The island of Shikoku, Japan, Sunday, the 27th of May, 2001

Reporting live while sitting on the ramparts of the temple bell at Number 38, right at the most southern tip of the island, watching a large group of Bus Henro come through and give their prayers. Their bells are tingling and feet are shuffling. The water point is overwhelmed as they cluster around the panniers, dousing their sticks, first the left hand, then the right, and finally taking a small swallow to purify from within. Too many sticks were poked into the rack and the rack fell over which then necessitated a committee decision on how to keep the sticks in the rack, but not have the rack fall over again. It didn’t work. The rack just went down for a second time.

There is the usual mass confusion and cluster, or reluctance to be the first one up to the smaller tin bell at the main building, to give it a good hard shake and rattle. Then there is the mini ceremony of lighting the candles and placing them in the cabinet, then the sticks of incense to be poked into the cauldron of accumulated hot powder, followed by throwing the money in the offertory bin, then dropping the name cards to Kobo, complete with your address and phone number on it. The bells sound like wind chimes in a heavy breeze. The steps inviting you up to the temple sanctums are never sympathetic, forcing less able Henro to rely on each other for support to scale the heights in both directions. It is hard on your breathing. Some just choose to stand below. Those with chronic osteoporosis seem to kiss each step as they painfully make their way forward. It makes you appreciate not having serious health and mobility problems.

There is always someone in the group that has the designated video camera, and another to take the group photo in such an anonymous way I always wonder how they can recognize each temple at the end of each roll of film. What is not seen are the two or three helpers that scamper along behind, lugging the tote bags full of books and scrolls and sometimes a wad of the cotton jackets neatly separated by newspapers, to be stamped with the temple seals and overwritten in calligraphy. It takes a lot of coordination to move a group through quickly. Early this afternoon I saw a woman bring in a very ornate lacquer box, which carried a book unlike any of the ones seen so far. When the Calligrapher opened the brocade covers, each page was full of stamps and over stamps, with the sweeping ink lines creating a wallpaper effect. The Calligrapher had nowhere to put his work, and commented that even the paper felt different from the books of today. I didn’t fully understand what he meant until the owner mentioned that the book was more than one hundred and ninety years old and has been on this pilgrimage so many times, there is no room left for a fresh stamp to differentiate itself. What is so startling is that many of the temples suffered badly during certain times in contemporary history, so to have that record of time in a book, in a box, kept by a family, was sobering. It makes your own life feel very small.

They assemble on the steps. Someone makes the first clacking wooden beat from the Goeika set. From behind all you can see are the white jackets with the calligraphy running down their backs, and lots of hunched over shoulders and tiny feet. Like little balls of dough all sitting squashed together. If the group is lead by a Priest, he moderates order through his voice, which often sounds electrified through thousands of hours of practice, announcing the mantra to be chanted, then leading the chorus. Sometimes there is more. When a traditional Buddhist hymn is sung, it is haunting, overlaying tones with melody, and accompanied with two or three women holding very ornate and delicate sounding bells that are rarely struck, that contribute instead through a disciplined and understated manner in how they are rung. One hundred voices in harmony has consistent authority and praise, and stops all other activity at that moment. With exhaustion at a peak, the sound can stir emotions you didn’t even know you had. A very young ordained Priest led the last group. During the photo time, we were able to have quite a reasonable conversation about being a Priest and his training requirements. We were interrupted when his kimono sleeve started ringing, and he had to finally reach in and grab the cell phone that was demanding attention. I wondered what else he had hidden in there. Chocolate would be good! And I do accept gifts!!

Often the group is so syncrhonized in massed unison that their chanting has a soft hum like bees in a flowerbed. Still, it is not unusual for a public address system to blast its way into the proceedings either, interfering from the streets of the village near by with total random abandon. But it doesn’t disturb those in process. An acolyte Priest has just walked in, wearing the traditional outfit that separates him from all us. On deeply tanned and muscular feet, complete with patches of white tape to ward off the rubbing are string sandals, frayed and fragile, but frugal at the same time. Given my own shoe challenges of the last few days all I can do is wince at the thought of what the pain must be like on some of those unforgiving paths. His gaiters are white and tied tightly over his calf muscles, while his over skirt is gray, with a dark brown mesh robe on top. A belt of nine stuffed chords resembling intestines hangs around his waist and hips, while his dome shaped helmet, shaped like a turtle shell in weathered dark cane, rests easily on his back. His lean and centered presence adds another dimension to the hum in the background, as he discretely lends voice to the chanting.

When you look at the complexions of the members of each group, you can almost read a history in each crease. Seasons stenciled on their skins, or years spent indoors, coyly hiding behind hands, avoiding the ravages of offered opinions. For many, this is their once in a lifetime trip. Hobbled walks and stiff joints seem present in all of us, regardless of age and methods used for distances traveled that day. It is late in the afternoon here, and the slightly pudgy Priest of this temple is around, along with his wife, sweeping the grounds, and keeping an eye on the activities. If it wasn’t for his shaved head, you might not recognize his role as different from that of the tradesmen who are also present, working on a new fence. Their pneumatic drill doesn’t stop for the Henro. The Henro don’t stop for the workmen either.

Another group is arriving, overlapping those already in motion. Someone shuffles to the main bell where I am sitting, and slams the ringer to wake up Kobo. It vibrates right through me. A dragonfly just died mid-flight and landed on my drawing book! Or maybe it was the sonic boom of vibrations from the bell that were too much for his gossamer-winged world. A couple of City Henro wandered in, outfitted in stylish clothes, remiss the white jacket, cane hat and Kobo stick. They look underdressed and out of place, abbreviating their activities in a hasty rush to move on. Maybe they feel overwhelmed by the momentum that groups bring into such a space. We are one because we are in uniform. Once inside a temple, the Henro world takes hold. A black-suited son brings his white-jacketed father into the grounds, holding the concertinaed man by the elbow, helping with every tortuous step. There is a photo, and a stamp and lush red seal, and then back into their waiting taxi, onto the next point of their driving itinerary as Car Henro. White is the color of death in Asia. I couldn’t pull my gaze away from the frail old man, skin like parchment, in his robe tied left over right for now, as if ready for that inevitable moment.

Four older men have just arrived, crystal clear bells in tinkling tonal harmony, bandanas on their heads and stubble on their chins, reminiscent of younger, perhaps wilder youth. They have done the walking. You can tell. No seat creases in the back of their jackets or pants, instead, sweat stains and bright eyes, and that hobbled gait you see at the end of each day on the Walking Henro. We first met two days earlier and acknowledge each other again now, openly with smiles and bows. They call me Digital Henro because of what I carry in my pack! I call them the Analog Henro, because they only have underwear to worry about. Underneath it all though we all know how tough the walking can be.

I just saw Kosaka again too! He is carrying a backpack, with a small tent and camping out. Our paths have intertwined like a DNA chain for more than a week now, including those three days of torrential rain, and now two days of searing heat. Our language is Henro-speak as he has no English and by that last hour, my Japanese is mainly Italian and not to be understood by anyone at all. We share maps and knowledge, candy and laughter, and more than once have planned our routes separately but in the company of each other. Tomorrow he is taking the short route to Number 39 because he wants to return to the shower block where I saw him this morning. My choice is the West side, the longer but more scenic route. ‘Scenic’ is also a euphemism for grueling. He says that I am crazy. He might be right. I haven’t met a Henro today that is doing the West side. We complain together about how heavy our packs are, showing rubbing scars like veterans from a surgeon’s operating table, and note how early our travel breakfasts of Onigori (rice ball ‘sandwiches’) and Ochai (green tea) disappear. It seems to be the curse of all Henro – never having enough to eat and drink and subsisting on bananas! We point out to each other really cool routes we have taken on the true walking paths. Some Henro do them, most today haven’t it seems.

Often the Walking Henro are on serious time constraints so the objective is to hit as many temples as possible in the shortest amount of time, before navigating to a railway station to get back to where they came from. I affectionately call them Tokyo Henro. You can tell when you meet them. There is an agenda and a schedule to be met. And, yes, most of them do come from Tokyo. Often times I have rounded a corner to find another Walking Henro with a foot blowout, sitting there, wondering what to do. They usually don’t carry a medical kit, and seem to severely overestimate their kilometer capacity per day, opting for outrageous numbers on their first couple of days out of the office, walking with a heavy backpack, under their own momentum. They have it worked out in theory, but the practical reality is catching up fast. I have shared medicines and tape, patched them up and put them back on the road with a hand full of candy. Earlier this morning I walked with another young man carrying an even larger backpack than Kosaka. I called him Steam Train Henro because of the way he walked. Nothing from the knees up moved. It was as if he was on cross-country skis, shuffling along, moving his weight very efficiently. The sound really was like a steam train, both with his scraping shoes and breathing rhythms working together. His pace was too fast for me. I left off after an hour. Just before coming into this temple we met again, with him leaving to commence the back track up the Cape to do the East side, like most others. Word travels fast and he has a request. Again I became Doctor Henro as I taped up his seriously blistered and bleeding feet with one of the wonders of American camping stores called Second Skin. He still shuffled like crazy, but at least now he will make it to the next temple. I doubt if I will see him again, at the pace he was moving, as not even a foot blowout had slowed him down markedly. As he disappeared over the hill crest I heard him yell back ‘sank-you –o – its-o excellent-o!’ The midway point in our languages is to put a vowel on the end of everything. (And you wonder why my Japanese goes Italian so easily.)

The Bus Henro’s have limits because of their choice of mode of travel too. Many times I have envied the way the bus cruises up an incline while I am sweating hard, doubled-over with my backpack lump on my back, kissing the ground and eating fumes as they bow out the window at me. That is if anyone is awake. It is a bit like train spotting, or a skit from Monty Python, as I scan readily to see if anyone is sitting upright. I have lost count of how many times there is a bus full of psuedo-dead people, all with lolling heads and gaping mouths as travel sleep takes over. It has a disconcerting look to it all. They can’t go where Walking Henro can, and do, by following Kobo’s path. Just by stepping one street off the main road there are Early Edo Period mansions to be seen. Homes built as big as city blocks, in the tradition that didn’t change for more than 600 years. Compounds that easily housed and kept more than forty people in a family, separated by beautiful sanctuaries and courtyards of grizzled pine and stone. It always reminds me of Bali and the social structure found in the less tourist touched villages where kampongs provide comfort and clan. A life where claustrophobia can be measured by guessing which house is washing their crockery at lunchtime.

There have been seven steeply forested paths and ravines today, most running into the ocean below, which means a climb back up, with either that or grand panoramas to take your breath away. Very scenic. Kosaka is impressed, and promises to do what he missed today, tomorrow, on his way back to the shower that he dreams of. In amongst the climbing in the undergrowth and swatting Jurassic Park size mosquitoes, was a spontaneous visit to a fish factory in search of a guy called Kentaro. He is a friend of Wayne, who lives in Nakamura. That story started twenty-four hours earlier, when finally the rains lifted and I found a town big enough to possibly have a decent sized shoe shop, with a range of shoes big enough to fit, then buy and wear. (OK – so it only had one pair, but I only needed one pair.) Walking out of town along the river, I stopped to admire the water, thinking how beautiful it is, and how lucky I was to find shoes, when a lone sculler skimmed by! And a gaijin sculler at that! On his return lap, I cheekily appraised his technique, and yelled out for him to push with his legs. My trail followed the river for a short while and then branched off, only to round a corner a couple of hours later to be met by the foreigner, with red hair and a rowing tan, who introduced himself as being from New Zealand. So then the conversation was on. Which led to many memories of those halcyon days in Florence, Italy, dreams in Spanish, and a poster on the wall in the apartment in Oregon. Wayne drew the characters to identify Kentaro’s factory, so when there was success in the pattern matching, there was this little catch of breath, and I boldly asked the lady on the road to be taken to her Boss! Shortly after I was enjoying a cool drink of cider with Kentaro and having a good laugh over the mishaps of being a very tall and bald, non-Japanese speaking Henro, interspersed with his stories of learning to speak English in Australia in between golf rounds.

Another busload has just arrived, all uniformed with their color coordinated sashes, map bags and whether or not they do the hat thing. Most don’t, and being in a bus all day, I can understand why. Some even tie group designations on their sticks, probably for easy identification. Given the chaos at the stick rack so far this evening this makes sense too. More Tourist Henro’s are wandering in, very unsure of the protocol. The Veteran Henro’s have this down pat by now. The chanting is almost making me type with the same cadence. Some one just stood next to me and nonchalantly farted!

“Stho desth kar”, I thought. (I bet you all thought I made up the last story huh!)

There is no room left on the porch of the main temple, and most of the steps are filled with a mixture of Henro types. Each group saying the Heart Sutra, like a badly conducted round song that some of us would have sung in Kindergarten. It is just a mass of buzzing and clicking as at least two hundred people congregate in the courtyard. Funnily enough they all finish together, which is what we always managed to do in school too! The candles in the cabinet have just found a new lease of life and are creating a bonfire. Flashlights from cameras create the feeling of a gala event. And now the Priest is emptying all of the moneyboxes into a tin bucket, clattering the coins noisily. A Businessman in a terry toweling fishing hat brings his briefcase along while saying his prayers. The Priests wife just gifted Kosaka and myself a can of drink each and as a bonus, a cup of coffee with a sweet. It is one of many unexpected moments in the day of a Henro.

And then as swiftly as they have arrived, the Bus Henro are gone again, the workmen have packed up and left, and Kosaka is starting his journey back to that shower. As if the sound track was suddenly turned off, the temple is deserted except for the Priest and his wife, their pet dog called Whitey because he is, and myself. There is a stillness that defies worlds. Theirs and mine. All alone but not. The temples are closed up for the day. The gates shuttered down. A small fire is lit to burn the swept up leaves, reminding me of when I was growing up and that was how you finished the gardening. With a small fire. The smoke hangs low and evokes a touch of early autumn in the salty air.

You easily sense that their marriage has been invested in this place of birth and residence, and most probably home of their death, from which the next generation will carry on. The Priests elderly father will be leading the morning prayers tomorrow. He just came out into the courtyard, like a cat stretching then looking for those last dwindling rays of light. He has skin so thin that I can see his veins through it, and thick tortoise shell rimmed glasses stuck to his forehead, defying gravity and the lack of eyebrows to hold them there. We both walk the same age at this hour. It is time to check in to the accommodations, like changing channels on the ‘terebi’, and start another routine for that part of the day. If I hobble and limp quickly, I just might catch the last of the Sumo tournament that is being telecast, right before the dinner hour.

Zen