The island of Shikoku, Japan, Sunday, the 24th of June, 2001

It is all coming to an end and my feelings are very mixed. I stayed in the apartment of friends yesterday and was shocked at how quickly and easily I forgot about being a Henro-san and could revert to being a ‘Western’ person. It was so nice to sit on a chair, and listen to music with English lyrics, drink coffee and just stop. Then it felt like grieving as a rush of small details overwhelmed my memory bank. Thankfully my hosts arrived soon after, so there was little chance of self-pity, but still, the range and intensity of emotions was startling.

The evening before had been spent at a Ryokan that has been a traditional rest stop for Henro for well over 200 years. My hosts spoke enough English that we could sit and chat, which was a gift in itself. We looked at old photographs when Pilgrims had stopped by and had their portraits taken or groups documented, and then spent hours surfing the web. It was cool combining such a long family history with contemporary moments. I thought about this journey, and the fact that it is a 1200-year-old tradition and still a very vibrant part of Japanese history and life, yet we are all linked by technology so that you are here too, right now. A friend of the hosts had stopped by to visit and his work is designing websites. I shared the digital photos I have taken over the 8 weeks, and he jumped up when he spotted the image of the young Priest mentioned in one of the recent stories. He knew him! And to prove it, pulled out a postcard from his satchel, which was from the Priest who mentioned that he had met a Lady Henro-san from Australia at a certain temple! We were all stunned at the coincidence and the closure on such a loop of connections. We celebrated by toasting friendships with a glass of beer! I made sure my glass was very, very small. Leaving the next morning I could hear Italian Opera playing, along with the ping of Windows and a visual reference of a pond that my host called his Monet Lake because of the abundance of water lilies.

My mind drifted back to another unusual encounter brought about through Kretek cigarettes. It is many weeks ago now but it feels like yesterday, when I finally reached my accommodations on a Sunday evening, exhausted from a long solitary walk. Just as I was settling into the room the aroma of clove cigarettes wafted through the window, immediately moving my mind and heart sentimentally to the time spent in Indonesia. The owner of the cigarettes was a man called Yutaka and his story unfolded over the hours around the kitchen table of his mothers home where I was staying. I also had the pleasure of the company of his very talented daughter Yuko and wife Connie who is Malaysian and comforted me with great English conversation. Between us over dinner, we juggled multiple languages and some Udon noodles at a local restaurant. Yutaka told the story of how his family had lived on the same piece of land for more than 900 years, how his daughter is the 36th generation that they can trace, following on by relating the story of how they were given the Samurai name of Shimamoto. Before dinner, he took Yuko and myself for a drive around the gorgeous scenic seascape, high up on the cliff line on the narrowest of roads. I saw where his Mother was born, grew up and married, moving to the next village less than 2 kilometers away. The next day, the walking path took me back through those same villages and just from knowing Yutaka and his family made me appreciate the history that I was walking through.

Shortly the Henro spirit was following the coastline, encountering fishing families hanging out freshly caught squid, all stretched and skewered ready to dry. I couldn’t help but wonder how many generations had been doing the same work. One family beckoned me over and shared some barbeque-grilled flesh and newly steamed rice buns, which were all delicious, well beyond belief. There was an island very close off shore and I watched fisherman motoring over to the red Tori gate in the fog, sprinkling what looked like Sake over the sides of their boats, making prayers for a safe day and good catch, before heading out into the open waters to bring in more nets. At a rest point I watched a cloud of jellyfish pulse by. So silent and so elegant in their transparency. Every so often there was a solitary buoy, and a random splash of water. It took some hours to visually understand that there were men and women bobbing in the sea, diving for some type of shellfish or snail or seaweed. Further on they were cooking the snails for breakfast, in their shells over a fire. The snails twirled from one side to the other like a kinetic machine until they finally succumbed to the heat. I have never had breakfast like that before either.

Daily life of one of the strictest and most austere branches of Buddhism, the Soto sect, high up on a mountain at their school is a different reality than experienced in any of the other temples. They practice Zazen each day before dawn, followed by lengthy prayers done at an unfamiliar slow beat, as if testing your endurance and concentration. Thankfully the head Priest did not use the stick to hit my shoulders to break the meditation. When I met the Priest from Emon Saburo, he startled me when he demonstrated the use of his stick that he had used when instructing or leading novices in their practice. It seemed like such a violent method in such a non-violent place. At this school there were some youths that had troubled lives that were there for training, if not reform and discipline. The evening meal was extremely simple compared to what I had become used to in other accommodations. Each person had their own set of bowls and hashi (chopsticks) and, each of us was served our portions by the head Priest. When the meal was finished, the expectation was that you pour the tea into your rice bowl, and use the tea as a means to clean the bowl, leaving no food remnants at all and finished by wiping the bowls out with the cloth that the set is wrapped in, before being retied and placed back on the shelf ready for the next meal. Later that evening we were allowed one hour of television, with the Priest and I losing the vote for baseball to an inane dating program preferred by the teenage youths. I contributed a packet of snack candies that had been gifted to me earlier at a temple. Junk food has never disappeared so fast before. The pack had barely hit the table when I turned back just in time to see the breeze blow the empty packet off the table! Everyone including the head Priest had a mouth full and couldn’t talk for some time. It was worth it just to see the sparkle in their eyes and the lumps in their cheeks. I wanted to ask them to whistle…

Numerous ‘Made for TV’ moments have happened when accepting gifts called O-Settai from strangers along the road. Some have run out, calling ‘O-Henro-san, O-Henro-San’, catching my attention, to then load me up with food and drinks, money and other small gifts. The generosity and offers to help are phenomenal and so pure and honest that frequently I have been moved emotionally, and often felt inadequate in my responses. How I wished I could say more complete sentences to convey to them how appreciated their thoughts are. At every opportunity possible I would share or pass along the gifts and it seemed to bring more richness each time. Often when given money and then passing it along, I would in turn be the surprised recipient of a gift of free accommodation or something to drink. With food it seemed the same that the more I received and passed along, the more that was given again. Sometimes the gift is an experience, once they realize that I am foreign. They want to make sure that I have understood, or can find my way. One character literally kidnapped me to take me back to his farm shed office where his excellent English revealed a story of meeting another foreign Henro last year and asking me to write to him also and to send postcards from my next destination. Many have accompanied me to a significant landmark or followed up soon afterwards from another direction just to make sure that I am headed the right way. More than once someone from a village has climbed up to the cemetery to rescue me from the maze of paths that I have become entwined in. Every so often there would be empty plots where vegetables were being grown until the land was needed for a marble slab. At a small village temple I sat in the shade with a toothless old man and we chatted merrily along, not understanding each other one wit. About half an hour into the next part of the walk, he caught up with me on his bicycle, handing me a very tattered and greasy copy of The Life Of Buddha, which is in both English and Japanese. He didn’t say a word when he handed me the book but his smile spoke volumes.

The biggest tug at my heart strings are the very elderly people, often so bent over that you couldn’t see their wizened faces, but who would hold out a knobby arthritic hand to give me something to take to the temple. When they did look at me, their eyes would be weepy or watery, and pale, but with an incredibly strong gaze. Many times I would see someone trundle their walking cart up to the base of the stairs into the temple complex, pause, and make prayers with hands clasped together like bamboo roots, before turning and quietly shuffling away. If I could, I would join them in their recitation of the Heart Sutra. Sometimes it was so surprising that they stopped and didn’t know what to do. Other times, as with one old fisherman with a hand rolled cigarette stuck on his bottom lip, it led to 4 repetitions together with a definite disco beat emerging towards the end. At one place I asked someone next to me if the two ladies were sisters. He laughed and said no! They were mother and daughter, with the mother being a feisty 98 and the daughter equally so at 81! Walking slowly through these villages confronts you with a sense of time and timelessness that is rarely experienced anywhere else. (Maybe because I have never had the time to walk so slowly or savor the experience before.) Seeing 3 or 4 generations from the same family out strolling in the cool has had an impact in some very unexpected ways. The youngest is being pushed in a stroller, and the oldest is leaning heavily on their stroller for balance. It made me wonder why the burial ceremony didn’t have a stroller involved. And there have been many conversations with sons or daughters that have returned from their choice of life to take on the expected responsibilities incumbent with their families. It is bittersweet and sobering and makes me appreciate the freedom and choices that I have even more so.

In the early part of the journey there was a Henro seen, often begging, at the gates of some of the temples. I offered him the bag of food that had just been given to me. He rejected it outright, literally flinging it away from my hand. He made it very clear that he only wanted money, and that a gift of food was not good enough. I was shocked and upset at such an unexpected reaction. A couple of days later I saw him again at another temple. He must have recognized my shoes because as I was leaving he turned his head in such a way as to signal strongly that there would be absolutely no interaction or communication at all. It was as if he was shunning me. Again it was an upsetting experience, but I kept walking. Later on that day over dinner I mentioned to another Henro what had happened, and he said he had the similar experience, and had also seen the Henro at other temples. His words to describe him alluded to blackness, or darkness, and not a good soul. Less than a week later another Henro told a similar story at dinner. He also added more, saying that after the war, there developed a different type of Pilgrim called a Hendo that did not necessarily have the purest intentions at heart. Today, children are often disciplined with a mild threat of being ‘given to a Hendo’. I haven’t seen the ‘black’ Henro since, but there is still a few more days to go.

The sound of the small bell carried by Henro-san has become a warm talisman, drawing me to it in very inexplicable ways. There is a popular weekly television series here about Samurai, set in the early Edo period that often has Henro walking by in the background also with their bells quietly ringing. It always catches my attention, again bringing up the juxtaposition of then and now and the fact that this tradition really hasn’t changed that much over time when walked. Even now, if I hear the bell, I will turn and look, always offering a greeting if the Henro-san is nearby. The attributes of the Henro have changed with many carrying cell phones, or choosing alternative methods of transportation and routes. At one temple I met two ‘Running Henro’ who then struck a most appropriate pose for the camera. At another there were Harley Davidson Henro bike riders, in leather with the white coat of piety as a vest. They were stunned when I started one of their bikes. (It was an electric starter and very easy.) Some of us joked one night about having Helicopter Henro soon, because of the difficulties of some of the Nansho sites by foot and the extra time needed by Bus. The conversation went further when we extrapolated about a virtual pilgrimage being possible over the Internet, where your stamps and seals can be emailed to you. We didn’t say anything too loud because Kobo might have been listening and you just never know when it might happen. Thankfully though, when a Henro enters the temple, all of that contemporary attire falls away, and time presents itself through their traditional presence. It is as if the bell is the Henro smile.

Meeting and talking with Priests has been eye opening and continuing proof that they are very real and very accessible. Attending morning prayers and watching their differing rituals and mystery in live action is like a latent retina image with understanding and clarity coming well after the fact. It was a Priest that gently showed me how to manage the raw egg at breakfast, and how to get it into an edible form. Another Priest provided enlightenment as to some of the mysterious symbols on the maps I was trying to read. There is also a serious business model behind each temple, with properties and incomes to be guaranteed, along with the commercial benefits that Pilgrims bring. One story that can be heard is that a student can pick up a summer job riding a motor scooter around to each of the temples in a matter of days, collecting the stamps and seals on scrolls and in books. Then they are sold. It makes eBay look like a business school afterthought. There was a morning at one of the most significant temples on the circuit when the Bishop came out to farewell me and quickly we were in a discussion about our differing heights and his very short legs as compared to mine. He called the red welt on my forehead (from yet another short door) a Buddha Bump. And a Buddha Bump it will always be. Once my computer became known, there was also a conversation about the Internet, digital cameras and home pages. At that same temple the day before, I was sitting quietly enjoying the Henro traffic, when a group walked up at a fast pace. There was a loud ‘O-Zen-san’ and I turned to see the beaming face of the Priest from Saba Daishi, who had just spent a week walking his group over the mountains to the temple. It was a fun reunion.

Staying in traditional inns has exposed me to a way of life that has changed little over the centuries. There is tatami, the painted screens, elaborately carved woodwork, ornate presentation of the meals, and the tradition of the bath to soak in. A small plastic yellow duck has traveled with me and also experienced each night’s accommodations. One night of indulgence was spent at a traditional hot springs where I soaked for some time in the open onsen, along with the other ladies. We were all wrinkly at then end of the session. The Duck became the star though, diverting attention away from the foreigner to himself, and thankfully removing those awkward moments when people are surreptitiously staring and not wanting to be seen to be too curious either. Being so much taller than average has meant a lot of laughter as some Hosts have scrambled to find a Yakata jacket long enough for me to kneel in for dinner and still be decently clad

Just being able to stop and look at flowers and bugs has been a gift. Slowing down enough to even notice them an even larger act. This slow pace has provided many impromptu moments. Once when walking through a metro area, I passed a park with a pavilion. Inside was a group of young boys, practicing Sumo in the sand, clad in ivory colored thongs. The thongs were the same color as their skin, and being so naked in such a public place created a slightly voyeuristic atmosphere. There were no photos that time. At another point after climbing a steep cliff face on a path that was less than a foot wide at times, a guy that had ridden his trail bike up the same path met me on the other side. It made me rethink my own confidence in off road scrambling by foot. Or when walking so blissfully towards a scenic cape only to be momentarily caught up in a swarm of bike riders all covered in vivid Lycra splashes of color that made their sinewy forms look like Oriental Fire-belly Frogs. Early on I came across a newly built structure just off the road, with a pretty altar and brocade cushions. When kneeling down to pray, I could feel the heat in the cushion from who ever had been there literally moments before. Some weeks later, after cresting another impossible climb, I met a Priest who was building the same type of octagonal structure, only to find out over coffee that he had built the first one I had visited. The fact that him and his two helpers were camping at the top of this incredibly steep climb was enough, but to then discover that he had a washing machine and generator up there as well made me wonder just exactly how he got the gear there. Helicopter? He also had technology with him through a cell phone and small palm computer that had a built in digital camera, all of which were communicating through infrared via the cell phone! We exchanged email addresses, but as I walked away, it was the image of that first encounter with the warmth in the cushion and the incense that resonated the loudest.

Today is the day I climb to the last temple on the island of Shikoku. Tomorrow I will start the journey to the mainland to report in to Kobo Daishi at his resting place on Mt. Koya-san. The Buddha Bumps have healed for now, but the feet still know that they are walking each day.

Zen