Koya-san

On Day Seven, a typhoon arrived. The lady we had made friends with by speaking a mixture of Spanish and English with in the very cute coffee shop across from the space hotel informed us that it would rain like this for at least a week, i.e. the remaining duration of our trip. Ooh, thought the Brit in me, starting to list all the fun stuff that one can do on a rainy day: museum trips, art house cinema, theatre, long lunches, pottery classes, art galleries, read a book, write a book... and then Frenchie reminded me that our next destination was in the mountains and our principle aim was to walk outside a lot, see lots of temples and experience nature. Hmm... very annoying as I had not packed my waterproof trousers and our matching honeymoon macintoshes have turned out to be nothing more than shower-proof windbreakers.

Luckily, because of the typhoon, we spent the entire day trying to get to Koya-san on a Japanese rail network that does not seem to be waterproof. There was a lot of rain, to be fair.

In total, we ended up taking one subway train, two buses, four overground trains and one cable car to get to our next little hotel, which was very cute. It was basically a little tin hut with a slanted roof and white wooden beams everywhere inside like a Swedish mountain home. Even with a host couple who entirely lacked a sense of humour or any personality warmth at all, it was very cosy. So, despite the rain, there were still some great highlights in Koya-san...

Day Seven: Buddhist Cemetery

When we woke up the following morning, it was still raining and after a very slow breakfast, we were beginning to feel like rats in a very comfortable cage. The miserable host couple advised us that we should not venture out until the afternoon or following morning, but coupled with the list of 'don'ts' that we were showed when we checked in (don't make loud noises, don't eat or drink in the rooms, don't come back after 22:30), we were inclined to smile politely at their advice whilst donning our raincoats and asking if we could borrow their umbrellas. 

We thus went on a very rainy exploration of the town, which mostly included walking through the waterlogged UNESCO site of Okunoin* where more than 20,000 Japanese people have been buried since the 9th century in an attempt to get closer to a chap named Daishi who reposes in eternal meditation in a spot at the top of the cemetery. Apparently, the closer to Daishi you're buried, the quicker you're likely to get to Nirvana, though I'm not entirely sure how this works, and, as Frenchie pointed out, we're not sure if distance from his shrine impacts the speed at which you complete your cycle of reincarnation. Is burial land, for example, more expensive the closer you are to Daishi?  Or is it reserved for really holy people?  Or is it a simple marketing, like, 'Well they were on their fifteenth life anyway, so they're likely to reach Nirvana pretty soon: bury them close to Daishi to propagate the belief.'  And how does one know which life one is on at any rate?

Anyway, the Buddhist gravestones are very atmospheric and make for great photos (coming soon) and mostly comprise of the five element pillars that incorporate symbols for water, air, earth, fire and space, and figures of Buddha dressed in bibs, poignant offerings from families who are requesting that Daishi look after children who have passed away in their next lives, or, less poignantly but still very touchingly, to protect children who are still alive. 

The whole cemetery sits in a vast cedar wood, home to some trees that are 600 years old. What with the smell of wet cedar, the impressive moss-covered tombs and the relatively abandoned site thanks to the rain, it turned out to be a very good visit after all, despite the weather!

Day Eight: Morning Prayers

After visiting Okunoin we made a halfhearted effort to visit some more temples, which mostly involved sitting around in a tea room whilst a monk delivered a speech which was both informative and amusing. We understood none of it, but we laughed when everyone else laughed and gazed, fascinated at the artwork he was gesturing to, nodding in an engaged sort of way until there was an appropriate moment to stealthily slink out without causing offence.  

In the process of our slinking, we slunk past a room where a few other monks had gathered for prayers, and in Buddhism, this means chanting yourself into a meditative state, which is really very effective because the male voices are so deep and resonating and the chants repetitive and utterly unmelodious that a wall-of-sound effect is created and it really is very difficult to think of anything else other than the words being repeated. Every now and again, they change rhythm and words just to shake it up a bit, and the conductor-monk at the front rings a bell or hits a drum or some claves together to indicate the transition and then chants the new chant, which is the repeated by the monks in a call and response fashion. It's like psalms, but without harmonies. 

I was thoroughly hypnotised and decided that maybe I should try out this Buddhism malarkey, but old habits die hard and I ruined the moment a little by automatically singing my own tune and the words of 'The Lord is my Shepherd' over the top under my breath, using the chant as a pedal note.  However, this little taster of Buddhism firmed my resolve to get up at 5:30am the following morning to go to Daishi's eternal resting place shrine and attend morning prayers. So excited was I by this plan that I woke both Frenchie and I up at 4:15am, like a small child waiting for Christmas, just so that we wouldn't miss it. 

Walking through Okunoin at 5:45am was a great way to set the tone for my potential conversion to Buddhist mysticism: all misty and quiet and lit by that morning dawn light which is a bit thinner and milkier than normal daytime light. Everything was made all the more floaty by the rubbing of the palms with what I hoped was ceremonial purifying incense and not the still-hot ashes of those waiting to be buried, and the taking off of shoes and the quiet padding into the shrine. The first five minutes, too, of the monks getting all their offering bits and pieces ready and starting their first chant, was very exciting and spiritual and you I congratulated myself for being all respectful and open-minded and y'know, like I'd cut all bonds with capitalism and MacDonalds. 

After ten minutes though, I realised that this was an hour long ceremony and it really did begin to feel like Sunday morning term time psalms: numb bum, constant need to change position, drooping eyelids, attempt to count the number of ceiling tiles or candles to pass the time, or calculate the number of Buddhists per year that fall asleep during meditation and achieve enlightenment by dreaming about their husbands being mugged and revellers being water-cannoned in Brazil as I later did according to the estimated number of Buddhists per country that I had just made up. 

Slightly less spiritually and open-mindedly, I nudged Frenchie (who had definitely fallen asleep but thankfully was not being mugged or water cannoned) about forty five minutes in and suggested that leaving now might be more respectful than dribbling on the tatami mats, so we snuck out and went back to bed, passing McDonalds for a bacon on and egg mcmuffin on the way back to the hotel. 

Day Eight: Pilgrimage  

With all these temples and tea rooms, chanting, incense and prayers, zen gardens, rock gardens and shrines, we felt we had almost completed our Buddhist discovery experience in this sacred place of Koya-san but we were still missing one essential spiritual element: the pilgrimage.  

Way, way back in the 9th century, pilgrims walked all the way up Mount Koya with long wooden sticks, got to the top and normally became monks, or at least stayed for a little bit to do some meditation (or "spiritual sleep" as Frenchie likes to think of it). This means men, obviously, as women weren't allowed past a certain point as they were distracting and probably impure until 1906 when something must have happened.  There are thus lots of hiking trails through the woods surrounding Koya village helpfully colour coded by the Koya-san tourist office that were mostly carved out by the mothers, daughters and wives who were either desperate to pass gifts or news on to their husbands, fathers and sons (not allowed) or were interested in achieving their own enlightenment on Koya-san (also not allowed). 

We decided to do the red one in the morning, picnic, and join the blue one in the afternoon. By midday, however, we found ourselves stumbling upon a quarry-type building site where a few men in a construction trailer and some dirty vans smiled at us, as bemused as we were. Once again, we adopted Frenchie's No-Social-Shame-Ask-Without-Fearing-Embarrassment technique, which involves me assuming the Pose of Uselessness a little way behind him as he either does Flirting-With-Beautiful-Foreign-Women or Being-Masculine-And-Having-Banter-With-Foreign Men, as was the case in this scenario, in order to get us out of whatever pickle we have found ourselves in.  After three or four conversations, embarrassed laughter and admonitions that either the map was rubbish or all the men were as rubbish at reading the map as we were or not from around here, the boss told his mate to take us to where we clearly wanted to go in his grubby Toyota. We were very grateful for such an offer - cue much bowing and arigato-ing - but where we clearly wanted to go was actually back to where we had just been, which was not where we actually wanted to go, but the offer of a lift was kind of the Japanese guy so we enjoyed the scenery and made a big display when we got out of the car that went something along the lines of 'Ah, here we go!  Yes, exactly!  This is the place we were looking for!  Daimon. Dai-mon. Yes, very good!  Domo arigato!'

After that, we gave up on the red line and ate ice cream for a bit before we figured out how to get to the blue line without having to ask anybody for directions. The blue line turned out to be far more successful and sweaty, with lots of ups and downs, prompting Frenchie to reason that, as a pilgrimage, it was supposed to be difficult because it helped you to think of God, or something. Good Christian girl that I am, I did spend some time musing on the great celestial being and Frenchie probably reflected on that in which he strongly believes: fish. 

There was also amazing food in Koya-san, in a tiny restaurant run by one man that cooked everything and a lady who served everything very quickly.