Koya-san is a remote little town high
up in the hills south of the conjoined metropolises of Kyoto and
Osaka. It's home to a Japanese School of Buddism, and houses many
monasteries and temples, including some very old ones. There is also
a large old cemetary, and photos of this in the guidebooks are what
clinched the idea for us. But it's a trek; Kyoto to Osaka by bullet
rain, Osaka to some tiny little town by local train, then another
little local train, then a cable car, and finally a bus.
The train leaves Osaka and starts to
climb into hilly country, then into the hills. We go up and up, and
the route gets windier and widier. The rails start to squeek on the
turn, and now the train is moving much more slowly. With each stop
we look carefully at the sign; is this the terminus? Is this where
we get on the cable-car? But, impossibly, the train keeps going.
Next stop, and another. At this point the wheels are screaming, so
loud it is uncomfortable to talk, and moise is incessant. The turns
become so tight it seems the car itself will have to bend in the
middle. The stops up here are ridiculous, 30 feet of concrete with a
staircase down to... nothing. No town, no road, no obvious purpose
whatsover. Still onward. Finally, when the pace is hardly faster
than a walk, and the wheels' objections almost painful to the ars, we
arrive at the last station.
Here we board the cable car; the type
of train that is built at a steep angle, with each row of seats
separated by stairs instead of an aisle. It runs as a pair, one
decending as the other climbs so that the engine has to overcome only
friction and the minor differences in passenger count between the
cars. It's a five minute ride up, but my ears pop three times.
The whole trip has been beautiful.
Like everywhere else in Japan the hills are largely undeveloped, the
urbanization following the historical pattern of populating the
cultivatable land in the valleys. So the city then suburbs and then
rural townships and freeholds sit nestled on the valley floor between
the terrifically steep mountains. At least from a geologic
perspective, this is a young country.
The hillsides are many shades of green,
and there is a stark contrast between the harvested and replanted
slopes with their uniform dark green versus the still natural steeps,
inaccessible and hence left to nature. Large swaths that were once
clearcut and replanted with cedars are the dark green of a German
pine forest. Adjacent to these are the wilds, a motley assortment of
different sizes and shapes, with the bright greens of the maple trees
mixed in and the occasional sakura or plum or apricot flower like a
beauty spot accenting a models face.
We're staying in a temple in Koya-san
(THE thing to do here). It has a cute little garden. and we have a
nice two-room Japanese style accomodation. It's a comfortable size,
and the idea is you sleep in one room and eat in the other. Dinner
and breakfast are included (good thing as there ain't many options up
here). This is a Bhuddist temple, so both with be vegetarian. There
is also a morning prayer ceremony, to which we are invited, that
starts at 6am.
It's about 3pm by the time we arrive
and drop off our bags, so we still have time to take in sites. We
beeline for the cemetary. It's a beautiful day, and was probably
about 70 F in Osaka. A little cooler here at altitude, but still
very pleasant in the sun. The cemetary sits in the forest among huge
ancient trees. As we pass these silent sentries and enter the
temperature drops significantly and we zip up our fleeces. It's very
damp, water is running along everywhere in gutters, some crude dirt
ditches and some paved wth stone. The grave markers here seem very
old, the stones pocked and uneven, covered in moss. The graves are
grouped in a fashion that is mostly a mytery to us, but we did learn
that at least to an extent a family will cluster their together. By
tradition Japanese are cremated, so the internment here is of ashes.
These are placed in little boxes. The front of the large gravestones
can be opened, and this reveals a small room. A priest (or family
member, I'm not sure) can then reach into the grave and place the
recently departed on a shelf alongside their ancestors and relations.
This particular graveyard is particularly revered, and so some of
the residents are represented by only a tiny portion of their remains
– still enough to bring them the blessings of this sacred site.
It's beautiful, and we remark that it's not a bad place to spend
eternity, guarded by giant cedar trees five feet across and ramrod
straight.
The graves form a sprawl of their own.
Adjacent the main path the plots align orthogonally to the path, and
smaller paved paths travel up into the hill. These are in turn lined
with once orderly plots, though some have now tumbled in part or in
whole. But beyond these neat blocks of homes for the dead are uneven
paths. Some are paved completely, some have enough stones to allow
the fleet to avoid the mud, but some are merely worn routes through
the woods following the contour of the hillside until a small flat
area made by nature that is just big enough for a few small plots.
As I walk one of these, 50 winding meters from the main path, has
fresh flowers and a votive can of beer. The graveyard may date back
half a millenium, but it stll draws more than tourists.
Dinner, brought to our room is
delicious and beautiful. It consists of more than a dozen small
dishes, like many of our meals here, and again mostly a mystery as to
what exactly we are eating. With full bellies and a nice warm-sake
glow we set the alarm for 5:30. Susan sacks out, but I walk down to
see the cemetary at night, when it is lit only by the traditional
stone Japanese lanterns. The effect is expectedly eerie, and it
gets me thinking about time; what of our civilization will stand in
100 years, or 300, or 1000.
It's cold, so I test out the shutter
speed function of my camera, snap some shots with my tripod, and head
for bed.
Five minutes later the damn alarm is
going off. It's freezing cold now, as the heater in the room had an
automatic shut-off timer. It's already light outside, but barely.
The alarm was largely unncessary as the galumphing of monks running
back and forth down the hall is like a herd of elephants. Any
illusions I had of soft-spoken holy men living gentle cloistered
lives in quiet isolation is quickly dispelled.
We get dressed and head downstairs to
the temple holy room. A monk gestures for us to go in, though the
door is closed. To our left are two alcoves, with tatami mats with
seating cushions on the perifery of each. To the right are a series
of chairs where some other westerners are also seated. We sit at the
first two seats, but these are partial view on account of a pine-tree
shub. There are a few people seated inside the fartherst alcove, but
the only monk is sitting still apparently waiting. With a gesture
from Susan we get up to shift down a few seats, but along the way
Susan sees that some of the foks sitting on the Tatami mats are
westerners too. She whispers to me, and I stick my head under the
low door to join them. I get a really funny look from them and their
both in what look like pretty serious robes. I back out we decide to
sit on the chairs instead. Better safe than sorry.
Eventually some more monks come in, and
some folks start chanting. We're at the far end of the row of chairs
from the door, and all the other guests. They have a perfect view
into the first alcove, where there is a large altar in the center.
But we can see better into the second. It's pretty dark - there is
one monk in a bronze colored robe with his back to us, chanting, but
otherwise not much to see around the altar. The room is richly
decorated, there are sutras written on little stones standing on
shelves all along the walls. The ceiling was once red, but is now
almost black. The tops of the framed sutras that hang at the lintel
are deeply faded, and almost opaque, while the bottoms are still
clear. More monks come in, and circumnavigate the altar space
(walking right where we almost sat - *phew*)
and join the chanting. The bronze-monk bangs a deep note on a gong
beside him. The sutras are read musically, and one monk with a
strong deep voice will start a verse or two solo, to be joined by the
rest of the group. The westerners on the tatami mats, the woman in
gray, the man in dark blue are chanting too. At a pause in the
chanting there is clanging of cymbals. Unlike the western orchestral
style, these have a deeper bowl shape and are forced straight
together and so give off a sort of shuddering clang as the air
escapes from between them. The guidebook said this place had an
interesting, short ceremony. About 20 minutes in I'm getting fidgety
(no coffee yet). A few more monks have come in, and now one of them
occasionally rings a little bell. I much prefer the sweet tingly
note to the almost brutal clanging of the cymbals. In the other
alcove I can hear the snap and crackle of flames, but can only see
the dancing of the reflected light. About 30 minutes in I'm getting
pretty shifty sitting on a padded bench with no back.
Eventually the music reaches a kind of
climax, and I'm looking forward to some tucker. One monk of
ambigous ethnic background come out of the alcove, and mumbles
something or other sotto voce, in a language I don't understand, but
might have resembled english. he kneels on the rug in front of us.
Happy to move I get off the chair and kneel too. But he gestures and
everyone gets up. “Follow him” says Susan (when did she learn
Japanese?). In a line all of the guests walk around the perifery of
the alcoves, passing a nun ritually feeding kindling to a fire. At
one corner is a Buddha. In turn everyone in front of me does
something with a cup of tea that I can't see. I get to the front.
“We will offer Buddha tea” says the monk. Oh good, I was really
worried I'd have to drink from the same cup as all those other
people. The monk fills the cup and gestures at the little stone cup
carved into the base of the Buddha statue. I move to pour the tea.
“Nononono”, and the monk shows me how the cup fits into the
cupholder. Oops, OK, but no harm done. Pressed hands and a bow and
I'm sent off for the next monk. “Offer Buddha a pinch of incense”.
Ok this I can do. The monk presses his hands and bows. I ape him.
He getures and I follow the line back to the seats. About halfway
there I realize I was supposed to bow to Buddha and not the monk.
Oops 2.
Safely back in the seat, and away from
any possibility of more faux pas. Phew. Susan sits down, the last
in the line. The chanting starts up again in a vengence.
clangangangang. Ringing, tingling. Chantinginging. The air is
thick with smoke from the fire and heady with incense. I now know
why the ceiling is black.
After about an hour the chanting is
done. A very wizened old monk comes out and kneels comfortably on
the rug in front of the group, at the end closest to me and Susan.
Two or three folks have slipped out since we first entered. Smiling
benevolently through his glasses he speaks almost at a whisper.
Combined with his accent I'm straining to understand. This next few
minutes are best understood from two perspectives, first mine, then
Susan's.
The monk who led us around (and saved
me from pouring out my tea) says “Thank you, the ceremony is now
over”, with a smile. The old, head monk says “Thank you... Where
are you from?... Ah, America...mumblemublemuble.”
“Arigato goziemas”, thank you I
respond, in my best, most formal vocabulary.
Still the smile
“mumble..mumble...mumble” and the folks next to us are from
Japan, besides them from France. To me again, “mumble...mumble...”
“Arigato Goziemas”
“Mumble, breakfast, muble”
“Arigato Goziemas”
“Mumble japanese tea”
“Arigato Goziemas”
The other monk says “please follow
me, and gestures”. We all get up and follow him out in a line.
Expecting them to lead us up to our rooms, they instead lead us along
the walkway besides the garden and into a little room where six of
the guests join the monks in some tea and conversation. As we sat
and drank more came by, including quite a few westerners. Turns out
many of the monks here are westerners. One woman is doing her PhD
and has been in residence 8 years. We learn a bunch about them and a
little about their lives here. They have two cats who visit, and we
all share a chuckle when the head monk's wife tuges at his robes so
he doesn't accidentally flash the group as he reclines with his tea.
After a nice, casual time, and some tea
and coffee (Ahhhh, coffee) we all go back to our rooms and are served
a very nice breakfast. At this point, I get Susan's take on the
whole thing. “You think they do that with everyone, everyday?”
She asks. Answering her own question “I don't think they do, I
mean that would get really old. I mean, didn't you think that was
awkward?”
“What do you mean? I think they
probably do do it everyday.”.
Then she starts to reflect on the
morning...
Flashback an hour. The monks have just
finished chanting.
The large swiss monk with the rich base
voice says something in Japanese, then with perfect but slightly
accented English says, “Thank you the ceremony is now over.”
Lars doesn't move. Nobody moves. The head monk comes over and
kneels.
In a delicate and slightly accented
voice he asks “Where are you from?” Of everyone in turn.
Speaking briefly in Japanese to the couple from Japan. Turning back
to us he says, “Thank you for coming, enjoy your breakfast.”
Lars says “Thank you”, and doesn't move. A pause, the Buddhist
master smiling, “Bon Appetit”. “Thank you”. Still no
movement. A long pause. “Would you like tea?”. “Thank you”,
and Lars is still not moving, why the hell aren't you moving?
They've dismissed us like 5 times! Finally the swiss guy,
brilliantly hiding his annoyance at the giant that keeps bumbling
around the temple bows and gestures and says “follow me”. Lars
moves, thank God, Lars finally moves.
Ah well, so surprise surprise, I'm
retarded at 6:00 in the morning.
After tea the monks wrap up the extra
sweets. Seems they get sent lots of these, but they have a tradition
of wrapping up leftover snacks from each meal for the monks that are
unmarried. This way they can eat these and not break from their
studies to cook. Since we'll be travelling they invest us with these
as gifts.
Back at our room we eat a complex
breakfast, and then head out around the town. The frigid morning
gives way to a pleasant day. According to local legent the area was
chosen for the way the ringing mountains form a shape resembling a
lotus flower. We hear the ringing of the large bells as they mark
the 10 o'clock hour, and pass a group of monks in their bronze-orange
as they chant at each shrine in turn along the same circuit we are
walking. We can hear the tingling of small bells from behind the
closed doors of a shrine. We check out one of the bg stupas, and
finally get a little “templed out” and recharge with some coffee
before catching the bus, the cable car, and the trains to Nara.
On the ride down I reflect on how
differently these monks regarded their religion than “Johnnie
Hillwalker” our tourguide in Kyoto. Both were sincere in showing
their true Japan, both dedicated to tradition but for one a ritual of
pious study aimed at self improvement and for the other a vaguely
spiritual habit practiced “just in case”.
