Kyoto, Japan, Wednesday 25 April, 2001
The first thing that I did this morning was turn on the TV and watch a program, in Japanese, about hemorrhoids. Now — that is one way to start the day — and you don’t need the language to get the gist of what is going on, or in this case, what wasn’t happening. I concluded that my first oath would be to never sit on a cold floor ever again. Feeling totally educated, (yes — I watched the entire thing!) the daily pilgrimage to Starbucks was begun.
Starbucks and I have an unusual relationship. Friends don’t let friends go there, and you all know how far away from organized religion I am, but as a navigation tool, you just can’t beat it. …Go past the 3rd ‘Buckies’ and turn left… Every where I have been in the world, more or less, has involved an encounter or two with The Big Buck, and this trip, at least while in Kyoto, will be no exception. Upon entering the Great Shrine, you must complete the following ritual steps:
Kyoto is rich in imperial treasures and temples. It is the popular culture of every day life that is just as seductive as the traditional arts and crafts so readily seen in numerous world heritage sites. Fences made of fiberglass sheets imitating bamboo can be seen alongside 17th Century wooden compounds with immaculate gardens. Around a corner there might be a Pachencko Parlor, where teenagers line up at dawn, carrying cardboard squares to protect against the devastating pitfalls of sitting on, *gulp*, the cold floor!
And, then there is hair. Not that I am preoccupied about it in anyway at the moment, but when you don’t have any, you do tend to notice what everyone else is doing to theirs. The latest fad here seems to have been for dying your mop as bleached blonde as possible without having the stuff fall out from chemical abuse. So what you end up with is something dirty and orange and suitable for making very scruffy, which in itself is really very cool! It is so commonplace that you instinctively notice those that haven’t done something to their hair, like left it black and straight! I wonder if the local ‘Head-shop’ is ready to IPO?
But the first hit on the tourist route is to be the Nijo Castle (Nijo-jo), originally built in 1603. Just when I am arriving, fifteen buses pull up! Yep — fifteen, all full with Canadians, sporting a surprising number of bad dye and perm jobs wound way too tight for comfort. I guess there is nobody left in Vancouver at this point, and decide to tag along behind them if for nothing else to gain the benefits of some guide work in English. The tactic is simple — stick close to the other bald guy — he feels good thinking he has more hair than me, and I get in to everything for free!
The palace complex is impressive, especially the entrance to the Grand Chamber where the wooden floors squeak and creak like a nightingale song whenever anyone treads on them. This is not an accident or result of tourist traffic at all, but planned to dispel anyone wanting to sneak in to do bad things to the Shogun. Dang those pesky feudal warlords! In one of the chambers there are life sized kneeling models, recreated in the style of that era, complete with elaborate hair styles, vestments bearing the crest and color of their family clan woven in silk across their back and sleeves, and their samurai swords poking through the folds of fabric of their robes. Oliver Statler wrote romantically of these crests of honor in his book ‘Japanese Inn’ so it was quite thrilling to stand there and realize that the symbols did exist and most probably can still be seen today. Including the ones worn by the clan of the cleaner, complete in a tasteful subtle gray and black design, with his Nike ‘swoosh’ sweeping across his back and a trusty yellow duster sword poked in to his belt, ready for action!
The day outside was marvelous and sunny. When you have no hair you have to think of sunscreen in different ways — like as a shield to protect yourself from the nuclear heat of global warming and holes in the ozone layer. And, well, I didn’t think of anything even remotely like those concerns on my first day out. So by the time I made it to the Imperial Palace, the brain was fried. I kept thinking of an ad from years ago in Australia, of ‘this is your brain on drugs’ where the predominant image is of an egg sizzling merrily, while being fried on a hot stove. Not that it mattered that much anyhow, having a non-fried brain that is. The tour was done in Japanese, which was extremely enlightening to all of us that had signed up for the English speaking guide! I called it the Tree Hop Tour instead — from place of shade to place of shade — along with all the other bald guys too!
Kyoto was the capital of Japan for more than one thousand years, and during this period, the Palace was the Imperial residence, all 27 acres of it. Sadly though it was prone to the slash and burn technique for living, and has been rebuilt numerous times. The first thing you notice as a Westerner is there is never any furniture in these places. Every time the Palace burnt down though, the Imperial Family would reside at a court noble’s house or the like. Fancy them as houseguests, with an entourage of thousands of retainers and court officials – ‘just thought we would stay over until the Palace is rebuilt’….’shouldn’t be too long ol’ chap!’. At that point you might be thankful that they didn’t have any furniture. One curious part of the tour was a courtyard where Kemari is played. Kemari is not a competitive sport, as the players just try to keep the ball in the air by kicking it. It reminded me of Foozeball — played by numerous aging hippies and college kids around the Santa Cruz area in California. Bad for the knee joints though.
For those that do become spiritually parched whilst on the tourist route, there are numerous vending machines along the way, where you can acquire a small token of your devoute addiction in the form of a can of milk coffee. Not quite from Buckies (it’s a lesser known deity instead), but acceptable nonetheless. You are rewarded with the smiling beneficence of the great golden god pre-Gwyneth, Brad Pitt, doing his pitch for the product. So after sustenance here and there, the day became quite comfortable. Around dusk, the skull stopped glowing and I headed towards an area of town where allegedly you can catch a glimpse of a Geisha or her Maiko or apprentice, headed to an appointment. Again the hair thing was a big deal. If nothing else I could blend in as a refugee nun, or become part of the neon scenery. But it was the possibility of a sighting that intrigued me by far.
But the imagination had a great time.
The following day was set for some serious Temple tramping. I planned for a small walk, in the rain as preparation for Shikoku, eagerly anticipating lots of incense and atmosphere to enjoy. It didn’t disappoint. And there was no sunburn to worry about. Just comprehending the massive scale of these structures and complexes is lost in reciting of numbers. You have to be there and hear the chanting and see the ceremony. At Kiyomizu-dera, the home of Kannon the goddess of Compassion, there is a definite mercantile air. Shops compete very politely for your business, and hordes of school children on excursion beg for your photo with them, somehow creating a trophy of the tour. A baldhead, breasts and blue eyes has its advantages when visiting such a place!
The cherry blossom season has just passed its prime, but every so often a tree is still with late blossoms, which offsets the luminous greenery quite beautifully. Strolling to the next point of interest was not to be rushed. The trail takes you along old, sometimes misty cobblestone alleyways, lined with traditional shops, teahouses and restaurants, and elegant old wooden houses. A perfect setting for a steaming bowl of udon noodles in a rich and savory broth. Because of the weather, I felt as if I had the walk all to myself – and experienced rain falling on my scalp for the first time. Given the severity of the sunburn, it was like acid being dripped in some form of torture, but I couldn’t resist it either. It was like having walking electric shock treatment. Very Zen.
At the Chion-in temple, there was a spectacle in full force — like an installation of a Bishop or something, where there were hundreds of monks wearing rank and role and richly embroidered robes. The chanting was droning and hypnotic, and the warmth from candles a welcome retreat from the downpour.
It was pure bliss; a perfect Gillette moment for sure, and something straight off the Discovery Channel. Quickly an invitation was extended through sign language, to sit in seza on the tatami mats and witness the proceedings. I think they thought I was a guy as there was not another women to be seen anywhere. It’s all in the eyebrows you know! In amongst it all I kept thinking about how your knees only bend one-way too, and how that is a lucky thing when getting in to the kneeling position. Can you imagine the chaos is they went in two directions? My god! There would be broken noses everywhere and tatami burns for sure, as well as extremely unpredictable results in large groups. It would be a land of Mechano folks, perhaps with genetically altered eyebrows to cushion the potential for falls. But I bet there would be some cool Kemari shots!!
When it was all done, (and a cup of green tea had calmed the raging mind), I wandered down a small side way in the complex to inadvertently come across the changing tent where the participants were scrambling back in to their day wear, lighting cigarettes and folding their robes into very convenient small suitcases. It was just a bunch of baldies in black suits! What a sight, and what a hoot! We all had a good laugh at what we saw in each other. I think it was the breasts, mine not theirs, which gave the game away.
As the day closed, the rain fell harder and the thoughts became more pensive. By the time I reached my lodging I was soaked through, more than a little lost, and wondering if I really could handle the challenge of Shikoku. Rain, a sodden backpack, isolation, deprivation, cold, hunger, and blisters from the 5km walk and this is just from today! Given the choice of a hot head or hemorrhoids, I can cope with a scaley scalp. And to think I was worried about the value of eyebrows. The next time I shake my cup at Starbucks, maybe they will be giving me money out of pity for the pilgrim with the really weird skin disease!
Now, lets see what’s on the telly tonight….
Just where did I bury that remote?
Zen