Hokkaido Highway Blues
Dōgo, the more expensive the baths. I stuck to the mid-range, far enough from the plebs to keep my dignity intact, but low enough to keep my pocketbook from being completely emptied. On the top floor, the gold-leafed yūshinden baths are specially reserved for the Imperial Family, should they ever drop by for a dip. A haiku post is available for suddenly inspired bathers. I floated over and added one of my own, but I couldn’t come up with a final line:
early spring—
a single road
I tried to compose an ending, but the heat was making me light-headed and when I stood up the room began to swim, my heart fluttered, I staggered into a wall, and the haiku remains incomplete.
* * *
With a thinned-blood, postbath, anemic waver in my step, I made the long hike out to Ishite-ji, the temple where the stone that was found in the newborn baby’s hand, signaling Emon Saburō’s reincarnation, was on display. The temple was crowded with pilgrims and tourists, often hard to distinguish between, and I was soon in a cranky mood. My shirt was sticking to me in a sweaty embrace as I queued up to get inside, and the warm glory of the bath had now turned into prickly heat and a headache. Straw sandals hung in heaps throughout the temple grounds, many left by weary travelers as far back as the Meiji Era.
Few people make the trek on foot these days, and the temple was filled with wave after wave of bus pilgrims, what the flowershop owner had described as “instant henro.” It was a surreal sight: the pilgrims, decked out in spotless white vests, arrived in air-conditioned motor coaches with their pilgrim’s staffs kept by the bus door like umbrellas in a stand.
I tried to imagine the equivalent tours in the West, but I couldn’t: middle-aged Americans dressing up like cowboys to visit the Alamo, or British tourists donning clunky suits of armor and then taking a bus to the Tower of London. It didn’t make sense. So why do the Japanese do it?
Well, you’ll be glad to know that after years of research, often late into the night, I have come up with four possible explanations:
1. The Romantic Explanation: The Japanese want to experience the journey to its fullest, to immerse themselves in it—even temporarily. Assuming the wardrobe of a henro is simply a way of attaining a deeper understanding.
2. The Cynical Explanation: Japan is a hollow doll, a land of superficial ritual divorced of any deeper significance; tourists dressing up as though they were pilgrims only illustrates how shallow and divorced from authenticity the Japanese have become.
3. The Realistic Explanation: It’s simply a cultural trait. In Japan, uniforms are very important. One assumes a role by the uniform one wears, and at times the line between uniform and costume is a fine one.
4. And the Will Ferguson Explanation: Why? Because it’s fun. It’s fun to dress up, and hey, it’s easier to be silly in numbers. Think of the Rocky Horror Picture Show or Halloween. If I wear wooden clogs and short pants to Holland I look stupid, but if everybody does it, it becomes a tradition. The bus pilgrims are like a travelling Shriner’s convention. Kōbō Daishi is just an excuse.
I asked one of the Cup Noodle henro. “Why do you dress like that?” And the lady replied, “Because we are pilgrims. This is how pilgrims dress.” In other words, it just is. It was as good an answer as any.
“Do you think Kōbō Daishi would approve? I mean, the air-conditioned hotels, the four-star restaurants?”
She laughed. “The Daishi cares about everyone, even us. Even you.”
“I’m not on a pilgrimage. This is the only temple on the circuit I’ve visited.”
“Well,” she said. “It’s a start.”
12
WHEN IT CAME time to escape Matsuyama, I took a streetcar north to the ferry port and was immediately lost in a confusion of timetables and departure schedules. There were actually three separate ferry ports to choose from, and I wasn’t even sure I was in the right place. Perplexed, I sat hunched over a timetable trying to figure out the cheapest, soonest, and most scenic way to cross the Inland Sea to the main island of Honshu.
When I finally managed to line up the times with the destinations, I realized that the ferry I wanted was leaving now. I had thirty seconds to make it. Grabbing up my baggage. I made a mad dash for the pier. They said it couldn’t be done! And they were right. I watched the ferry
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