Tuesday 30 July 2013
Fukuoka: Apt farewell
At Fukuoka, on my last day in Japan before taking the ferry to Korea from its Hakata International Port, I visited the Gion area to see the wooden Buddha at Shofukuji Temple.
On arrival, the temple was almost full of people, sitting with their legs tucked under them facing the altar at the front. Three monks sat, also with their backs to the entrance, poised in front of three large drums. Shortly they began to bang out a rhythm, a mesmerising beat that gave rise to a humming noise from the congregation. Two more monks started a fire on the left hand side of the temple, the flames flickering high up towards the roof.
Then the chanting began, the monks first, everyone else gradually joining in. The chanting would sometimes quieten slightly before stopping and then resuming after a skipped beat, giving a staccato effect that made the hair on my arms stand on end.
A different kind of Sunday afternoon service was underway at Momochi beach. Some form of concert was taking place, a group of tents selling beer and food centred around a stage where a weird hybrid of Japanese pop and techno music blasted loud enough to make grains of sand jump up and down. There were dancers on stage - girls in bikinis, people dressed in animal costumes.
Further away, towards a pier with a hotel on it, young people bathed and took photos of each other in the sea while wearing full anime costumes. Girls wore wigs matching the colour of their bikinis - one bright blue, one bright yellow, their photographs being taken by all and sundry.
A man dressed head to toe in a black jumpsuit with a creepy-looking face mask walked across the wooden boardwalk carrying a black suitcase. He pulled out a second mask - the face of the ghost character from Miyazaki's Spirited Away - sat down, and looked out over the beach.
Beautiful, traditional, hyper-modern, and bizarre. All in one day.
On arrival, the temple was almost full of people, sitting with their legs tucked under them facing the altar at the front. Three monks sat, also with their backs to the entrance, poised in front of three large drums. Shortly they began to bang out a rhythm, a mesmerising beat that gave rise to a humming noise from the congregation. Two more monks started a fire on the left hand side of the temple, the flames flickering high up towards the roof.
Then the chanting began, the monks first, everyone else gradually joining in. The chanting would sometimes quieten slightly before stopping and then resuming after a skipped beat, giving a staccato effect that made the hair on my arms stand on end.
A different kind of Sunday afternoon service was underway at Momochi beach. Some form of concert was taking place, a group of tents selling beer and food centred around a stage where a weird hybrid of Japanese pop and techno music blasted loud enough to make grains of sand jump up and down. There were dancers on stage - girls in bikinis, people dressed in animal costumes.
Further away, towards a pier with a hotel on it, young people bathed and took photos of each other in the sea while wearing full anime costumes. Girls wore wigs matching the colour of their bikinis - one bright blue, one bright yellow, their photographs being taken by all and sundry.
A man dressed head to toe in a black jumpsuit with a creepy-looking face mask walked across the wooden boardwalk carrying a black suitcase. He pulled out a second mask - the face of the ghost character from Miyazaki's Spirited Away - sat down, and looked out over the beach.
Beautiful, traditional, hyper-modern, and bizarre. All in one day.
About the A-bomb attack on Nagasaki
On Thursday, 9th August 1945, at 11:02 a.m., the American B29 bomber Bockscar dropped the atomic bomb over Nagasaki. A flash was seen in the sky before the giant mushroom cloud sealed the city's fate, as it had done three days earlier in Hiroshima. The bomb detonated between the Mitsubishi steel works and the Urakami cathedral. Heat and force ripped through the valley, killing everyone within a 1.2 km radius of the hypocentre and causing devastating burns, radiation and other injuries up to four kilometres away.
The A-bomb memorial museum sits at a hill not far from the hypocentre. It contains three main wings in which the exhibits and information present, in turn, the damage caused by the heat, force and radiation produced by the detonation. There are sickening pictures of burns and injured and dead victims. Displays of melted coins, damaged clothes and various objects that have been discoloured or burnt on the side that faced the blast bear witness to the pictures. There is a metal lunchbox containing blackened rice that was made on the morning of the bombing, destined not to be eaten by the doomed schoolgirl who carried it.
After the bomb damage section, there is an area presenting witness accounts on video and in writing. One of these is a haiku by a poet by the name of Atsuyuki Matsuo. He returned to the city the day after the bombing and found his wife and children severely injured by the bomb. They all died, one by one. The haiku was, for me at least, the most moving thing in the museum. I will add it to this blog post when I have obtained a copy.
The final part of the museum is dedicated to a timeline showing, in parallel, world history since 1945, nuclear weapon proliferation and campaigns led by Nagasaki city supporting nuclear disarmament and world peace.
Modern Nagasaki has the feel of a laid-back provincial town in tropical climes. The warm weather, attractive harbour and wharf, and old-fashioned trams give it a unique character compared to other Japanese cities. Green hills protruding from the city landscape only add to the pleasant aesthetic. Museum and memorials aside, the most noticeable remnants of the devastation of 1945 are the white metal doves attached to its many rebuilt bridges.
The A-bomb memorial museum sits at a hill not far from the hypocentre. It contains three main wings in which the exhibits and information present, in turn, the damage caused by the heat, force and radiation produced by the detonation. There are sickening pictures of burns and injured and dead victims. Displays of melted coins, damaged clothes and various objects that have been discoloured or burnt on the side that faced the blast bear witness to the pictures. There is a metal lunchbox containing blackened rice that was made on the morning of the bombing, destined not to be eaten by the doomed schoolgirl who carried it.
After the bomb damage section, there is an area presenting witness accounts on video and in writing. One of these is a haiku by a poet by the name of Atsuyuki Matsuo. He returned to the city the day after the bombing and found his wife and children severely injured by the bomb. They all died, one by one. The haiku was, for me at least, the most moving thing in the museum. I will add it to this blog post when I have obtained a copy.
The final part of the museum is dedicated to a timeline showing, in parallel, world history since 1945, nuclear weapon proliferation and campaigns led by Nagasaki city supporting nuclear disarmament and world peace.
Modern Nagasaki has the feel of a laid-back provincial town in tropical climes. The warm weather, attractive harbour and wharf, and old-fashioned trams give it a unique character compared to other Japanese cities. Green hills protruding from the city landscape only add to the pleasant aesthetic. Museum and memorials aside, the most noticeable remnants of the devastation of 1945 are the white metal doves attached to its many rebuilt bridges.
The city with no people in it
Hashima, more commonly known as Gunkanjima ("Battleship Island"), about 16 kilometres/10 miles off Nagasaki, was once an important coal mining centre. It had a population in the thousands, crammed into closely-packed apartment blocks within an area small enough to give it a population density comparable to Tokyo.
As the mining industry declined, Hashima's importance dwindled, and in 1974 it was abandoned altogether. It has been a ghost island ever since, its remote location securing isolation from wrecking balls and new settlers alike. For many years the island was off limits, but it has been open for tourists since 2009. In 2012, it served as the inspiration for the scene in which 007 first meets Javier Bardem's villain in the Bond film Skyfall.
There are no English-speaking guides at present, but this allowed more time to take photographs - such as the opportunities were. The tour is restricted to a newly-installed walkway on one end of the island only, the end farthest from any buildings. This is presumably for safety reasons. The buildings are crumbling, but seem to have been well tidied at the time the island was deserted - there was no sign of any personal possessions as far as I could see by using my camera to zoom in through the distant windows.
At the end of the walkway you stand around 150 metres from a residential building, from where a kind of high street through the city turns to the left. Here the buildings would have towered above you on either side as you stood in what was once the busiest place on Hashima and an area teeming with life. It was, alas, not possible to see into this street. The buildings at its entrance stared back silently.
After no more than half an hour on Gunkanjima we were once more underway on the boat, sailing past its two biggest buildings, the school and the hospital, on the far side from where we had landed. They would have been fascinating to explore. Instead, we observed the creaking concrete from afar and wondered about what might have been.
As the mining industry declined, Hashima's importance dwindled, and in 1974 it was abandoned altogether. It has been a ghost island ever since, its remote location securing isolation from wrecking balls and new settlers alike. For many years the island was off limits, but it has been open for tourists since 2009. In 2012, it served as the inspiration for the scene in which 007 first meets Javier Bardem's villain in the Bond film Skyfall.
There are no English-speaking guides at present, but this allowed more time to take photographs - such as the opportunities were. The tour is restricted to a newly-installed walkway on one end of the island only, the end farthest from any buildings. This is presumably for safety reasons. The buildings are crumbling, but seem to have been well tidied at the time the island was deserted - there was no sign of any personal possessions as far as I could see by using my camera to zoom in through the distant windows.
At the end of the walkway you stand around 150 metres from a residential building, from where a kind of high street through the city turns to the left. Here the buildings would have towered above you on either side as you stood in what was once the busiest place on Hashima and an area teeming with life. It was, alas, not possible to see into this street. The buildings at its entrance stared back silently.
After no more than half an hour on Gunkanjima we were once more underway on the boat, sailing past its two biggest buildings, the school and the hospital, on the far side from where we had landed. They would have been fascinating to explore. Instead, we observed the creaking concrete from afar and wondered about what might have been.
Dejima: The Dutch and Japan
During the Japanese Period of Isolation, from 1641 to 1867, only two countries were permitted to have contact of any kind with Japan: China and The Netherlands.
The Dutch traders were required to remain on a tiny fan-shaped island called Dejima on the tip of the Nagasaki peninsula. The island is around 200x70 metres in size. A trading ship of the Dutch East India company would arrive from Batavia (modern day Jakarta, then a Dutch colony) once a year. For upwards of 15 foreign residents (there were also many Japanese, who were allowed to come and go) - a chief factor, several clerks, a physician and a number of assistants and servants - this small space was the only place they could go. Unless leaving on a trading ship, it was the only place they would ever go.
The museum at Dejima has been put together with apparently meticulous care. The island was designed to prevent unwanted visitors from entering, but due to reclaimed land is now in the middle of the city. In spite of this, standing at the old Land Gate, just metres away from life on the other side, evokes the kind of isolated feeling the Dutch traders may have felt. As does standing at the Sea Gate - once a place to long for home, now the exit from the museum on to a traffic crossing.
There is a main street stretching the length of the island. It is only a small, narrow street, but so carefully restored are the wooden buildings and cobblestoned walkways, that the skyscrapers and noise of the city seem to fade away, intruders in an era in which they don't belong.
In 1858, Japan entered into a treaty with the USA that ended Dejima's status as the sole gateway to and from the outside world. Modern Japanese culture bears no evidence of its early and exclusive contact with The Netherlands. What remains on Dejima Island is a poignant reminder of a short and fascinating footnote in the history of two countries at opposite ends of the world.
David Mitchell's novel The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet recreates life on Dejima with the same kind of affectionate care as the museum itself. It was through this book that I learnt about Dejima's existence.
The Dutch traders were required to remain on a tiny fan-shaped island called Dejima on the tip of the Nagasaki peninsula. The island is around 200x70 metres in size. A trading ship of the Dutch East India company would arrive from Batavia (modern day Jakarta, then a Dutch colony) once a year. For upwards of 15 foreign residents (there were also many Japanese, who were allowed to come and go) - a chief factor, several clerks, a physician and a number of assistants and servants - this small space was the only place they could go. Unless leaving on a trading ship, it was the only place they would ever go.
The museum at Dejima has been put together with apparently meticulous care. The island was designed to prevent unwanted visitors from entering, but due to reclaimed land is now in the middle of the city. In spite of this, standing at the old Land Gate, just metres away from life on the other side, evokes the kind of isolated feeling the Dutch traders may have felt. As does standing at the Sea Gate - once a place to long for home, now the exit from the museum on to a traffic crossing.
There is a main street stretching the length of the island. It is only a small, narrow street, but so carefully restored are the wooden buildings and cobblestoned walkways, that the skyscrapers and noise of the city seem to fade away, intruders in an era in which they don't belong.
In 1858, Japan entered into a treaty with the USA that ended Dejima's status as the sole gateway to and from the outside world. Modern Japanese culture bears no evidence of its early and exclusive contact with The Netherlands. What remains on Dejima Island is a poignant reminder of a short and fascinating footnote in the history of two countries at opposite ends of the world.
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| View from the old Land Gate |
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| Inside a clerk's quarters |
David Mitchell's novel The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet recreates life on Dejima with the same kind of affectionate care as the museum itself. It was through this book that I learnt about Dejima's existence.
Backpacking dinosaur
A week or so of staying on couches or in spare rooms, arranged through the couchsurfing website, has given me some memorable experiences. In fact, Kuwana and Nagasaki were the first places I have visited - almost a month into the trip - where I have been out sightseeing or socialising in the company of other people, Japanese or otherwise.
The last time I went travelling on my own on a trip comparable (in terms of duration and budget) to this one was interrailing in 2006. Almost every hostel I stayed at on that trip was a party zone, and I was rarely alone. In Japan, I have often walked into a hostel common room to be met with either silence or complete emptiness - despite the fact that everywhere seems to be booked in advance.
The best experience I have had in Japan was in Kuwana, at home socialising with a group of local people and going for a hike in the countryside. My recent birthday - celebrated in Kuwana - saw my age, increasing relentlessly with each passing year, reach 31. A ripe number for a hosteller.
Backpacking has changed, and so have I. The attitude to travel I learnt as I cut my teeth in various hostels around Europe that heady summer in 2006 has become outmoded. It has probably been so for quite some time.
The last time I went travelling on my own on a trip comparable (in terms of duration and budget) to this one was interrailing in 2006. Almost every hostel I stayed at on that trip was a party zone, and I was rarely alone. In Japan, I have often walked into a hostel common room to be met with either silence or complete emptiness - despite the fact that everywhere seems to be booked in advance.
The best experience I have had in Japan was in Kuwana, at home socialising with a group of local people and going for a hike in the countryside. My recent birthday - celebrated in Kuwana - saw my age, increasing relentlessly with each passing year, reach 31. A ripe number for a hosteller.
Backpacking has changed, and so have I. The attitude to travel I learnt as I cut my teeth in various hostels around Europe that heady summer in 2006 has become outmoded. It has probably been so for quite some time.
Thursday 25 July 2013
Birthday tea with the Shinjo family
Small plastic plates file by on the the rows of conveyor belts as Mayumi, a 33-year old teacher from Kuwana in Aichi Prefecture, offers her little 1-year old son Makoto some noodles in the hope of distracting hime from grabbing at the sushi dishes. Her friend Yamamoto, who works for a local design company and spent five years studying in Australia in the 1990s, shows me how to order anything not on the conveyor belt from a complicated-looking touchscreen above our booth. The restaurant, which has 30 or so booths with space for around six people in each, is almost full. It's Friday night and time to relax for the many who conform to Japan's 50 hour upwards-long working week.
After eating a vast quantity of tuna, salmon, eggs, rice and crab meat, we deposit our plates in a small receptacle at the end of the table. The touchscreen counts the plates and plays a cartoon sequence after every fifth plate which determines whether or not you win a free gift. Like in an arcade game, we win and a little plastic ball rolls down out of a container above us. Inside is a small toy of Christmas cracker-like quality.
Mayumi has travelled extensively, working as a volunteer in or just visiting such diverse countries as Kazakhstan, Israel and Bangladesh. Now on maternity leave, she offers visitors to Japan a place to stay. She wants to know everything I can tell about the Middle East and other trips I have been on in the past. Yamamoto, tall and affable with a passion for the outdoors, invites me to go hiking with him and his friends on Sunday. Makoto jumps up out of his baby seat again. The dishes keep whirring by.
After dinner we have a few drinks together at Mayumi's house, but I don't meet her husband Yoshiaki until the next day - his company, Fujitsu, has recently made some employees redundant and the remaining workers are taking up the slack. He doesn't get home from work until 2 a.m.
I wake at the crack of dawn on the 21st, the day of the hike, so that I can join the mountain trek led by Yamamoto-san. Mayumi and Makoto are already up - I don't leave without breakfast or the supplies I need. Yamamoto arrives in his 650cc car and we pick up two of his friends, Ragun and Kaori, and meet a second car on the way, bringing our group to eight people.
We drive into the countryside and stop at the top of a bumpy road where progress is blocked by a barrier. We scramble down a hill and begin trekking up a shallow stream, the cool water refreshing our feet. Pine-covered slopes dominate the scenery in front, behind and to our left and right; the earthy, tangy smell filling the air.
We pass a couple of collapsed bridges and arrive presently at a bend in the river, where there are two dilapidated buildings, the remains of a long-abandoned village. We start some campfires and barbecue the fish, chicken and pork that the well-prepared Yamamoto has brought in his pack. The fires sizzle, the cicadas rattle, smoke wafts through the morning air.
After we have eaten, I walk a little further along the stream. There are a handful more abandoned buildings and what looks like the remains of a dam to a tributary stream coming down the hillside. There is also a shrine which, unlike the houses, is in well-kept condition on the opposite left bank of the stream. Behind the tori, shrine gate, about 20 mossy steps lead up to the shrine itself, built from stone with a closed wooden door. Two statues of winged dogs stand on each side of the uppermost steps. I realise that I forgot to pick up my camera when I walked out from the campfires. It seems to match that this place should remain an image in my memory, rather than one in a photograph.
The 21st of July happens to be my birthday. Mayumi has invited several of her friends, including Yamamoto, Ragun and Kaori, to a party in my honour in the evening. We sit around the low table and eat spring rolls, vegetables, crisps and takoyaki. These are small dumplings, made by frying batter filled with, in this case, octopus and various vegetables and seasoning on a specially designed hotplate with holes rounded out for the dumplings.
Yamamoto teases Kaori about a picture he had taken of her sleeping in the car, and subsequently posted to facebook. We talk a lot about any number of subjects. I open a bottle of Asti and we all enjoy the celebration and good company.
When it is time to leave the following day, having thanked Mayumi as well as I could for the huge effort she had made for a visitor she hadn't previously known, I go through the gate at Kuwana station and down on to the platform. I can see her and Makoto standing on the elevated walkway that leads back towards the car park. Makoto, who points and says the Japanese word for "train" every time he sees a tractor, a boat or an actual train, waves at the locomotives. The sun casts an orange glow on the aluminium platings on the side of the bridge and the buildings of the town behind it. They stay until I have boarded the local service to Nagoya, waving back until it pulls out of the station.
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| Birthday cards. Photo courtesy of Yoshiaki-san |
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| Birthday tea. Photo courtesy of Yoshiaki-san |
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| Mayumi and Makoto at the station |
Nagoya International Society
The Nagoya International Society meets twice a month for English discussions. Its members have various careers and educational backgrounds, but have at least one thing in common - they all speak and enjoy speaking fluent English. I was invited to join them for a social outing during my visit to the city.
We met at a French restaurant located in a small alley off an arcade near the Kokusai Center metro station. I arrived before the others. The restaurant was Japanese in style, with dark wooden panelling and low ceilings. The posters on the wall, music and menu were unmistakeably French. Presently the others arrived, making a group of 12, and we sat down to eat.
I spoke to Natsuko, who told me how she felt about the earthquake and resulting tsunami in 2011, possibly the worst natural disaster ever to hit Japan.
"I thought it was the end of Japan. The devastation was so bad that it felt like there was no way back for the country". This seemed striking to me as I responded to Natsuko asking me how the catastrophe was reported in the West. I had to think before replying that yes, it received a lot of coverage, and there was no doubt about how serious it was, but there was not a lot of worrying going on in the average Danish or British home at the time.
Distance is an important factor in how much the media drives any event into the consciousness of its target audience. Japan is far away. I admit that I have recently read more about petty squabbles over halal meat in Danish hospitals than about the election that took place in Japan last weekend - and I'm actually here at the moment.
The night with the International Society provided the chance to learn something about the Japanese political system from those voting in the elections. Satoru, a gentleman who spoke immaculate English and worked in Tehran in the 1980s, explained how current prime minister Shinzo Abe, who controls the lower house, was strong favourite to win the upper house elections, gaining a stronger hold over parliament. This situation has not occurred in Japan for several years. Abe appears to be gaining votes as the feeling is that strong leadership is required to get the country's stagnant economy moving. He also the advocate of a nationalistic rhetoric - something Satoru was less certain about.
"The prime minister wants to change the constitution, so that our military is no longer just a 'defence force' any more. It has been this way since the Second World War", he explained. "We have some territorial disputes with China and Korea. Maybe he could go to war with them, as he relies a lot on his nationalistic ticket. Even though many are worried about this, they will still vote for him because it seems a good option for the economy".
"Is it actually conceivable that Japan could go to war over the territorial disputes?"
"I think it's possible".
We also talked about more light-hearted subjects. The rumour spread that my birthday was the following day and I was treated to a rendition of "Happy Birthday To You" led by another society member, a fine baritone singer who also calls himself Mike. After the meal, we had a drink at a bar where the song was repeated. Other guests in the bar wished me a happy birthday. I felt slightly embarrassed.
We returned to the station through the Saturday night crowds in time for the last train home. It was just before midnight on the 20th of July.
We met at a French restaurant located in a small alley off an arcade near the Kokusai Center metro station. I arrived before the others. The restaurant was Japanese in style, with dark wooden panelling and low ceilings. The posters on the wall, music and menu were unmistakeably French. Presently the others arrived, making a group of 12, and we sat down to eat.
I spoke to Natsuko, who told me how she felt about the earthquake and resulting tsunami in 2011, possibly the worst natural disaster ever to hit Japan.
"I thought it was the end of Japan. The devastation was so bad that it felt like there was no way back for the country". This seemed striking to me as I responded to Natsuko asking me how the catastrophe was reported in the West. I had to think before replying that yes, it received a lot of coverage, and there was no doubt about how serious it was, but there was not a lot of worrying going on in the average Danish or British home at the time.
Distance is an important factor in how much the media drives any event into the consciousness of its target audience. Japan is far away. I admit that I have recently read more about petty squabbles over halal meat in Danish hospitals than about the election that took place in Japan last weekend - and I'm actually here at the moment.
The night with the International Society provided the chance to learn something about the Japanese political system from those voting in the elections. Satoru, a gentleman who spoke immaculate English and worked in Tehran in the 1980s, explained how current prime minister Shinzo Abe, who controls the lower house, was strong favourite to win the upper house elections, gaining a stronger hold over parliament. This situation has not occurred in Japan for several years. Abe appears to be gaining votes as the feeling is that strong leadership is required to get the country's stagnant economy moving. He also the advocate of a nationalistic rhetoric - something Satoru was less certain about.
"The prime minister wants to change the constitution, so that our military is no longer just a 'defence force' any more. It has been this way since the Second World War", he explained. "We have some territorial disputes with China and Korea. Maybe he could go to war with them, as he relies a lot on his nationalistic ticket. Even though many are worried about this, they will still vote for him because it seems a good option for the economy".
"Is it actually conceivable that Japan could go to war over the territorial disputes?"
"I think it's possible".
We also talked about more light-hearted subjects. The rumour spread that my birthday was the following day and I was treated to a rendition of "Happy Birthday To You" led by another society member, a fine baritone singer who also calls himself Mike. After the meal, we had a drink at a bar where the song was repeated. Other guests in the bar wished me a happy birthday. I felt slightly embarrassed.
We returned to the station through the Saturday night crowds in time for the last train home. It was just before midnight on the 20th of July.
Sumo spectator
Sumo tournaments take place a handful of times in a year, moving from city to city. They last for 14 days and attract crowds that, while not as big as those that attend baseball or football games, are testament to the equivalent standing of this sport with its two modern rivals.
I passed through town at the same time as the 2013 July Grand Tournament reached its final few days at Aichi Prefectural Gymnasium, Nagoya. Arriving early, I bought one of the last remaining tickets, for the cheap seats at the back. I had arrived almost an hour before the first bouts started and there was almost no-one there. Music played in the background while kimono-clad men swept in the dohyo, the equivalent of the ring.
I remained all day, and by early evening the arena was full of excited fans, cheering and gasping as the wrestlers grappled at each other's belts, dumped opponents out of the ring, or stomped their feet in intimidation.
Sumo wrestling is steeped in Shinto tradition. Before each bout, a man in a ceremonial kimono holds up a fan and and chants at each competitor as they sit beside the judges on opposite sides of the dohyo. The wrestlers walk up onto the ring and rub salt on to their hands, sometimes throwing handfuls of it high into the air. They stamp and stretch in front of each other. They repeat this act of intimidation a number of times. Then the referee calls out and they charge.
Sometimes the action is over in seconds, with the loser quickly falling or finding himself shoved unceremoniously out of the ring. Other times the advantage swings from one to the other.
That morning I had stood opposite a mountain of a man in a blue kimono. He had long black hair, slicked back into a small knot at the top of his head. He was wearing the traditional square Japanese sandals. Just a sumo wrestler on his way to work on Saturday morning on the train to Nagoya.
I passed through town at the same time as the 2013 July Grand Tournament reached its final few days at Aichi Prefectural Gymnasium, Nagoya. Arriving early, I bought one of the last remaining tickets, for the cheap seats at the back. I had arrived almost an hour before the first bouts started and there was almost no-one there. Music played in the background while kimono-clad men swept in the dohyo, the equivalent of the ring.
I remained all day, and by early evening the arena was full of excited fans, cheering and gasping as the wrestlers grappled at each other's belts, dumped opponents out of the ring, or stomped their feet in intimidation.
Sumo wrestling is steeped in Shinto tradition. Before each bout, a man in a ceremonial kimono holds up a fan and and chants at each competitor as they sit beside the judges on opposite sides of the dohyo. The wrestlers walk up onto the ring and rub salt on to their hands, sometimes throwing handfuls of it high into the air. They stamp and stretch in front of each other. They repeat this act of intimidation a number of times. Then the referee calls out and they charge.
Sometimes the action is over in seconds, with the loser quickly falling or finding himself shoved unceremoniously out of the ring. Other times the advantage swings from one to the other.
That morning I had stood opposite a mountain of a man in a blue kimono. He had long black hair, slicked back into a small knot at the top of his head. He was wearing the traditional square Japanese sandals. Just a sumo wrestler on his way to work on Saturday morning on the train to Nagoya.
The Sun drops in Osaka
Facing north-west:
Facing south-east:
These pictures were taken from the top of the Umeda Sky Building, a twin 40-storey skyscraper near one of Osaka's two major business districts. Unlike at Tokyo's Skytree building, it is possible to go outside and take pictures in the open air. There was a distinctly couply theme to proceedings. Near the top of the escalator can be found a big pink cardboard plaque with a heart cut out of it, available for young lovers to have their pictures taken through (although I also saw a middle-aged Latin American tourist posing with it).
Out on the roof there is a small corner, where couples can attach heart-shaped padlocks with their names etched into them. I was there at dusk. The scene reminded me of an old Roger Sanchez video.
Osaka was, on first impressions at least, like Tokyo in that it was an enormous, dazzling beast of a city with as many different districts as there are colours on the average neon-infested street. I struggled to get under its surface, and spent hours wandering lost under ring road overpasses and through brightly lit shopping centres and narrow arcades.
Sunday 14 July 2013
The big Buddha of Nara
Nara Park, Sunday afternoon. Deer roam around the entire grounds, and are free to walk off into the city should they so desire. They are to be found around the park's museums, shrines, temples and forests alike. Small children run up to the animals excitedly, testing their courage by going close enough to pat them on the back. One very young toddler escapes from his dad's grasp, runs around a male deer and grabs the antlers. The deer doesn't react, the parents laugh, the little boy backs quickly away, probably surprised by the extent of his own fearlessness.
Although the deer (and toddlers) are enough of a fun diversion on their own to make the park worth visiting, the main attraction in an area rich in historical monuments is the Daibutsuden Hall. This is the world's largest wooden structure and houses the world's biggest indoor Buddha. Having seen enough temples of late to become lost in a maze of emperors, clans and restorations, the best specific information I can offer is that it has stood on the site since the 8th century, and that Nara was Japan's first permanent capital.
Inside the hall, one of the supporting wooden struts has a hole through the base, said to be equal in size to one of the Buddha's nostrils. By crawling through, you guarantee the attainment of enlightenment later in life. Children queue, laugh, crawl through, pose for photographs.
I walk up through the forest to Nigatsudo Hall, from where the is a view across the Nara plain. In the forest area there are several shrines. A couple of these are covered in pink hearts and ribbons. At others, visitors go up in pairs to pay their respects, ringing the bell at the front of the shrine before bowing, clapping twice and pausing quietly for a few moments.
What I saw when I was walking around Kyoto
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| Dusty Bin's let himself go |
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| This little fellow filled my water bottle |
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| Downpour |
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