoryu (all foreigners must assume a Japanese name to take part), but he was born in Mongolia as Dolgorsuren Dagvadorj. He's won 70 of his last 78 bouts (and bear in mind that as champion he has to fight the second-ranked wrestler every day of every tournament). When he fought on the last day of the Fukuoka tournament, I saw a clear demonstration of why he has remained champion for so long.

In the final bout of the last day of the tournament, Asashoryu squared faced the second-ranked wrestler, Chiyotaikai. The Mongolian champion had won every fight of the last 14 days with ease. One more victory, and another championship would be his. As in every bout, they entered from opposite sides, bowed, and retreated to their respective sides for a brief purification ritual, rinsing their mouth out with water, and toss handfuls of salt across the ring in great arcs. Slapping their bodies, swinging their arms, they prepare for the impact. Then, they are called over by the ornately dressed judge, and square up before each other. They squat low, lift a single leg high over their head (and some of these guys are seriously flexible), and lock their eyes into a brutally intimidating gaze.

And they hold that gaze. For five seconds, they stared into each others eyes, bristling with aggression.

With thousands of pairs of eyes watching you, five seconds is a very long time.

And Chiyotaikai looked away first.

They returned to their corners, stamped and salted, and back they came for another stare.

Everyone leaned forward, watching them intently. The vast hall was completely silent. You could see the power in the air between them.

And again, Chiyotaikai turned away. Asashoryu straightened up standing open-chested and strong, watching Chiyotaikai walk away from him.

And again, they squared up to each other. Paused. And with a bang of fists on the ground they dived forward and Chiyotaikai shocked Asashoryu with a brutal forearm thrust to the neck. An upset seemed possible as he drived the stunned champion backwards. But then the onslaught slowed, Asashoryu steadied himself, and everyone felt the tide turn. A pause, arms locked together, and the result was obvious. With sheer brute power, the Mongolian picked his opponent up bodily and, with tree-trunk legs dangling in the air, placed him outside the ring.

The crowd erupted, first throwing shouts into the air, and then tossing purple seating cushions in spinning arcs over the crowd. Hundreds of soft shuriken buzzed around the stadium, flopping onto the ring and hasilty cleared by attendants.










The winner, Asashoryu, stood there, and received his victory tributes, gifts from all over the world. A long prize-giving saw him presented with huge gold and silver cups, giant framed photos, urns, a year's supply of petrol (not actually handed over on the stage). The prizes were all sumo sized, and these Very Big Prizes were presented by Rather Small Men - some could barely even lift their tributes as they were transferred to the vast, steady hands of the champion. It was like Marlowe's Tamburlaine the Great, receiving tributes from the world's kings, gracious but clearly a master warrior in control.

The last gift was a slender, 7ft long bow, which he proceeded to turn and swing around his body, swooping behind his back and twirling over his head, cutting steep arcs through the air.



As an aside, I should mention that the fate of one of these prizes now looks rather uncertain. Jacques Chirac has long been both fan and connoisseur of sumo, and instigated the Very Big Chirac Cup. In a jibe at his former mentor, in 2004 Sarkozy slated Chirac's favoured sport, asking "How can anyone be fascinated by these battles between fat guys with slicked-down ponytails? Sumo wrestling is really not a sport for intellectuals."

While I'd like to applaud anyone who can use the word 'intellectual' without pejorative connotations, that single statement seems to have made half of Japan hate the man, and caused genuine fears for the future ties of the two countries, given his recent accession to the Elysee. Rather short and wiry he may be, but I'd love to see him g-stringed and squatting, attempting to stare down some of these other Very Big Men.

Takachiho Yokagura

In October, I read a short piece in a magazine about the traditional folk dances of the town of Takachiho, nestled up in the mountain ranges in the centre of Kyushu. The 33 different dances have been performed for centuries in the area, and a couple are danced each night in the town for an hour for the benefit of tourists. However, every dancing group (of which there are 19 in the town) also performs all 33 dances overnight, once each winter. The first of these dusk till dawn performances was on November 18th, so I got myself on a bus and headed out there. I left in the morning, and went to see the famous Takachiho Gorge in the afternoon (see previous post).

Feeling rather grumpy from the rain and banged knee, I waded through the rain back into town around 4:30. I stopped in an empty coffee shop to dry out and pass the time, peeling off layers of rain gear and feeling very pleased to be wearing my boots. It was run by a very friendly woman who I just about managed to chat to in my broken Japanese. I asked her about a local delicacy I'd read about called 生妾湯 (shougayu), but she warned me that it was a powerful drink, best reserved for those with a sore throat or similar dire need. I insisted, and she promptly produced a knob of ginger, grated it, and poured in hot water. Slightly disappointed, I sipped my ginger tea, and explained that we drank it England too. She seemed similarly disappointed at the news.

After acquiring supplies (enough chocolate, rice balls, and coca cola to keep me awake for days - I had enough late-night essay sessions at Oxford to know how to eat my way through a long night), and dinner (fried noodles in a basic eatery where the cat was more talkative than its old-granny owner), I got myself a taxi. I had considered walking (only an hour in the rain...), and wisely decided against it, much to my relief as the cab wound through pitch-dark, steep, mountain roads. As we negotiated the forests, I talked to the driver. Obviously he asked where I was from, and it transpired that I was the first Englishman he had ever met. Given that Takachiho was supposed to be a tourist destination, and taxi drivers are about the most likely person of anyone in a town to meet foreigners, this said something about how isolated the town was - right up in the mountains, far from the cities, the Shinkansens, the airports.

Suddenly, we pulled up to a bright, neon lit room, open to the night on two sides, and bustling with people. I got out and the driver helped me get under cover with his umbrella. He seemed to ask the shrine people to look after me, at which they appeared rather non-plussed, before saying goodbye and driving back off into the dark forest. At around 8pm, the dances had already started, performed in a central square marked by hanging paper patterns and fresh green-leafed branches. The paper was cut doily-style; known as Erimono they represent each of the traditional elements of Wood, Fire, Earth, Gold, and Water. Sheets bearing the names of donors to the shrine were stuck up on the walls over the course of the night. The lighting was harsh, with bare neon tubes flooding the room with cold light. Outside, the rain poured onto one tarpaulin wall, but the large tatami room was clean, dry, and full with a seated crowd. Stage left a musical ensemble was set up; the instruments changed from dance to dance, but most used a Japanese flute (Yokobue), with a sweet whistling quite unlike the broken sound of the Shakuhachi, and the ubiquitous Taiko drum, hit with two sticks on the rim and the skin, using simple, sharp rhythms - bomBOMMM dadadat, dadadat, dadadat; bomBOMMM dadadat, dadadat, dadadat; bomBOMMM dadadat, dadadat, dadadat...

So to start, I got myself a little patch on the tatami, and settled down to watch, trying to ignore the staring eyes of several people in the crowd, after a brief nod/bow of acknowledgement (I hadn’t seen another foreigner all day, and I guess I presented something of a novelty). Here at last was the Yokagura (folk dances) I'd come to see. The men danced before a small shrine, lined with masks for the performance, a range of fresh vegetables, sake, and a single candle; all offerings to the gods in hope of a good harvest. They wore blonde wigs, rough as straw, over their black hair. The men were a range of ages, from early twenties up to the late forties. They wore white robes, with very wide sleeves stretching a foot and a half down from the wrist. A variety of garments were placed over the top, sometimes broad sackcloth, other times a twisted scarf around the shoulders to keep the sleeves out of the way. Some dancers held an ornate fan, or a sword, or often a Suzu - a gold, jangling ritual implement with no obvious use other than shaking and ringing like little bells.

I have to admit to being a little disappointed at the quality of the dancing. Though they did not suffer that immense sense of social embarrassment that (nearly) every English Morris Dance group displays, and which makes them so painful to watch, these dancers did seem a bit shy, a little uncertain. Occasional mistakes, downward-looking eyes, half-hearted movements, took a lot of the shine off the performances.

But when they wore masks, there was a very different feel to their movement. They were prouder, stronger, less shy. In the interval between dances, a man would approach the shrine, bow, take a particular mask from the ranks and place it on a tray, and with great respect and care carry it backstage. Some masks gurned, some showed a winsome smile or fanged grimace. They ranged from fierce monster and great hero to young maid and grimy old granny. One particularly impressive mask was battered and peeled, the red lacquer broken off in great flakes like a leper's lost nose. It's wearer suddenly ran into the crowd, gibbering and waving, and sent his 6year old son screaming for his mother. Afterwards the dancer crept round unmasked and reassured his child that he really was no devil.

One dance saw a strong but slightly gawky young man in a gurning, think-lipped mask, sporting a top-knot like a straw onion.


He drew his arms back and forth, swaying rather awkwardly, gearing up for a roll and balance on his shoulders. He rocked and rolled around the stage, before pausing on his knees. The other men scuttled a large Taiko drum onto the stage, and knelt around it as support.

Like a wild imp, he jumped on the drum, seized the sticks and sitting in a feral squat pounded out his rhythm.



















Then, in an impressive feat of strength and balance, he tilted his weight forwards onto his arms, dropped his shoulder to the drum, and raised his legs into the air. He kicked and danced his legs spasmodically in time with the drum.

Another dance climaxed with a god unleashing a terrible storm, and suddenly a Heath Robinson rope contraption shook and rocked the roof frame and paper hangings as with a wild wind.

Then, with serious faces and long sleeves tied back, they brought out the swords.

First the local priest took the time to bless them, and then the six men held out their swords and grasped their neighbour's by the tip. They danced around in a circle, rotating in skips, aiming their swords with care away from each other. Their faces pinched; this wasn't the time to screw up.

One awkward moment saw a guy turn at the wrong moment, and his friend pushed the sword blade away from his oncoming guts at the last moment. They caught each other's eye for a moment - do not do that again.

One by one the men dropped out until it was just the three youngest men on stage.


They turned and worked the rotations.


Suddenly, they threw themselves into a salsa whirl, spinning on the sword grips like a writhing knot.


They tied, and then untied, their bodies.


Until suddenly they were back where they started, breathing heavily and looking very relieved.

One of the three bowed out, and the remaining two were blessed again by the priest.



















Again they turned slowly, skipping and rotating, before spinning wildly, swords over there heads bending and curving.

And then one more dropped out, and the youngest of the lot knelt alone before the priest, and received his blessing. He held his two swords against his body, and rocked and skipped around the stage, before gearing up for a whirling torrent of sword strokes.



The whole dance took ages to work through all the permutations, maybe as much as 45minutes, and by the time you've seen a man rock, sway, and lash out at one point of the compass, the next three are pretty predictable. He had to swing the swords by the handle, then holding them by the sharp tip, and finally in the middle - and then work back through them all one more time. But then that's where you see the difference between dance and religious ritual. These dances are offerings to the gods, hoping for a rich harvest - you can't skimp on offerings, you can't cut corners. If you dance one way, you must dance four; if one man dances away, they must all dance away in turn, until no one is left on the stage. This is being, not doing.

Each dance had a name and myth behind it. The great myth underlying all the dances is that of Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess who ran off in a huff at her brother's offensive behaviour, and hid in a cave just near Takachiho. The disappearance of Sun goddesses is rather problematic (try looking for a hidden torch in a dark room), so all the gods set out to bring her back to her position in the skies. Nothing worked, not prayers, entreaties, or chants. Finally, an enticing dance brought Amaterasu out of the cave; it just looked to good to miss out on, and she wanted to join in herself. But before she could, the gods pounced on her, and forced her back up into the ether.

I've no desire to compare myself to a sun goddess, but I can certainly understand her feelings of envy at the dancing divinity outside her cave. Whenever I watch dance, I get restless and want to join in. The most upsetting thing about the dance was the dense rank of photographers around the stage. When a masked performer made wide movements, or did something novel, they would click and clatter away. But when the performer was unmasked, or the dance was slow or subtle, the photographers just stared at the floor, or checked their cameras, ignoring him completely. They had no sense of this as performance, just as series of opportunities to take 'a good photo'. Like leeches, they sucked the blood of the atmosphere. So, I didn't take many photos in the end. I didn't want to document it, I wanted to be a part of it!

And, to my great surprise, I eventually did become a part of it.

Over the course of the evening, about a third of the audience taxied off in the rain, tourists returning to warm hotel beds. As the crowd thinned the atmosphere became warmer, more communal. Cups of Ocha (green tea), misu soup, warm mochi (rice cakes), were handed around to all with great warmth (Japanese hospitality is beyond measure). Then, around 11pm, the proceedings all stopped, and the dancers sat around a large table on the stage, and were served a fine meal of sushi, rice, fish, meat, sake. I looked up over the cross-legged crowd, and saw a man talking to one of the dancers, and pointing and looking at me. They all beckoned me over, wanting to speak to the foreigner. Having only been here for two and a half months, my Japanese was very poor, but I managed to squeeze out the requisite info re origins, purpose, home etc. And yes, of course I enjoyed the dancing, it looked great. Then an intelligent-looking man (perhaps just because he wore spectacles), asked me a question...

'Would you like to try?"

"Hai!"

Yes, yes I really did want to try it.

He smiled knowingly, and no more was said. I sipped my sake, tried to follow the chat (and failed), and returned to my spot on the tatami to see the next dances.

But my new bespectacled friend crept round the back, and whispered to me in Japanese:

"you really want to try?"

'YES!"

"Then come this way..."

We snuck out the back, as the dance began, and he led me round the back into the dressing room. I entered a bright, neon-lit room, with costumes hung and draped over every flat space, and swords, gold implements, fans stacked and scattered everywhere. Standing around a warm brazier, a large box of tangerines, and a stack of caffeine drinks, was a group of nine men in white robes, staring at me. I bowed and said hello, and they laughed and smiled at me. Basic chat followed, and they seemed pretty pleased to have a novelty foreigner in their midst. Then a man handed me a spare set of white robes, and helped me change. A long white jacket, with flowing trousers somewhat like pantaloons. But they didn't have a spare set of white boot-socks - what to do? Luckily I was wearing white socks, and those would have to do they decided. I stood admiring myself, dressed head to toe in authentic shinto garb - that is, apart from the red nike ticks on my socks...

They wrapped a red band around my head, and handed me a red mask - a silly, grinning man. And then it clicked - they were setting me up for a fall, getting the foreigner on stage so everyone could laugh at me as I tried to follow the moves, clueless and dithering. My heart beat a little faster as they pressed the wooden mask over my face, making breathing more difficult and reducing my vision to two small holes about one and a half cm across, before wrapping my head in a red cloth bonnet - a foolish rice farmer, the butt of all the jokes. I turned my tiny eyes to the man who had placed it on my face, and asked in Japanese a very simple question - what do I do?

He laughed as he handed me a fan - "furee dansu," he said, using the Japanese version of 'free dance'

i.e: you're on your own kid.

Next he handed me a 3ft bamboo stick with bright green, red and white paper tassles on each end. A magic wand!

The dance had already begun, with the first man in a monster's mask dancing with a 6ft staff to a fast rhythm - much hitting the tatami and aggressive posturing. I fiddled with the mask as I watched the next man go out. The first monster stood on a box, watching the intruder enter the stage, and tolerating his dance for a few minutes before driving him off with his staff, and forcing him to sit on his knees on the edge of the audience.

I was to be the fourth man out of six, and breathed heavily as I waited my turn. Then one gave me a friendly nudge, and sent me out. Clearly my debut was no secret, and as I picked my way through to the stage the crowd had already started laughing. Ducking under the paper webbing, I took my turn around the stage. The flicking, sharp rhythm was so compulsive that I couldn't help but dance, and really got into my own version of what I'd seen the other men do. I held the wand over my left wrist, and spun round to the right, jolting on my heel, before repeating it on the other side. Soon enough the monster's staff appeared before me, and I was ushered off his territory. I knelt, sweating in my mask, flushed with relief, trying to watch the next man's dance, this one a silly young maiden with a tiny face and tight lips. Small hands to her chin, petite movements; you could almost see her flutter her eyelashes.

As he was swept down next to me, I caught his gaze through the tiny holes. He pointed to my hand, and showed me how to open my fan and hold it correctly, and the helpful gesture really put me at ease. Once the last man had appeared and been pushed off, we went through the reverse pattern, each man getting up, dancing and being sent back stage by the masked giant. As my turn arrived, I jumped up, confident now and ready to make the most of my final 2minutes as a participant of a genuine Shinto ritual.

It was clear that I only had one option, and so played up to my mask's role for all I was worth. My dance was silly, flouncy, and I twirled my stick like the proud, priggish fool that I had become. Then I turned to a clown's stomping, bottom-waggling clowns dance, and the grannies, mums, villagers and children of the crowd fell about laughing. Finally, the monster swept me off, and I got a round of applause from the good people of Takachiho. I think they must have seen the Nike ticks on my socks.

I found out later the dance was called 七貴人 (the seven nobles) - with one chief god (the monster) followed by six child gods, one of which was me.

Back in the dressing room, I got my mask off, and the men nodded their approval of my dancing. I returned my fan and magic wand, and settled down to a well earned tangerine.

I then got a chance to actually talk to these guys, as they rested in the dressing room between dances, eating tangerines and rice cakes, drinking green tea and brutal caffeine drinks with the occasional shot of sake. The man who had invited me to join was the only one who could really speak English, and he was very polite, quietly reserved but very kind. I asked another man of a similar middle age why he did these dances, and his answer was simple - because he enjoyed it. He worked in a bank, played the Yokobue, and danced the Yokagura.

The younger guys were much more forthcoming: a proper country guy, working to support the kids he'd fathered at 21 (my current age - natch), calm natured with a burly body and rough hands big as shovels, that he wrapped round the flute and danced lightly over its wholes. Then the two mates, a sharp, streetwise guy who wanted to be in London more than he wanted to be in Takachiho. His mate was a simpler and happier man - he was the masked one who scared his kids, the swordsman who swung them alone. They were a close pair, and looked after me. Here they are, dancing at 6am with ribbons over their ears.

As the hours worked by, the men from the local Miyazaki TV station interviewed me on camera (I don't think my halting attempts at Japanese made it to air - I'm hardly the best in front of cameras at the best of times). A later dance saw a rampant love affair between the petite girl (who had helped me open my fan), and a man in his 50s wearing the fool's mask I had worn when I danced. It was pure slapstick, filthy and funny in equal measure. They drank and wooed, before rushing off and trying to seduce (or just to hump) members of the audience. To cool their raging lust, they finally made love, rolling on the tatami, feigning oral and then swinging their hips in full banging fashion. The crowd was in hysterics, and completely cracked as the maiden wanked off her lover, her fist a blur in the air.

The man behind the mask was a real joker, his face wrinkled from years of laughter. When the two young guys danced together in dragon costume, going through the audience and biting all our heads with their magic jaws (a sure sign of good luck for the coming year), he was the guy who took a real shotgun outside, and fired off the bang that killed them (and nearly killed me from shock - those things are LOUD).

Completely different to him were the two oldest men. The group's teacher, who they all treated with great respect, was a rangy man in his 70s, brittle from arthritis and quiet as a stone. He watched it all happen before him, no advice and no applause, occasionally shifting his long bones. He only applauded once, at one of the last dances of the night. Around 7am, a man in his late 50s danced alone and without a mask, and for once he really MEANT it. (He's the one on the right of the large drum - he had an incredible calmness in his manner, shifting from smiles to concentration with ease). His movements were precise and tight, his face locked in a concentration that showed effortless power, not powerless effort. It really was an extraordinary dance, to which the rest of the group seemed largely oblivious. That was the real split between them - the joker's entertainment (of which I was a part), and the sincere prayer of solemn commitment. I would dearly have loved to have talked to that teacher, but he was taciturn, and I suspect resented my presence a little.

And presiding over them all was the priest of the shrine, a jowly man (right) who sat presiding over affairs from the side of the stage. He chain smoked throughout the night, and slumped over his belly asleep through the dead of the night. I formed a pretty bad impression of him, until I spoke to him as the dawn light seeped in through the tarpaulin wall. He was courteous and friendly (anyone would need to be to get through my Japanese at this point).

Best of all he presented me with a gift - the magic wand that I had waved and twirled over the stage. I still have it now in my room, though how I will get it back to England I don't know.

The young guys had called me a taxi back to town so that I would be able to catch my bus home, and as I got into the taxi they were still dancing on the now day-lit stage. The villagers milling around waved to me as we drove off, and I wanted to shrink into my seat, stunned by their open friendliness and hospitality.

As we drove into town, I saw the last thing that Takachiho is famous for. In Japanese it is called 雲海 (unkai), or Cloud Sea, and it stretched for miles of low, white, puffy clouds, clean and calm below the hill road that we took back into town.