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Japan by Train 29: Kagoshima

April 10, 2023 / John D. / 0 Comments

This is part of an ongoing series about travelling the length of Japan by train, and consists of passages with a Shinto or spiritual flavour. They are extracted from a longer book version due to be published by Stone Bridge in January 2024.

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Amaterasu statue in Ise Museum
(All photos by J. Dougill)

For those so inclined, Japanese mythology is fascinating. The stories are the stuff of fantasy, yet the myths continue to sustain the ruling class by fostering mystique about heavenly origins. Emperor Hirohito may have renounced divinity at the end of WW2, but the coronation of the present emperor included a rite symbolising descent from the sun goddess (Amaterasu). The country’s premier shrine, Ise Jingu, still honours her as ancestor of the imperial family.

The myth of heavenly descent is known as Tenson Korin. It tells of how the sun goddess instructed her grandson to descend to earth, and how he touched down on a mountain peak called Mt Takachiho in southern Kyushu. This has long puzzled me. It is generally assumed that the early rulers of Japan, the Yamato clan, emigrated from the Korean peninsula. If that is the case, then surely they would ‘descend’ onto a mountain in northern Kyushu. Why should Mt Takachiho be singled out for this momentous event?

Faced with this puzzle, I concocted my own theory. It was sparked by the arrival of the first Europeans to Japan, for three Portuguese traders were caught in a storm while travelling along the coast of China, and their badly damaged ship was swept along by the Kuroshio Current to the Japanese island of Tanegashima. The same current flows towards Kinko Bay, in which Kagoshima is situated, and at the end of the bay Mt Takachiho is visible.

Because of the current, there are many links between coastal China and southern Kyushu. Japan’s earliest rice cultivation, imported from China, is found here, and archeologists have unearthed skeletons from around this time resembling those of Jiangsu Province. In addition, early myths about Amaterasu and silk weaving are similar to those of the Yangtze River delta.

At this point enter Xu Fu, a Chinese alchemist. According to accounts, he was sent by China’s first emperor in search of an elixir for immortality. The first mission ended in failure, following which around 210 BC he was granted sixty large boats, together with soldiers, crew and 3000 boys and girls equipped with various skills, This time he never returned, and in later years it was assumed that he had reached Japan. How intriguing, I thought. Could the Kuroshio Current have taken Xu Fu’s armada to the foot of Mt Takachiho? Could he be the inspiration for the heavenly descent?

Not far from Mt Takachiho lies the town of Miyazaki and access to the Inland Sea. This prompts thought of the route of conquest taken by the Yamato clan, who migrated from Kyushu to the Nara basin. The mythology related in Japan’s earliest written works tell how Emperor Jimmu, Japan’s legendary first emperor, led the expedition.

Kashihara Shrine picture book story of Jimmu: here he sets out on his expedition

Now here is a very odd ‘coincidence’. If you travel to the small town of Shingu on the Kii Peninsula, there are sites associated with the arrivals by sea of both Jimmu and Xu Fu. Just south of the town is a beach where Emperor Jimmu supposedly landed. And in the town itself is a creek where Xu Fu is said to have arrived. In Japanese Xu Fu is known as Jofuku, and in Jofuku Park is a grave where the Chinese alchemist is allegedly buried.

Chinese style gate at the entrance to Jofuku Park in which is supposedly the grave of Xu Fu, aka Jofuku

The legends of Xu Fu and Jimmu both date from early Yayoi times, when Japan underwent great cultural change. Could it be in fact that the two legendary figures were modelled on the same person? It would mean that Japan’s imperial ancestors came from China in search of immortality, landed beneath Mt Takachiho, made their way across the Inland Sea to Shingu, then proceeded overland to Yamato in the Nara Basin.

The more I thought about my idea, the more convincing it seemed. But when I tried it out on specialists in mythology, I found little support. Alas and alack, there Is nothing new under the sun, and I discovered one day that a Japanese professor by the name of Ino Okifu had come up with the very same theory. Wikipedia claims the idea has been discredited, though it offers no explanation why, and as far as I am concerned the theory remains a tantalising possibility. To the world at large Kagoshima may be a volcanic city where the Last Samurai died, but to me it is a gateway to the mythological past.

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For more on the same subject, see postings for the China connection (Parts 1-3) by starting here.

Japan by Train 28: Kumamoto

April 7, 2023 / John D. / 0 Comments

Part of the massive reconstruction taking place in Kumamoto Castle

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In Kumamoto I once again crossed tracks with Alan Booth on his long walk through Japan. We had parted ways at Shimonoseki, and while he strode doggedly down the middle of Kyushu I slow-trained the northwestern coast. As Booth draws nearer his final destination, the descriptions in his book get shorter and shorter, reflecting his urge to reach journey’s end. Beer, hot springs and wild swimming had sustained him, he claims, though humour and intelligence clearly played a part too.

In Kumamoto, as he considered the sprawling earthworks of the massive castle, Booth wrote about the similarities between Japanese and European fortresses. Both have concentric defences, narrowing towards an innermost structure, but with one big difference. Whereas European keeps have massive walls of impenetrable stone, Japanese castles at their core have a palace-like hall made of wood and plaster. The observation suggests the delicacy at the heart of Japanese culture, much as the emperor for long periods lived virtually unprotected in the imperial palace.

Kumamoto’s castle is humongous – no other word quite captures the scale of the fortress. Built in 1607, it was one of the largest in the land, with an outer perimeter of thirteen kilometres. But the castle Booth visited and the one I was viewing were quite different. Very different, in fact. In 2016 a terrifying earthquake laid waste to the fortifications, and the television images from that time – the collapsed rooms, damaged walls and shattered structures – remain imprinted on the mind.

Japan is a land of disasters, and one sometimes forgets the fragility of existence in the archipelago. Floods, earthquakes, typhoons, eruptions and tsunami issue constant reminders of the thin veneer between life and death, as if the gods want to warn against complacency. Even the most robust of human constructs, like the stone walls of Kumamoto Castle, can be casually tossed aside by terrifying powers of unknown origins. It fosters a placatory attitude towards the kami, and a stoic acceptance of adversity. As Donald Richie put it, shikata ga nai (It can’t be helped) is Japan’s national mantra.

Suizen-ji Jojuen garden park with its Fuji-like hill

Suizen-ji is Kumamoto’s number two attraction, and I had visited it on a previous occasion. Built in the 1630s as a tea retreat, it centred around a spring of fresh water originating in the Aso mountains. Later a stroll garden was laid out to reproduce scenes from the Tokaido, with a lake and Fuji-shaped hill.

Amongst the many features is a larger than life statue of founder, Hosokawa Tadatoshi. Originally there was a temple, now there is a shrine, but tea, water and contemplation remain written into the fabric of the garden.

sacred straw rope
spring water wells up
at Suizen-ji

There is often more to haiku than meets the eye, and in this case the haiku was written by novelist Natsume Soseki, who lived for four years in the city and whose residence is reassembled at Suizen-ji. The haiku he wrote here was sent for feedback to his mentor Shiki Masaoka. A noticeboard at the park says that it was a New Year greeting, with the straw rope (shimenawa) referring to the seasonal decoration that in Shinto delineates sacred space and, as here, a sacred time of year.

Japan by Train 27: Shimabara

March 21, 2023 / John D. / 0 Comments

Shimabara’s samurai district (photos by J. Dougill)

The small town of Shimabara has an unmanned station, yet the town boasts two major attractions. One is a castle, and the other a samurai district. In its heyday the district boasted 690 homes grouped together to house foot soldiers. The area was known as Teppo-machi (Gun District) since the guards were armed with rifles as well as swords. (The first gun had arrived with Portuguese merchants in 1543, following which Japanese smiths were able to copy it and produce their own.)

The samurai houses are set either side of a small stream, and three were open to the public. The multipurpose tatami rooms looked almost identical, save for the tokonoma alcove displaying seasonal items. The minimalism and harmony with nature were in keeping with the Zen the warriors practised, and in keeping with Shinto values too. When the sliding walls that divide house and garden were removed, a unified space was created merging interior with the outdoors.

Shimabara Castle, which houses a museum exhibition about the uprising of 1637

One of the residences served as a museum, focussed on the samurai heritage. The fee was just ¥300, but nonetheless the 80 year old running the museum insisted I have a discount for being English. The collection had an engagingly ad hoc feel, despite the vaguely chronological theme. The deeper you penetrated, the further it strayed from samurai matters, until finally there were simply beer cans and a gramophone from the 1950s.

As we walked round the exhibits, the old lady told me snippets about her life. Her father had died in the war, her daughter had married an Englishman, and when she visited London people had been kind to her, even though she did not speak the language.

‘Did you see the stream that flows between the houses?’ she asked. ‘It was the gift of Lord Matsudaira. Can you guess why?’
‘For their daily life,’ I suggested. ‘They needed water to live.’
‘Yes, but he wanted them to be thankful,’ she said. ‘So he provided fresh spring water. It was a gift of life, as if he was a god.’

Gratitude for the blessings of life run deep in Japanese culture, and it is a key element of Shinto also. Gratitude to one’s ancestors; gratitude for fresh water; gratitude to whoever was involved in providing food. “Gratefulness – the full response to a given moment and all it contains – is a universal practice that fosters personal transformation, cross-cultural understanding, interfaith dialogue, intergenerational respect, nonviolent conflict resolution, and ecological sustainability.” (For more about the benefits of gratitude, click here.)

Model of Hara-jo, the abandoned castle where the rebels of 1637 holed up and made their last stand

Japan by Train 26: Nagasaki

February 27, 2023 / John D. / 0 Comments

The first time I visited Nagasaki, I remember standing on Glover Hill admiring the panorama. The view was exhilarating. Down below were cranes, wharfs and ocean-going ships. At the foot of the hill was a Catholic Church, and behind me was a British garden and house in colonial style. It was quite unlike any other Japanese city I had seen. Hong Kong came to mind.

Oura Church, oldest church in Japan and a popular tourist sight

Later I discovered how special the history is too. Nagasaki’s foundation dates from the sixteenth century, when missionaries saw its potential as a harbour for Portuguese ships. The settlement that grew up around it became a magnet for converts, and before long Japan was host to a ‘New Jerusalem’Little Rome’. It was run by Jesuits, who owned the city. Yes, literally owned it, for in 1580 a converted daimyo called Omura Sumitada thought fit to give them jurisdiction. The missionaries took the opportunity to profit from the lucrative trade in silk from Macao for silver from Japan.

The result was a most unusual city. Churches dominated the skyline, and citizens indulged in meat, wine and the wearing of crosses. The mission had ties to military bases in Manila and Macao, and when Hideyoshi realised the threat this represented in terms of colonisation, he issued the most drastic of warnings. Japan was a land of kami, he maintained and had no need of a Creator God. In 1586 a group of twenty-six Catholics (six foreigners and twenty Japanese) were rounded up and their ears cut off before being paraded around Kyoto. They were then force marched to Nagasaki, where they were publicly crucified. It was a portent of the persecution that followed in Tokugawa times. Eventually the fear of colonisation would lead to a national lockdown as the country sealed itself off from the Christian ‘virus’.

Model recreation of Dejima, the artificial island on which the Dutch were allowed to run a trading post during the Age of Isolation.

Japan by Train 25: Hirado

February 15, 2023 / John D. / 0 Comments

Hirado is a little gem. The small town of 31,000 has a port overlooked by a castle, and in the past had important continental connections. Tucked into Kyushu’s northwest corner, it is mostly neglected by tourists because of its remoteness.

Historically, Hirado played a key role in the early seventeenth century, when the Dutch and the English set up ‘factories’ (an old fashioned term for trading post). The Dutch were first in 1609, and they stayed until forced to relocate in 1640. They were more adept at business than the English, who arrived in 1613 and barely lasted ten years.

(The following is an excerpt from a longer chapter in the forthcoming publication, Japan by Train (Stone Bridge Press).

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View from the castle, with the white Dutch ‘factory’ on the far side at the end of the promontory

A notice at the information office offered a half-day guided tour, which I joined along with a party of three middle-aged Japanese. We headed first to the nearby promontory on which the Dutch trading post stands. The guide pointed out the deep channel where ocean-going ships from Europe would anchor, before transferring their goods to small boats that ferried them to the stone steps where we stood.

Before us was an island with an attractive Benten shrine, a fine example for the Europeans of the sanctification of nature. The deity is the only female among the Seven Lucky Gods, and as muse of the arts she is closely associated with water and the subconscious. The Dutch traders would have seen her every single day, but only at a distance. ‘It was taboo to tread on Benten’s sacred soil,’ our guide told us. ‘Still today we citizens of Hirado keep that tradition.’

‘Please look over there,’ he continued, pointing at the castle. ‘The original belonged to the Matsuura clan, but in 1613 they destroyed it. It is very unique, I think. The reason is because they fought against the Tokugawa at Sekigahara, so they were not trusted. They worried about that. So they wanted to show they were not a threat. It was very clever, because they could keep their power.’

Will Adams often visited the English ‘factory’ and died while on a visit to Hirado.

Next stop was the solid-looking Dutch warehouse, where some startling statistics were thrown at us. The building had eighteen wooden beams and massive square pillars half a meter wide. Altogether there were 21,000 interlocking stone blocks. Yes, 21,000! The result was a huge, Dutch-style building, finished off with a Japanese tiled roof.

The original building took eight months to complete; the reconstruction took two years. A concern to be as authentic as possible meant timber had to be imported from Canada, because there were no longer trees of sufficient thickness in Japan – pause for thought in a country that is 67% forested.

‘What happened to the original building?’ asked one of the Japanese. ‘Ah, that is interesting,’ said the guide, looking at his watch. We were behind schedule. ‘To make a long story short, the Dutch wrote the date of the building above the entrance, and when the Tokugawa heard of that, they demanded the whole building be torn down.’

He left a dramatic pause, and asked if we could guess why. I knew the answer all too well, because I had used it in a book I wrote to illustrate how paranoid the Tokugawa were about the European religion. So after a decent pause, I piped up with, ‘They wrote 1639, which was the date according to the Christian calendar. Anything to do with Christianity was banned.’ ‘Sugoi,’ (Amazing) said one of the Japanese. ‘He knows our history better than we do,’ said another, ‘We have to study harder.’

Inside the building was an overview of Dutch-Japanese trade, and on display were two gorgeous boxes lacquered in black and decorated with flowers and birds in mother of pearl. Such goods sold well in Europe. There was too a beautiful miniature of the wonderfully multi-sail Liefde, the first Dutch ship to reach Japan in 1600. The two main masts were nearly as high as the ship was long. What a giddy prospect to have to climb them in stormy seas!

The small island of Ikitsuki next to Hirado remains the only functioning network of Hidden Christians, seen here at a baptism ceremony.

Japan by Train 24: Karatsu / Imari

February 7, 2023 / John D. / 0 Comments

These extracts are part of an ongoing series from a forthcoming book about travelling from the most northerly station in Japan to the most southerly.

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One of the paper mache floats in the Karatsu Kunchi Festival

Kunchi refers to the lively festivals of north Kyushu. Karatsu, Nagasaki and Hakata (Fukuoka) are the Big Three. Karatsu in particular is famed for its elaborate floats, made of layers of paper maché. At the museum, fourteen of them were lined up in a large hall, along with explanations, and I was quietly making notes when a middle-school excursion arrived armed with questionnaires. Suddenly the hall was as busy as a bee hive, with students rushing hither and thither to fill in answers and get to the ice cream shop.

The Red Lion was the only float when the festival was launched in 1819. Over the next fifty years another 14 were added, all with movable parts.

If the students had allowed themselves time to stop and stare, they would have seen how wondrous were the paper maché creations. From the depths of an artist’s imagination were conjured up mythic monsters, auspicious animals, historical heroes. My favourite was the head of a drunken demon, which had bitten into a samurai’s helmet and been beheaded as a result.

At one end of the hall was a large screen showing previous festivals in which the floats, weighed down by people inside and on top, were hauled along by inebriated men. Musical accompaniment was provided by drum, bell and flute. Moving slowly at first, the teams suddenly surged forward, then broke into high-speed cornering that was positively life endangering. Were it not a tradition, it would surely be banned.

Each district produces its own paper mache scene from mythology. They are made with lacquer over a bamboo or wooden frame.

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At Imari the portable shrine arrives on the back of a truck, accompanied by men in traditional clothing and non-traditional masks.

At the heart of Shinto’s annual festivals are portable shrines (mikoshi) which contain the kami. The heavy wooden mikoshi are usually borne on the hardened shoulders of men, but in this case the three kami arrived on the back of small vans. Men in happi festival jackets waited to unload them, then took up position sitting along three sides of a square. At the front was a temporary altar.

Participants were dressed in a colourful array of costumes: four priests in purple robes; miko dancers in red and white; child flautists in blue kimonos; and taiko drummers in all-white, their sleeves tied back for action.

But the undoubted star was a chigo (sacred child) in embroidered kimono and golden crown. (In former times, the chigo served as unpolluted vessel into which the kami descended, a remnant of Shinto’s shamanic roots.)

The opening ritual included purification, offerings, a norito (formal prayer), a sacred dance, and a stunning taiko performance. Then the three mikoshi were loaded onto trucks again, each followed by a troupe of attendants. I tagged along behind one of them. The musicians played festival tunes, there was much shouting and saké was passed around. This was religion as celebration, and all around were smiling happy faces.

Unexpectedly an argument broke out, and men were yelling at each other, even grabbing each other’s jackets. It looked like a confrontation between rival groups, and spirits were running high. But then all of a sudden, it came to an abrupt end. It was a feigned quarrel, and everyone was laughing.

The taiko performance was superb, drumming up a different world to the mundane.

Men from the same district with one of the shrine’s mikoshi. Not a religion of individual salvation, but one of community bonds.

Japan by Train 23: Iki Island

January 20, 2023 / John D. / 2 Comments

For those interested in Shinto, Iki is a very special island. Palm trees and a Shinto torii greet visitors, and a welcome poster announces that this is ‘the island of kami’. A brochure promoting the island even claims that here lies the origin of Shinto. I was fortunate in my visit in that a Canadian friend Chad Kohalyk was living on the island and kindly offered to drive me around. He proved an excellent guide.

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The next day Chad had devised a custom-made tour for me. First and foremost was the island’s prime attraction, Monkey Rock. No prizes for guessing why. In fact the likeness was uncanny. Shaped by wind and salt water, the creature looks pensively towards the horizon, as if contemplating the future of monkeykind. It would make the perfect prop for Planet of the Apes. There is something too of King Kong in the formidable size, for it stands on a vertical piece of cliff that rises a massive twenty-five meters from the sea.

Nature’s artwork here reminded me of the large shamanic rock overlooking Seoul, which resembles a monk casting a protective eye over the city. On the slopes around it worshippers pray directly to the rock face. Sacred rock in Japan has long intrigued me, for it forms the essence of ancient Shinto. Most of the major shrines in the country originated with worship of a numinous rock (iwakura), yet curiously there is almost nothing written about it. The standard book on Shinto, by Ono Sokyo, does not contain a single mention of rocks. It is puzzling, but over the years I have pieced together my own understanding.

For ancient humans rock stood for permanence, in contrast to vegetation which was perishable. Humans were impermanent of course, but on death their spirit was thought to live on forever. Rocks were therefore associated with the dead, and came to be seen as a vessel into which spirits could enter. In other words they were physical containers for what was intangible and invisible, which is why they were revered as ‘spirit-bodies’ (goshintai).

Inari style torii tunnel. Iki island is full of atmospheric shrines.

Sacred rocks are particularly prominent along the ancient migration route leading from Korea to northern Kyushu, then along the fringes of the Inland Sea to the Yamato heartland in Nara. Since Korea had a formative influence on early religion in Japan, and since Korean shamanism derives from Siberia, it struck me that in prehistoric times Shinto-style shamanism too would have its origins there.

One day, while internet surfing, a picture popped up on my screen of an outcrop on the edge of Lake Baikal. My heart leapt up, and the minute I saw it, I knew with absolute certainty that I had to go there. It was located on the island of Olkhon in the middle of the lake, and contained a sacred cave venerated by the Buryat Mongols as the origin of shamanism. That summer I flew to Siberia, and sat on a slope overlooking the cave, which it was forbidden to enter. Prayer flags fluttered in the wind, and as I pondered the scene thoughts coursed through my mind. Could it be that within the dark mystery of the vaginal opening lay the origin of Japanese rock worship?

In shamanic thinking distinctive features are an indication of spiritual power. The leading shaman at Lake Baikal has six fingers, and in Japan rocks with striking shapes are attributed to divine creation. So I asked Chad if there was any evidence of rituals being conducted at the Monkey Rock, hoping for support for my shamanic theory. Disappointingly he replied, ’Not as far as I know,’ and though he had been to meetings of Iki’s official guides, there had been no mention of any religious connection.

There are over 1000 shrines in Iki, testimony to the very real presence of kami in the island life. You get the feeling that here is the true soul of Shinto, rooted in folk belief rather than the top-down imperial Shinto set up by the Meiji government. Iki shrines speak to a tradition of animism, and as we drove around the island the bond with nature was everywhere apparent.

Kojima island, with the torii immersed in water, though at low tide one can walk across

Some of the shrines are very special. Take Kojima Shrine, for instance, which stands on a small island and is only accessible at low tide. It has one of those evocative torii at the water’s edge, whose pillars are submerged by the incoming tide. It represents immersion in the life-force, as if to remind us of cosmic powers beyond our control. Or take Sai Jinja’s large wooden phallus which stands erect before the Worship Hall. Though demonised by Christianity, the male organ is here a powerful force for good, promoting fertility, conjugal harmony, easy childbirth, and protection from sexual disease.