Wasshoi Kenka Tomodachi

During my 25 years in Japan, I've been quite proactive about getting around to see most of the country's interesting corners.  And in this current climate of overtourism, I feel lucky to have visited places before they were overrun.  Recently, my attention has shifted to visiting festivals, particularly, the smaller, more localized ones, where Yamato Damashi still reigns.  

So it was I finally get to a festival I've long been trying to catch, Nada Fighting Festival, held every October at Matsubara Hachiman Shrine in Himeji.  From the station I spy a few food stalls, the primary position occupied by a guy selling kebabs.  I wander through the stalls, then cut across the grounds of the shrine. It is crowded but not packed, allowing room to maneuver around the spectators and the teams standing around their respective portable omikoshi shrines.  The latter seemed keyed up, and I take care not to jostle anyone, particularly as I'm the lone foreigner in sight.  There is a bottle-neck near the main gate which we all try to funnel through.  A couple of the participants are trying to hurry along, one lightly but incessantly placing his hand on my lower back.  Walking across these grounds I feel like I'm in the most dangerous place in Japan. 

Then I'm out.  Every second story window of the houses adjacent to the shrine are full.  A woman in a wheelchair sits beyond the outer gate, unable to see the main events but satisfied simply with the vibe.  Older men stand holding long staffs of bamboo, some with these origami-like orbs at the top, the colors representing a particular team.   The young men strut about, most of them drunk.  It seems that the  common denominator of anyone over 20 is the can of beer or Hi Chu in their hand. (The type of alcohol drunk differed by team, and I'd back the highball guys over the Asahi guys any day.) No matter the color of the happi, the face above it is a bright red.  The fundoshi they all wear are white, at least for now.  The youngest participants are high-school aged probably, as 16 is the lower age limit.  They too look drunk, though drunk on nerves.  And the youngest of the young boys are similarly ready for the fight, with their plastic swords and cap-guns.  Above it all are the ever-constant drums, an ominous warning, pumping us up for things to come.   

These are the Japanese that most of the West doesn't see, infatuated as it is with the salaryman, the geisha, the otaku.  Strolling past are the farmer and the fisherman, truck driver and laborer. The stereotypical politeness is in little evidence today.  With this level the testosterone, and all that bare buttock and leg, I find myself in Donald Richie's world, a world I had thought long gone.   

The teams are constantly shifting, and it is hard to find a good place to stand.  I finally settle in behind a few spectators, all old-timers, figuring that they have had decades of experience sorting this out.  The bigger portable shrines squeeze out from the shrine, pulled by two dozen men who show incredible strain on their faces.  Once they are through, smaller shrines race out to the main torii arch and back, one team in particularly showing remarkable speed.  These are the fighting shrines.  After that initial burst of energy, the three teams settle for a while at the center of the open space outside the shrine.  We wait, and wait, and wait some more. But I like this, as the intensity of anticipation begins to coil within each of us.  Then release, the three shrine crashing together with a great clack!, as the surrounding crowd raises both arms not in the expectant banzai, but in order to capture the action with their smart phones.  

The toppled shrines are righted, then move out for the long climb up to Mt. Otabi, where a smaller crowd awaits.  And the largest shrines again begin to move, their teams long quiet after their initial boisterous entry.   The entire event has taken less than an hour.   

The crowd is hesitant in their disbursement, as if worn down from the earlier cathartic release.  Most linger around the food stalls, but I return to the train.    

This whole day has been initiated in a way by Jordan, who enthused about the festival after attending twenty five years ago.  This area Himeji will always remind me of him.  I need to change trains in Akashi, not far from where he trained in aikido, the catalyst for his moving to Japan all those years ago.   The city's castle grounds are near the station, so I allow myself an hour to climb up to the site of the former keep before returning to catch my train.

As I ascend the great stone steps I realize that I'm still carried the heavy weight of grief for my dear departed friend.  But with grief, I feel there is no reason to fight.  Better instead to throw my arm around its shoulders and invite it to share a beer.   


On the turntable:  The Jam, "The Jam at the BBC"