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Japan by Train 9: Dewa Sanzan

July 6, 2022 / John D. / 0 Comments

Sanzan means three mountains, in this case referring to Mt Haguro (414 m / 1360 ft), Mt Gassan (1984m / 6509 ft) and Mt Yudono (1504m / 4934ft ). The three sacred mountains in Yamagata Prefecture are said to represent the past, present and future, but practically speaking the small hill of Mt Haguro acts as entry point for Mt Gassan, where ascetic exercises are performed. The more remote Mt Yudono, only accessible by walkers, serves as holy sanctuary, and in the past worshippers were required not to speak of what they saw there.

According to tradition, Mt Haguro grants happiness, Mt Gassan consolation, and Mt Yudono rebirth. Since I was not looking for rebirth, nor did I feel in need of consolation, I decided the gentle slopes of Mt Haguro would suit me just fine. In fact I had visited once before and remembered fondly the magical sight of its five storied pagoda – a work of art in harmony with the surrounding cedars. Santoka, the wandering poet, wrote of Westerners conquering mountains whereas Easterners contemplate them, while he himself ’tasted’ them. I knew what he meant, for the fine taste of Haguro lingered on my lips.

The bus from Tsuruoka emerges into a timeless landscape in which tiny figures in farmer’s clothing are dwarfed by misty mountains, as in a Chinese ink painting. When we reached the foothills, a large torii straddling the road announced we were entering the realm of the kami, and to either side were conspicuous signs of religiosity – shrines, buddhist statues, and shimenawa rice rope denoting sacred objects. Most striking of all was an enormous oversized haraegushi (purification stick) that looked like a relic from the Age of the Gods, when heroic figures and giant ogres strode the countryside.

At the entrance to the trail up Mt Haguro stood a run-down public toilet, placed strategically for the relief of visitors to the realm of the sacred. Despite its mosquito-ridden condition, someone had taken the trouble to place social distance markers on the floor. It was impressive. Even here, alongside the ancient traditions, modern hygiene prevailed.

Immediately on entering the woods the fresh fragrance of cedar became apparent and it was noticeably cooler, welcome relief indeed on such a warm day. Noticeboards announced with a concern for precision that the pathway had 2446 steps, and that lining the righthand side were 281 trees while lining the left were 301. This was thanks to the 50th head priest, who had laid out the approach over a period of thirteen years in the seventeenth century.

English language signage added to the site of a sacred cherry tree

The pathway into the woods begins with a gentle descent, accompanied by the refreshing sound of water running down either side. Since my last visit there had been a significant change in that signs were bilingual for the benefit of tourists, and in front of a small wooden shrine was an announcement in English; ’Presiding kami Amenotajikarao no mikoto, Divine virtue: Proficiency in arts and sports.’ It seemed an invitation to pray, and praying in Japan means paying, so I tossed a coin into the offertory box and prayed for proficiency in arts. The sports I was willing to forego.

Further along the trail, the outline of a pagoda became apparent. From a distance it was barely discernible amongst the trees, for though it is an impressive twenty-nine meters high (95ft), it nestles beneath the canopy of the surrounding cedars. The result is a harmonious blending of art and nature. The impossibly tall trees have slender trunks stretching skywards as if reaching for heaven, while the pagoda exhibits elegance combined with stunning craftsmanship. If you stand below it and try to work out how the joints fit together, your brain is sure to get scrambled. And all that interconnecting complexity is done without the use of nails.

At this point, covered in a film of sweat, I decided I had had enough. Foolishly I had not brought any water, and my back was aching. I had intended to press on to the thatched buildings of Dewa Shrine, but I knew the kami would forgive me if I turned back. On the bus to Tsuruoka, I watched the mountains recede into the distance and thought of Basho. Trained in Zen, he was open to all forms of spirituality as is the Japanese way, and he had managed the full course at Dewa Sanzan, austerities and all. But then, I consoled myself, he was a mere forty-five at the time. When he visited, It had also been a warm day and he wrote of relief from the summer heat.

The coolness
And a faint three-day moon –
Mount Haguro

After a week at Minamidani (South Valley), Basho climbed the more demanding Mt Gassan and did ascetic exercises, before proceeding to Mt Yudono. Given the taboo on revealing what happens there, he cleverly wrote of it by not writing of it. (The Tsuruoka tourist board are less compliant, for their brochure explicitly describes the sacred object of worship.)

Yudono
of which I may not tell –
sleeves wet with tears

The mountain experience stimulated the poet’s imagination, and brought out his playful side too. The ‘De-’ of Dewa Sanzan means exiting, or emerging, and Basho used this in a haiku that sees him emerge from the mountains not to some great spiritual insight, but to vegetables. The ‘first of the season’ eggplants were prepared specially for him by his pupil, Nagayama Juko.

How unusual –
emerging from Dewa
to first eggplants

Sacred rock used as a marker for training by Shugendo practitioners

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For another Green Shinto piece on Dewa Sanzan, please click here.

Japan by Train 8: Akita

June 11, 2022 / John D. / 4 Comments

Imagine a grotesque red face, straggling thick hair, pointed horns and a creature enveloped in straw which hangs down to the waist. Straw armbands and straw sandals complete the clothing, and in its hand is a staff. Pierced cheeks and sabre teeth suggest something half-human and half-monster, and from out of this bizarre assemblage come deep roars. Imagine too an infant secure in the family house being suddenly confronted by such a creature. Terrified, the child bursts out crying but the parents look on proudly and beam happily.

Such is the Namahage Festival, peculiar to the Oga Peninsula about an hour’s distance from Akita City. By tradition it was held in villages on the first full moon of the new lunar year, but with the introduction of the Gregorian calendar in 1873 it was moved to New Year’s Eve.

The festival is very much a village affair, but the Namahage Museum is intended for the public, so it comes as a surprise to find that at Oga Station there is no bus connection. In fact there is virtually no transport on offer but a two-hour ‘taxi tour’ that cost more than my hotel room. At least there will be some local chat, I consoled myself, but the driver was unusually taciturn and clearly not enamoured of his job. Either that, or in Bruce Willis style he was having a very bad day.

The main exhibit at the museum are the costumes, made anew for the festival every year. In the past masks were shaped from anything to hand, such as clay, plywood and even tin, though nowadays they are all wood. The straggly hair is made from hemp fibre, horsehair or matted human hair. Rather than evil beings, the ogres are seen as friendly, bringing the promise of health and a good harvest. Videos show how the costumed strangers are welcomed by parents, who offer them food and drink. ‘Are there any children here who don’t do their homework?’ demand the demons. By this time terrified toddlers are in tears.

For Westerners this looks like a clear case of child abuse, but in the Far East it ispart of a shamanic tradition that privileges the life force. Babies that cry loudly show vigour, thereby promising a healthy future. A similar notion underscores festivals with Chinese dragons, when parents offer babies to be ‘bitten’ for good luck. Should the baby burst our crying, it is a good omen. There is even a contest called Cry-Baby Sumo (Nakizumo), when babies held by sumo wrestlers compete to be the first to cry. One big squeeze is all it takes.

Namahage’s origins are unknown, but it could have originated with mountain ascetics emerging unwashed from the woods and visiting houses to pass on the spiritual merit they had acquired. True or not, the festival has won recognition from Unesco as an Intangible Cultural Heritage, ensuring it will not die out. For children on the Oga Peninsula even if Father Christmas does not appear, the Namahage surely will.

On the little train back to Akita I was seated just behind the driver, which afforded me a close-up of his actions. To his right at eye level he had the itinerary with scheduled times written on a long strip of paper, and before arriving at a station he would run his finger over the name and check the time next to it with his clock, then double check again with the schedule. Approaching a signal, he would point at it while saying out loud the name.

Though it was only a local train, the place for doors to open was clearly marked on platforms, and the train pulled up inch perfect at the designated spot. At each station he would stand up and stick his head out to check anyone getting on or off. All in all he was a busy man, and the busyness kept him alert. In its way watching him was as fascinating as watching the chefs in the Otaru sushi shop. The punctiliousness was after all what makes Japan special – that and the Namahage.

Japan by Train: 7) Aomori

May 9, 2022 / John D. / 0 Comments

When Isabella Bird arrived in Aomori in 1878, she was far from pleased with the town, calling it ‘a miserable looking place, a town of grey houses, grey roofs, and grey stones on roofs, built on a beach of grey sand, round a grey bay’.

The thunderous rain that greeted my arrival seemed determined to support her, but much has changed since then and the thrusting high buildings, the busy port and lively downtown gave a different impression.

Hot springs and fine food and colourful festivals – these are a few of my favourite things. Japan must have more festivals than any other country I can think of, outside India. A typical event comprises a procession around the parish accompanying portable shrines in which sit the kami. Since every Shinto shrine has an annual festival, and many Buddhist temples too, there are festivals going on somewhere pretty much every day, particularly in spring and autumn (important times for rice cultivation). Some have a wider fame, because of their prestige or spectacular nature. One such is Aomori’s Nebuta Matsuri. In a town of 280,000, it attracts some two million visitors.

The festival’s centrepiece is an evening parade of illuminated floats in scintillating colours which depict larger-than-life heroes and monsters. The effect is spectacular. Up to twelve meters long, the floats are spun around at intersections, accompanied by pounding taiko, cymbals and flutes. Following them are costumed dancers called Haneto. Dressed in flower hats and yukata (summer kimono), they hop and bounce energetically, frenetically. This is one of those occasions when buttoned-up Japan lets go and gets wild.

Each year a different theme is chosen, whether mythological or historical or contemporary. In 2019, in honour of the new emperor, imperial accession was the theme, and the most elaborate float featured the rock cave into which the sun goddess, Amaterasu, retreated after falling out with her brother. The mythical matriarch is the supposed progenitor of the imperial line.

In 1926 Emperor Hirohito, who claimed direct descent from her, assumed the throne as a living god, but renounced his divinity at the end of WW2. That did not prevent his grandson, the current emperor, from spending the night communing with Amaterasu in the ascension rites of 2019. Quite an experience, one would imagine, for someone who did postgraduate studies at Oxford in Thames navigation.

The Nebuta Museum is ideal for a rainy day, since you can see the floats up close without being jostled by two million others. Made of washi (Japanese paper) on bamboo frames, they are shaped, painted and lit internally by up to 800 electric bulbs. (Traditionally it was by candle-light; talk about a fire risk!) The floats can weigh up to four tons and are pulled by teams of thirty or more. Their simplicity belies the artistry involved, and each year the best designs are selected for special attention. Some of the creators have become well-known, and it is said festival connoisseurs can identify them by the shape of their noses – the noses of the creations, that is.

Not far from the museum was a restaurant advertising Aomori’s most famous dish, Kaiyakimiso, A scallop shell is heated over a flame, in which mushrooms and onion simmer in a broth of miso sauce topped with an egg. A little too salty for my taste, but it certainly felt wholesome, complemented by a sip or two of the local sake. Even despite the rain Aomori looked anything but grey.

Japan by Train: 6b) Hakodate

April 24, 2022 / John D. / 0 Comments

This is an extract from a forthcoming book about travel by train the length of Japan. (For Part One click here.) In 1863, after Japan agreed to open up to the West, Emperor Komei in a formal procession to Shimogamo Shrine went to pray that foreigners would return home. His action was driven by the notion of Shinto as a divine land – ‘kami no kuni’. Though Westerners were reluctantly accepted, restrictions were made as to where they could live, and where they should be buried.

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Japan has four sizeable gaijin bochi (foreign graveyards), located in the treaty ports of Hakodate, Kobe, Nagasaki and Yokohama. In Hakodate the first foreign burials took place with the arrival of the first ever foreign ship, for when Commodore Perry arrived in 1854, he brought with him a Mr Wolfe, aged fifty, and a Mr Remick aged nineteen, both recently deceased.

A special cemetery was set up, located on a slope with a fine view of the Pacific. Hydrangea bush and twisted pines beautify the site, and in the summer warmth of late August this final resting place was everything one might wish for – apart from being on the other side of the world.

There are some forty graves in all, comprising American, British, French, Danish, German and, surprisingly, a few Japanese Christians. A nearby cemetery is specifically for Chinese, and there is one for Russians too. Interestingly, there is no mention of nationality in the early gravestones, just a date and occasionally an occupation. The most poignant has the simplest inscription: ‘Baby, May 21st, 1874.’

By midday the temperature had reached 29c, and since there was no one around, I lay on the grass in the shade of a bush, looking out to sea and contemplating death in a distant land. At this point a Japanese couple walked past, and though they must have seen me they showed not the slightest indication of anything unusual. This ability not to see things is a fine art in Japan and a cultural trait foreigners sometimes speak of with envy.

Buddhist cemetery opposite the gaijin bochi

Opposite the ‘gaijin cemetery’ is a Buddhist temple with a graveyard, and to one side there is a third graveyard, reserved for Japanese Christians. It seemed symbolic of the halfway house they occupy. In Edo times Christianity was banned as a tool of colonialism, and it was only in 1873 that it was tolerated though it was not long before it fell under suspicion again for refusal to accept the divinity of the emperor. Still today Christians stand out from the Japanese norm: they keep different festival days, cleave to monotheism and don’t observe ancestral rites (forbidden in the Bible).

The sun was setting as I left, and it felt fitting that the cemetery should mark the last evening of my stay in Hokkaido. The next day I faced the long ride to Aomori, which would take me back to Honshu, and I had mixed feelings. Many years previously, when I wanted to visit Okinawa, Japanese friends had told me it was like a different country, and it was true that away from the capital there was a Polynesian feel. Hokkaido too has the feel of a foreign country, and the humidity and restricted horizons of Kyoto had been mercifully replaced by fast flowing streams and endless greenery. The resulting ease of mind owed itself not just to the openness of the landscape but to the friendliness of the people, descendants of pioneering adventurers who had arrived to build a new life. All in all, it felt indeed as if I had been to a foreign country – without even having to go abroad.

Farewell Hakodate, farewell Hokkaido! The famous wineglass shape of the city’s night view

Japan by Train: 6) Hakodate

April 11, 2022 / John D. / 2 Comments

This is an extract from a forthcoming book about travel by train the length of Japan. (For Part One click here.)The passage considers the historical treatment of animals in Japan. Despite being a so-called nature religion, Shinto has shown a greater concern for nationalist issues than animal rights, and it is Buddhism that has played the leading role in concern for our fellow creatures.

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Hakodate fish market (all photos by John Dougill)

Next morning I headed for Hakodate’s morning market. The Covid effect was much in evidence in the empty stalls, yet row upon row of fresh fish was laid out in neat display as if through force of habit. Some of the workers were up to their elbows in guts and gills, while others were out hustling passers-by. Set on its own in the middle of the market, like a prime showpiece, was a gigantic crab singled out for its size and feebly moving its legs against a narrow glass tank. A wave of crustacean compassion washed over me.

It was lunchtime, so I let myself be hustled into a surprisingly spacious dining room in which sat a single Japanese couple. What was it like pre-Covid, I asked the waitress. ‘A full house,’ she answered. How many would that be? ’Eighty,’ she said, ‘They come in large groups.’ I presumed that was in summer, ’No, they come all year round. Mainly tour groups for pensioners.’

The market is known for squid, so I ordered a set meal and waited. Tanks of the creatures lined one of the walls, and there were notices warning against sprayed ink. Restaurant staff in happi and headband stood around with nothing much to do, and I was scribbling down a few notes when out of the corner of an eye I noticed something moving next to me. Turning to look, I found myself staring straight into the face of a living creature with eerily undulating tentacles. I thought it must be moving post-mortem, like a headless chicken, but the continued wriggling indicated it was very much alive. ‘Sumimasen,’ I yelled out, ‘Please take this away.’ ‘But you ordered it,’ responded the puzzled waitress.

Realising I was adamant, she took the plate off to the kitchen, returning minutes later with neatly cut strips of fresh squid. I looked at the plate, then at her. ‘Is that the same one you brought before?’ I asked, and hearing it was, I hesitated. Somehow in our eye-to-eye encounter I felt that we had bonded. Was I really going to eat it? For a moment I wavered on the point of refusing, but then I thought of the Ainu who would see it as a divine gift from the Great Squid Spirit, and I thought of Buddha who said not to refuse what had been served by another. But most of all, I thought of the kitchen staff staring at me. There was no way I was going to confirm their prejudice about weak-willed gaijin unable to stomach Japanese food. And so, dear reader, I ate it.

Afterwards I had some questions for the waitress.

‘Is it usual to serve the squid while it’s still alive?’
‘Yes’, she said, ‘Japanese customers like it.’
‘They like it! Why?’
‘Maybe they want to know it’s fresh. And if they watch it dying they know it is fresh.’
‘You mean they like to watch the squid die?’
‘Yes. Maybe it will change colour,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘Then what happens?’
‘Then it’s sliced and served.’

At this point I plead guilty to hypocrisy. I happily chew dried squid with a glass of saké, but I am squeamish about seeing one dying. Humans are emotional by nature, and little of what we do makes rational sense, though we like to think it does. We pamper certain animals, and torture others. The French eat horse meat, the Koreans dog meat, the Japanese serve live squid. We defend practices that suit us and oppose those that are alien. It is all cultural, for sure. But still… watching your food die on your plate?

The Hare of Inaba rescued by Okuninushi is Shinto’s one instance of compassion for animals

The treatment of animals in Japan throws up some interesting historical quirks. In 675 Emperor Tenmu issued a ban on meat eating, particularly domestic animals, though seafood was allowed because reincarnation was thought to be restricted to land animals. (I presume that is where Shinto’s preferennce for offerings of sea food rather than meat originates.)

Venison and wild boar had previously been popular, but as time passed the ban was applied to all four-legged animals – except hares (rabbits), which were counted as birds. Many people think this is because of their large ears which flap like wings, but in fact it is due to a linguistic oddity because in Japanese the verb tobu, which means jump and fly, is applied to both hares and birds.

The haiku master, Kobayashi Issa (1763-1824), was a Pure Land priest with a great compassion for animals, including insects. Such was his depth of feeling that he would hold out his arm for hungry mosquitoes. In the haiku below he shows pity for a stranded insect, identifying perhaps with its poetical ‘chirping’ in a ‘floating world’.

Still chirping
the insect is carried away –
floating branch

Tokugawa Tsunayoshi was born in the Year of the Dog

When it comes to animal rights, not even Issa can compare with the ‘dog shogun’, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi. In a remarkable series of laws from 1687-1709, he issued Orders on Compassion for Living Things which stipulated that those who abused animals should be punished. The strictures were progressive, even by today’s ‘enlightened’ standards. A weight limit was set for working horses, and the caging of singing insects was banned. Punishments were severe: a public officer was exiled to a remote island for having thrown a stone at a dove.

Tsunayoshi was born in the Year of the Dog, hence the preferential treatment for the animal. If any dog was injured, the owner was held responsible and punished. It led to the mass abandonment of pets, and kennels had to be built to cope with the strays. The number of dogs in care is estimated to have ranged between 100,000 and 200,000, all of which had to be fed. It was big business, and for each dog the kennels received the equivalent of a man’s salary. Such was the cost that it depleted government coffers, surely the only example in human history of dogs nearly bankrupting an economy.

Tsunayoshi would not have known the breed though he might have approved the lifestyle

Japan by Train 5) Shiraoi

April 2, 2022 / John D. / 0 Comments

This is Part Five of my journey the length of Japan, from the extreme north of Hokkaido to the southernmost train station in Honshu (Ibusuki). The material is extracted from a longer account to be published in due course. (For Part One of the journey, please click here.)

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Ainu Museum
Hirota san and I were headed for Shiraoi, our destination the newly opened Ainu National Museum. It was just an hour’s train ride from Sapporo and had won positive reviews, not just as a showcase for Ainu culture, but as the focus of a drive for revival. From the station the museum is a few minutes walk away, and the picturesque setting beside a wood-encircled lake certainly promised well.

Isabella Bird visited Shiraoi on her trip to Hokkaido in 1878. At the time the indigenous folk lived in separate settlements from the mainstream Japanese (called Wajin) , and she found her Ainu hosts to be unfailingly courteous and mild-mannered, with a lifestyle that was underwritten by a strong religious code. Her purpose was to see if they were good missionary material, but it seemed they had no need of Christianity for they were ‘more truthful, hospitable, honest, reverent and kind to the old than the lower class of Western cities’.

In the Museum’s spacious Exhibition Hall is an attractive display of patterned robes. These were painstakingly made in a process that began with the making of thread from inner bark fibre. The robes were embroidered, sometimes appliquéd, and the swirling patterns indicated the region from which they came. Like kimono, the robes became treasured heirlooms.

Around the room are panels explaining aspects of the culture. One section gave an overview of the history, suggesting the Ainu were a branch of the Jomon linked to ethnic groups in Sakhalin and north-east Siberia. For millennia Ezo (Hokkaido) was their home base, but the Meiji Restoration brought forced integration. Their land was appropriated, the language banned, religious practice forbidden, and customs such as tattooing forbidden. Meanwhile, compulsory education taught children Japanese language and culture. It is a familiar story of the way native people were treated by conquerors around the world.

Just as in the US, newly arrived settlers brought disease with them to which the Ainu had no immunity. It led to a drastic decrease in number, and as communities were broken up by forced relocation, many sought escape by intermarriage or passing off as mainstream Japanese. Ignored by Tokyo, the Ainu were discriminated against and not even officially recognised.

Only in 2008, after international pressure, did the government acknowledge ‘an indigenous people with a distinct language, religion and culture’. By this time a once vibrant culture had been reduced to scattered villages, and though numbers are disputed, it is thought that fewer than 30,000 now self-identify as Ainu. Many work in tourist shops where they put on ethnic clothing and carve wooden goods or make fabrics with traditional markings. Isabella Bird would be horrified. Writing 150 years ago, she claimed that the Ainu way of life was so well rooted that there was little danger of them dying out.

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In the museum grounds is a performance area where music, dance, and story-telling are staged. Like other aspects of the culture, the activities were an expression of Ainu spirituality, designed to enhance their relationship with the kamuy. The musical instruments featured a type of mouth harp called mukkuri and a guitar-like instrument called tonkori. These accompanied dances, one of which was an inclusive circle dance of such simplicity that old and young alike could take part – the audience too.

One feature I expected to see was a section on saké, or the Ainu version of it, for Isabella Bird was struck by the vital role it played. ‘The one thing they care about,’ she wrote. Rituals were initiated with libations involving the sprinkling of alcohol (as in Siberian shamanism), and imbibing was seen as a means of communing with the kamuy.

Ainu poet Itakutono, aka Moritake Takeichi

‘Break on through to the other side,’ sang Jim Morrison, and for Ainu saké was the means. Something of the intoxication of an Ainu gathering is captured in verse by Itakutono, who under his Japanese name of Moritake Takeichi wrote poetry about the sad decline of Ainu culture.

The Ainu Dance
From a big bowl full of homemade saké
The Ainu drink. Dance, dance!
Clapping to the fascinating rhythm
All through the autumn night,
Hoya– hoya!

Jangling earrings, sparkling necklace,
Glistening sword enliven the dance,
The gods are happy too. Dance, dance!
All through the autumn night,
Hoya– hoya!

Language is the very lifeblood of a culture, so the stark heading of a panel display spoke volumes – ’Linguisticide’. Ainu has the same structure as Japanese (subject – object – verb), but is otherwise grammatically different and belongs to a separate language group. Some linguists assign it to a group of its own with regional variations in Sakhalin and the Kuril Islands. The language has no script, but there was an opportunity to hear it spoken on the day I went when a recital was given of a traditional tale. In abridged form, it went something like this…

“Long ago there was a hunter of bears and deer, who felt the urge to go to the mountains, so he took his boat and paddled upstream, but it took longer than he expected, and foolishly he had taken no food. By the time he reached the mountain he was exhausted and hungry. It was growing dark and unpleasantly cold. He wondered if he would survive the night, but crows took pity on him, brought him meat and covered him over like a blanket. Next morning when he awoke, they were gone. Not a single one was to be seen.”

At this point the storyteller got up and left, though no one in the small audience seemed sure if it was just a dramatic pause Was it about connections, about being an integrated part of nature? Or did it imply that the crows were divine agents of a protective mountain-god? Whatever the subtext, it was easy to imagine it as the kind of mythic entertainment that once gripped the imagination of young children seated round a fire in an age when the world truly was magical.

Model of an Ainu house, built in traditional manner

At the lakeside were a few houses built in traditional manner, with an A-shaped wooden frame covered with thatched reed and woven bamboo grass. We were invited into one of the buildings, to find a single large room with high ceiling and open hearth. Here we were told about the bears with which Ainu are closely associated.

The bear cult is the most well-known part of Ainu culture, but it is also the most misunderstood. The idea that Ainu worship bears is so widespread that even Alan Booth repeated it, but it is not individual bears as such that they worshipped, but the Great Bear Spirit. There’s a big difference, as big as that between worshipping humans and worshipping a Great Human Spirit, named God.

For the Ainu, bears were the strongest and bravest of animals, with which they felt a kinship through sharing similar hunting patterns. Killing bears was a perilous and bloody business, and to ensure success the Ainu made offerings to the Great Bear Spirit for permission. The biggest festival of their year, called Iyomande (or Iomante), consisted of the ritual sacrifice of a bear cub which had been raised for a year or more by an Ainu ‘foster-family’ in a small cage. The ceremony involved firing arrows into the animal before skinning it and drinking its blood.

The slaughter was seen as a release for the spirit within the bear, which would attain immortality through joining with the Great Bear Spirit. In the acting out of resurrection through death, the rite thus enacted the cycle of winter decay and spring revival. Life must die so that life may live. Or as Joseph Campbell, the great mythologist, puts it, ‘You die to the flesh to be born in the spirit.’ (The practice of Iyomante has stopped now, but on youtube an anthropological video of 1931 shows the whole festival in detail, with much drinking, dancing and feasting.)

Ainu bear, dressed to kill in ceremonial clothing

After our museum visit Hirota san and I happened on a soba shop, which was run by a middle-aged Ainu woman. There were a few patterned fabrics around the room, and a carving of an owl. ‘It is a lucky charm,’ she explained, ‘Owls were kamuy which protected the village.’ There were no other customers, and she told us of her childhood in Biratori-cho, a town with a sizeable Ainu community. She remembered being teased at school for being ‘a dirty Ainu’, and she could even remember attending the Iyomande ceremony as a child. ‘It was very cruel,’ she noted.

Her response to the museum was unexpected. ‘’Too late,’ she said dismissively. ’It’s not for Ainu,’ she said, it’s for Japanese. To make them feel better.’
‘But surely it’s good to show the culture and explain what happened?’ I objected.
‘What for? From Meiji time we were destroyed. And now there is no meaning.’
‘But isn’t it good to show the Ainu viewpoint?’
‘It is just a showpiece. It’s for Japanese so they feel better about things. Even the people working there are mostly Japanese. We don’t need a museum. They should give us back our land and our rights to fish and hunt.’

Just the day before I had seen an article in the Hokkaido Shimbun about the demand of an Ainu group to catch salmon in rivers, which is currently illegal. As the first such lawsuit to claim back indigenous rights, it was a landmark case, yet it was tucked away on an inside page.

‘So you don’t feel there’s any kind of revival?,’ I continued.
‘Revival of what? There is nothing to revive. I’m Ainu but what do I have? I don’t speak Ainu, no one speaks any more. My grandfather had a long beard and my mother painted her face. They practised old customs, but in secret. They didn’t want anyone to know. But my parents were not interested. They thought it better not to know. They wanted to protect me. There was a lot of discrimination in those days. There still is..’

Inside of a model Ainu house at the National Museum with visitors sat around an open house

Japan by Train 4) Otaru

March 25, 2022 / John D. / 2 Comments

The little train to Otaru runs right along the border of the sea (photos by JD)

The seaside town of Otaru is just half an hour from Sapporo. It’s said to be exotic – exotic for Japan that is, which means it has historical Western-style buildings. The train runs along the coast as it nears the town, with views of picturesque outcroppings on which sit clusters of cormorants and seagulls, sometimes socially distanced but sometimes in mixed groups of black and white. The sea is gentle here, and makeshift houses are squeezed improbably into the narrow space between tracks and beach. ‘Beware Tsunami’ said a curt sign, with no explanation as to how.

Otaru burst into view as we rounded a bend, set in a bay with buildings ascending the nearby hills. It is a city of slopes, some of them steep, though the name which derives from Ainu means ‘river running through a sandy beach’. Fifteen taxis waiting patiently at the station told of a busy little town , and colour brochures told of its tourist appeal. ‘Shinkansen is coming to Otaru in 2030’, screamed a large poster. Yes, within a decade the small town of 120,000 is going to be Japan’s northern terminal, just a five hour train trip from Tokyo. Money, tourists and investment are sure to follow.

In the Age of the Gods, the rocky coastline in Honshu was sanctified by shimenawa and Benten shrines, but here in Hokkaido the seaside is notably lacking such markers – and I missed them.

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In 1865 Otaru was a small fishing village of 1000 people. Forty years later it was a booming port city. It owed its prosperity to the concentration of banks built to fund development at a time when Otaru was gateway to more remote parts of Hokkaido. At one time there were twenty-six sizeable banks, and one street had so many it was dubbed ‘the Wall St of Northern Japan’.

As well as banks. the area is full of old warehouses and historical shops. Helpful explanation boards explain the architectural significance and make the area a veritable outdoor museum. The design details are impressive. Pride of place goes to the National Bank of Japan, which was considered a wonder of its time, with ceilings so high that people made special journeys just to see them.

The Western buildings have a wonderful solidity, for the granite stone and Greek pillars were built to last. There is something reassuring about them, as if to say your money is safe – and appreciated! In the case of the Chamber of Commerce, stone was imported from Ishikawa Prefecture and marble from Shikoku. Many of the buildings combine a Western structure with Japanese touches, such that West here truly does meet East.

The development of Otaru was boosted by a railway line built in 1880 with the help of American engineers. The opening up of Hokkaido led to a huge volume of coal and agricultural products being shipped out to Honshu, and for roughly a century the line was kept busy. Now a short stretch of the disused track serves as ‘a Romantic walkway’, with flower boxes where couples pose for photos. It prompted Hirota and me to think of captions, such as ’On Track for Romance’ or in country music style, ‘Missed the Train, but I Found You’.

The whole charm of Otaru is captured in Sakaimachi-dori, a wonderful street with funky art and craft shops. Here you can browse displays of goods from artisan workshops, and there are cafes with the pleasant chinking of glass wind chimes. A shop named Kamuy, dedicated to Ainu go(o)ds, says for its sales pitch, ‘Fire, mountains, valleys, the ocean, animals, plants, even tools and clothing the Ainu make and use, all are Kamuy.’

We forget most of the time that we live in an enchanted world.

Awe and wonder underlie primal religions like Shinto

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Shinto rituals are carried out with absolute precision by priests, and their training manuals detail the correct manner of procedure including the exact place where to put one’s feet. Mistakes are deemed to be offensive to the kami. The exactitude is mirrored throughout the culture (the tea ceremony being an example), and can be seen even in daily life – like sushi restaurants.

A few minutes walk from the canal area lies ‘Sushi Street’, with reputedly the town’s best seafood. Seasonal delicacies include sea urchin and octopus in spring, salmon in summer, and herring in autumn. So abundant were the latter that the town boasted ‘herring millionaires’. Just how opulent was their lifestyle can be seen at the Old Aoyama Villa with its gorgeous fusuma paintings and decorated ceiling panels.

In the past the sea was said to be so full of fish that they leapt into fishermen’s arms. 90% of the catch was not even used as food – it was made into high quality fertiliser for such crops as cotton and indigo. Sadly the cornucopia was ruined by overfishing, and now with the warming of the sea fish stocks are in dangerous decline.

My friend Hirota san chose a restaurant for us, and we were ushered to the counter in front of which two impassive chefs were performing a form of ritualised theatre. Swaying gently side to side in white uniforms, they took a handful of moist rice with one hand, squeezed it into shape and with the other added a dash of wasabi. This was topped with a slice of fish, wrapped with a strip of nori, and finally placed very deliberately in an eye-pleasing arrangement on a decorated dish which was set before us. Meanwhile, hands took a dip in water and a wipe on a clean white cloth, then the whole process started again. This was synchronised sushi at its best.

The stylised, polished, perfectly timed theatrics reminded me of taiko performers, so well rehearsed that each movement is in absolute unison with others. Along with the precision was a concern with aesthetics. The dish for the sushi was decorated with a sasa leaf, which echoed the real one placed amongst the food, and an acorn on the sashimi plate added a seasonal touch. Most pleasing of all was a thin orange line painted on the little soy dish, which resembled the final flourish of a calligraphic masterstroke.

Imagine this for a meal – sushi portions of salmon, shrimp, tuna, squid, flying fish eggs, and Japanese flounder, served along with miso soup and six kappa sushi (small rolls of tuna with cucumber). All of it perfectly presented and followed by sorbet and coffee for just $15. Where else could you get aesthetics combined with mouth-watering nutrition at that price?

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Izanagi and Izanami descended to earth on ‘a floating bridge of heaven’, thought to be a rainbow

Are Japanese a race apart? The mythology suggests as much, in that the country was created by the cosmic coupling of Izanagi and Izanami. Still today the Shinto establishment privileges Ise Jingu as home of the sun goddess, Ur-ancestor of the imperial line. The notion of being special is never far from the surface, as was seen during the recent pandemic…

At one point in the crisis Japanese abroad were allowed to return to Japan, but non-Japanese with permanent residency were not. It made no sense. Even after the restriction was lifted, different standards were applied. My friends might serve as example, for on arrival at Kansai Airport the French husband was taken aside to be tested, while his Japanese spouse was waved straight through. Could the virus distinguish between the two?

The issue brings up the whole matter of Japaneseness. There are basically two forms of nationality, one territorial (jus soli) and one based on blood (jus saguinis). The former privileges place of birth, the latter parentage. In this sense Japan is at the opposite end from the French model, which accepts immigrants but is resistant to outside culture. By contrast, Japan readily embraces foreign culture, but is resistant to immigrants. Take asylum seekers, for instance: in 2018 Japan accepted a total of 42, whereas France took in 20,710.

A letter to The Japan Times by a bemused American illustrates the ironies. A newcomer to Tokyo, he saw a bar called Manhattan displaying a large Stars and Stripes. Being from New York, he wanted to enter but was told in the nicest possible way that there was a ‘No Foreigners’ policy. ‘Maybe you can’t understand our customs,’ they told him. He quite genuinely couldn’t. Multiculturalism had run up against monoculturalism and was nonplussed.

Given the global nature of modern life, it is remarkable that Japan manages to retain such insularity. Nonetheless, change is happening, for ‘international marriages’ are on the increase and labour shortages necessitate acceptance of overseas workers. The change is most apparent in sports, with the national rugby team of 2019 including every possible gradation of Japaneseness from full-blooded to only one grandparent, and even naturalised Japanese.

Change is evident elsewhere too: Miss Japan 2015 was mixed race, born to a Japanese mother and an African-American father. Tennis star Naomi Osaka, chosen to light the torch at the Olympics opening ceremony in 2021, has a Haitian father and was raised in the US from the age of three. She was just one of thirty mixed race Olympians representing Japan, including judo gold medalist Aaron Wolf (American father), basketball player Rui Hachimura (Beninese father), Monica Ooye (Nigerian father) and Evelyn Mawuli (Ghanaian parents).

The result is that, almost by stealth, a new Japan is taking shape, Tokyo is home to over half a million foreigners, and in Shinjuku one person in eight was born overseas. Statistically, around 2% of babies have at least one foreign parent, and though the ‘one race, one nationality’ discourse remains influential, a younger generation will soon be speaking with a different kind of voice.