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.
