The island of Shikoku, Japan, Wednesday, the 2nd of May, 2001
When he said “Konichiwa” it didn’t register that he was talking to me. Then he thrust some coins in to my hand and said something else that I didn’t catch. My first gift from a stranger! By the time I realized what I should do in response, he was in his car and reversing out of the parking lot of the temple. The lady that had just done the calligraphy on the scroll started talking to me, probably explaining what had happened, but I was still in that dazed hour, not quite sure what the clothing and role of Henro was doing to me and definitely not prepared for something so generous. Then it was time to walk to the next temple.
Getting the gear on was almost as hazardous today as it was last night. I kept forgetting that I had this large hat on, and would bend over to look at something only to be stopped mid movement by the perimeter of the satellite dish (as I called it). I would want to look closer inside a small altar or window only to hear a ‘boink’ as the cane hit the glass, or something would wedge itself into the hat somehow and hold me hostage until I could reach up, dislodge the object and set myself free. It took a lot of getting used to. The stick still insisted on going its own way, or I would forget where I had left it, or worse than that, would not put it down but instead, hook it under my arm and forget that, only to create a trail of destruction as I swung around corners or turned too abruptly. I almost needed a sign saying “Henro in Training — Enter at own risk”. There is a Cypress tree in one of the Temples reputed to be more than a thousand years old, planted by Kobo Daishi himself, which barely survived the ravages of Zena - Warrior Henro - and her stick! (I stopped counting fallen “little old Henro’s” after the first temple!)
The backpack kept fighting with the jacket that kept riding up, and troubling the silk sash. I was a sartorial mess; all crumpled and creased, and felt it as well. And finally, the lack of hair, that really gives me a ‘Survivor’ look, as if from some dreadfully serious medical condition. I am seeing what just might likely be my original color for the first time in 20 years and you know what, I am not impressed! There would be no awards from MTV Style and I felt like I was not even close to looking like a ‘million bucks’. How could this possibly be for real? And why didn’t anyone else seem to be in the same mess as I was?
On the road was a different story. Cars would stop and offer me gifts and money, often in mid traffic. I accept everything, because that is how it is, and then go in search of a large enough space to de-pack myself and try to fit the gifts in somewhere. Food was the biggest issue — usually very heavy and voluminous — but very much appreciated and always stuff that I have never seen in shops! The satellite dish has been helpful in starting conversations as with the exception of height, you can’t tell until you look under the dish that I am a foreigner, and then the questions come. I have the answers down pat in less than a day, and it feels really good.
Translated that all means:
Everybody gets the same set of answers despite the order they ask the questions in. I figure that by the time I get to #88, I will also have enough small words down to actually make complete sentences! It is so easy for the ego to get carried away with all of this attention, in the great spring weather, walking through some beautiful scenery, indulging in my thoughts. No job, no cares, and no worries. Just hanging out being a Pilgrim, taking gifts and money from strangers.
The first day of serious rain brought the first equally serious test of will. It was pouring when I started and it only became worse. The route for the day had some long kilometers in it, so off I headed, proud of the way I had planned for it with my cool REI gear! Around lunch- time I was frozen and shivering, and barely half way to where I wanted to be. “No worries” I thought — “I can do this”, and off I headed again, stubbornly ignoring the fact that I am wet through every piece of rainproof clothing I am wearing. Most of the walk was along heavily trafficked roads, so not only was it challenging in terms of buffering and mud from the cargo trucks, but the sides of the roads were like ponds and I spent most of the time walking in ankle deep sludge.
Finally, like a beacon lighthouse to a distressed ship, there was the equivalent to a Seven Eleven store across the intersection. I hobbled over, dreaming of instant energy to generate some body heat. By now I had rearranged my pack so that the scroll was vertical like a spine on the back of the pack, and covered by the rainproof hood, with its neat elastic cinch. When I put the pack down, as discretely as possible in the incredibly clean and shiny store, and unhooked the top of the cover, the scroll kind of did a 90-degree movement that looked like the pack was having an erection. I got the giggles! I mean, I am slugging through this awful weather, determined to get to the next objective, being a pious Pilgrim, feeling very confident that I am prepared for the worst, and have everything under control, and all of a sudden my back pack starts having erections! It is just what I needed to lighten the mood of the day
With a stash of goodies I went to the counter, marveling at the soggy trail I was managing to leave in each aisle. You could actually hear me walking, with the squishy sound that soggy shoes make. I pull out my equally soggy money and the girl says something to me that doesn’t sound right. She is asking me to leave the store! I am devastated, and literally unbelieving. I really had been careful about where I put the aroused pack, and couldn’t really help the wet shoe thing because the socks were worse, but to be asked to leave the store totally floored me. So, I left the goods on the counter, grabbed the pack and walked out – huffy and confused and definitely not in a good mood, despite the activity from the pack on my back. Didn’t she see my Henro gear!? Doesn’t she know that I am a Henro-san?!
Three hours later I realize that I can’t pattern match the symbols anymore and can’t even find them on what is left of my map. Most of it had disintegrated into pulp hours ago and I was relying on memory of how the next town sounded. So there I was, drenched through, lost, hungry, and wondering what to do next. Survival skills kicked in and I wandered down to a lumberyard. The dogs barked incessantly at me — then the owners came out — of their sake-induced coma — from what I could tell. They really did want to help the Henro, but couldn’t stand up, let alone communicate, so I left them swaying in the breeze and walked back to the main road. I needed a lifeline and fast. Thankfully a Good Samaritan stopped and could tell me in basic Japanese the direction that I needed to go in. Fifteen kilometers back the way I just came! In the rain. Then the dilemma became real.
Should I walk or should I ride?
My teeth are chattering, my pack is getting heavier by the minute through being water logged, my shoes have turned my socks and pants orange, you can see the outline of my lacy underwear through my pants because everything is drenched and stuck to my body. It all reminded me of one of those infamous ‘wet saree’ scenes you see in Hindi movies.
Should I walk or should I ride?
What will be my final answer?
I struck a deal with Kobo Daishi and the Good Samaritan Driver. I needed to get to a certain temple before dark so that I can find my accommodation. If I choose to walk back the way I came, that is already another three hours, and I am still another three, maybe four hours at that point from the temple and there is not enough daylight left. So, with his map, we figured out a triangulation with the agreement that he would stop at fifteen kilometers and let me walk the rest of the way to the temple. So off we go. I am trying not to sit in the seat because I am only going to make it wet and dirty. In the back seat is my pack, getting aroused again. I have no idea what the dish and stick are doing to each other but I can bet it is not friendly. I try not to look because I know I can’t explain any of this to the Good Samaritan. So I covered my giggles with chattering teeth instead. The longer we drove though, I swear, the bigger the erection on the back seat!
He takes me back to the intersection where I had stormed out of the store. Then he turns left, down the road I should have taken, but didn’t even see because of my own blinding ego and mood. We start the odometer and turn it off at exactly fifteen kilometers. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the temple I was bound for! I couldn’t believe it. Kobo had taught me such a big lesson, and I was so grateful that it had only cost me a few hours and some wet clothing.
I thanked the Good Samaritan profusely, promising to offer prayers on his behalf, as he pushed more money in to my blue hands. I grab the now impotent backpack and sling it over my shoulder, headed for the complex. I stop to bow at the entrance gate as usual, and realize when I look up that there are TV cameras pointed at me, so I excuse myself and dodge around them, ring the temple bell to let Kobo know that I made it, and head to the inner compound. The place is packed with Pilgrims, dry Pilgrims I noticed, so I find a quiet place to drop the pack, and its returning erection, leave my dish and stick out of harms way, and head to the main building.
All of a sudden the crowd parted, like something Biblical, and a woman in the traditional Henro outfit walked down from saying her prayers. She is gorgeous, and I thought — “Wow” — “fancy being able to look like that on a day like this”. I went up to make my offerings and she started to talk to me. Her name is Mica, and she had spent a year ‘busking’ as a street artist in Australia, traveling on the money she earned from the generosity of strangers. We had a really interesting conversation in English, including her asking why I was doing the pilgrimage and what it meant for me. By this point I could barely put any kind of sentence together because of being so wet and cold and just plain too exhausted. To finish off the experience, she took out her flute called an Okarina, which is made of clay and has a sound like a pan flute but only more rich, and played a version of Waltzing Mathilda! I was totally amazed and transported sentimentally to a place that took me by surprise.
Just as I was getting ready to leave, she asked me if I would walk with her tomorrow as we were both headed to the next temple. I thought ‘sure’ — and we set a meeting time. Then it dawned on me.
The film crew is with her.
As I walked back to the center of town I hummed a song I hadn’t thought of or heard in years — Waltzing Mathilda — and thanked Mica and Kobo for getting me through the day. I had asked for help and it had arrived. And then, without realizing perhaps that there was some asking, the day ended in such a positive way that I knew I could continue. I found the hotel easily enough, left the shoes in the care of the wonderful Hotel Lady, and went up to my room. A good, long soak in the onsen was in order, despite almost creating third degree burns with its retained heat and my lack of the same. When I returned to the room, the backpack still had its erection, but I was more interested in finding the remote control. Despite the usual documentaries, the only thing on that I could vaguely understand was a Japanese version of Regis Philbin and “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” — even down to the ratchety laugh, badly punch permed hair and raucous manner. “Is that your final answer?” sounded so inane after the day I had just had. Right then I didn’t have any answers. Somewhere though, I knew that Kobo would not be asking me that, but more likely “is that your final question?” Then I realized that our waltz had just begun.
And I had a new tomorrow to get ready for. I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Zen
Once a jolly Henro, camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a Coolibah tree
As he sat and he watched
And waited ‘til his billy boiled
“Who’ll come a Waltzing Mathilda with me”.