River Chronicles
Edo’s wealth and culture were founded, at least partially, on water. The majority of Edo’s theatres were built near rivers and canals. Playhouses and red-light areas developed simultaneously along the water’s edge. A detailed painting called the Illustrated Screen of Edo Landmarks depicts the Nakabashi theatre district between Nihonbashi and Kyobashi, where Kabuki was presented for the first time in the city. Boats crowd the waterways leading to puppet, acrobatic and Kabuki theatres surrounded by a vibrant mix of archery galleries, street vendors, bathhouses and louche teahouses. All the major temples and shrines in the Low City were oriented towards water. Like the Benten Shrine at Shinobazu Pond in Ueno, many inland places of worships were built facing or cantilevered over a large pond.
The water’s edge was where the energies of the city were concentrated. Even today, Tokyo claims some 1,300 miles of rivers, canals and other watercourses spanned by nearly 6,000 bridges. The natural rivers and manmade canals of the Low City formed an ideal network of channels for transporting goods. Aqueducts brought water from the west in the Edo period, but a surprising number of people in the Low City still depended on wells, even though many of them were foul and brackish. Those who could afford to bought fresh water from vendors.
The Sumida river
People are fond of waxing lyrical about the qualities of the old Sumida, but by the Meiji industrial period the condition of the river, awash with the human sewage of its aquatic population and those whose homes and shacks backed onto its waterways, can hardly have been pleasant. The realities of living along the river, softened by literary references to fireflies on its banks and assignations by boat at dusk, were more hazardous in real life. Taisho-era families who made their living from ferrying people across the river or transporting goods often lived on boats along the mouths of canals that washed into the river. However hard they may have worked, they remained trapped in their poverty, washing their clothes in the river, lighting cooking fires with coal scrap, their homes polluted by smokestacks from recently built factories. These squalid conditions were visible to any passer-by.
The Sumida has also known its fair share of tragedy. The shogun Ieyasu seems to have more or less treated the river as an outer moat for Edo castle. The Senju-ohashi was the only bridge permitted to span the waterway during his regime, a security obsession that led to tragedy when the Furisode Fire of 1657 struck, stranding people in the most intense fire zone. Other memorable tragedies associated with the Sumida were the Great Kanto Earthquake and the incendiary bombings of 1945 when the river, into which hundreds of people had plunged, turned into a sheet of fire. Of the first event, film director Akira Kurosawa, a witness to the aftermath of the earthquake, wrote:
... the Sumidagawa was dyed red, but it wasn’t a blood-red. It was the same kind of light brownish red as the rest of the landscape, a red muddied with white like the eye of a rotten fish. The corpses floating in the river were all swollen to the bursting point...
Floods were a constant threat. The river could be expected to break its banks on average once every three years. A tidal flood in 1959, which left 5,000 dead, prompted the construction over the following decades of concrete retaining walls. Floodgates and walls were built after two major typhoons in 1947 and 1949 inundated the area between Edogawa and Arakawa. With the concrete walls, promenades disappeared overnight, diminishing intimate contact with the river and the pleasure of strolling its banks at will.
In Kafu’s writings from the first half of the last century we have the impression of a more leisurely waterway, supporting a riverine population more in tune with the seasons. “From the new two-storey house with willows at its gate,” the narrator of The Sumida River observes, “came the sound of a shamisen, and the masters of the low houses along the canal were beginning to emerge half naked from latticed doors to enjoy the evening cool.”
Kafu’s river, however, is a lightning rod for the changes being carried out in the name of progress. In his latter work the river and its canals are already choked by industrial waste. In Kafu’s day, whole families lived on boats. Clay stoves for cooking rice were found on the sterns, laundry hung out to dry over sculling oars, and in the early Meiji period it was still possible to take water from the river to rinse vegetables. Canals began to be filled in during the late Meiji years as the city turned from water-borne to motorized pleasures. After the 1923 earthquake and again in 1945 during the air raids, canals were used to dump rubble and cinder. Many of these were eventually filled in and turned into roads.
Although Tokyo’s premier waterway remains a symbol of the city, its literary associations forming a rich body of lore, by the post-war years most of the old ferries that once enjoyed a brisk trade across the river had been replaced by bridges. The painted girders, shackles and bolts of the older bridges that have survived, structures like Umayabashi, and Kiyosubashi, with their sweeping arches, stone stanchions and wrought-iron lanterns, are reassuringly durable presences that have not been overshadowed by the triple-layered expressways that slice the river overhead a short distance away.
Tokyo’s Sumida provides the setting for what is possibly one of the most interesting concentrations of bridges in Japan. Strong nostalgia is still attached to them, and Tokyoites continue to celebrate their existence in songs, films, and novels. The painted girders and bolts of the older bridges that have survived earthquakes, air raids and intense volumes of traffic remain little altered amidst the accelerated confusion of today’s city. Although a commentary in the 1933 Almanac of Greater Tokyo asserting that “Tokyo is now recognized in particular as a ‘capital city of bridges’... in its number of bridges, it is surely first in the world” may be a forgivable exaggeration, these constructions still retain the power to both charm and transform our view of the city.
Although one would be hard pressed to find peony gardens, vegetable plots or the earthen walls of a former age in this section of present-day Tokyo, the river is enjoying a revival of interest. Claude Lévi-Strauss, surveying the compressed sprawl of its living and working quarters in the 1980s, judged that the city’s future lay along the banks of the Sumida. Low-hulled choki-bune, operated by single oarsmen, have long gone, but in their place have appeared conventional pleasure boats, fishing sculls and yakata-bune - roofed vessels hung with lanterns, a section of the deck pleasantly tatami-matted - which resemble older craft.
Waterfront developments that would have turned the river into a construction corridor have, mercifully, been scaled back or scuttled altogether with the evaporation of funds. In tandem with this new, mandatory moderation, environment groups have scored some commendable successes, including the cleansing of the river so that fish may return. The river banks at Hakozaki, Shinkawa and the strip between Asakusa and Sakurabashi and other spots are being reclaimed from their vertical, concrete encasements, planted with grass, saplings and bushes, the embankments remodelled with graduated slopes to create new pedestrian zones. Stands of pampas grass grace the riverbanks in front of one apartment block near Eitaibashi. Among the unintended beneficiaries of this largesse have been the homeless, for whom lavatories, water spigots and easy access to roads and the overflowing bins of nearby convenience stores provide an alternative to cramped city parks, and subway entrances.
Downriver, the residents of Tsukuda-jima, an artificial island near the mouth of the river, were originally brought from Osaka to Edo in order to supply the shogun’s kitchens with whitebait. The first residents also worked as spies and informers for the castle, keeping an eye on shipping movements in the bay. A few descendants of the original islanders still work in nearby Tsukiji fish market. Experts at drying, curing and preserving, the islanders created a nourishing concoction made from seaweed and shellfish, seasoned with salt, soy and sugar. The result, known as tsukudani, is still made there.
The north portion of the island, known as River City 21, has been aggressively developed, and its taller buildings cast the remnants of the older town into growing ob
scurity. Several older houses remain, however, especially those in the vicinity of Sumiyoshi Shrine, an old tutelary shrine for fisher folk. This cluster of houses is in fairly good shape, with well-finished features that include black ceramic roof tiles, oxidized copper finials of an aged, green patina and seasoned wood walls. Until 1964, when a 750-foot bridge was completed, the island’s only direct connection with central Tokyo was by ferryboat. On 27 August 1964, without the slightest fanfare for the passing of an era, the last ferry to cross the Sumida made its journey into the watery reaches of the city’s notoriously short memory.
The Invisible Goddess
Strongly associated with Edo life, Asakusa’s spiritual centrepiece, the current Senso-ji Temple, was rebuilt after Allied bombs destroyed the former structure, itself a reconstruction of a fire victim. Above the sombre beauty of the altar, incense burners and flickering candles, the ceiling of the temple is distinguished by a large dragon painting, the creature holding a jewelled orb. A symbol of Fate, the dragon is said to have risen from the seabed to the heavens with the object, representing human aspirations, firmly in its clutches. The ryu is a symbol of good luck; those born in the year of the dragon are considered gifted, wise and blessed with boundless energy. Before Tokyo rose to block out the building, it was said that if you gazed across the Sumida towards Asakusa, you would see a silhouette that strongly resembled that of a giant dragon. When the temple was rebuilt in 1958, a dragon dance was held to celebrate the event. The golden dragon dance continues to be held twice a year, in March and October.
Such is the attachment to the sacred grounds at the centre of the city’s profaner pleasures that Kawaguchi Matsutaro could write, “The Asakusa Kannon Temple is home, so to speak, to all those who inhabit downtown Tokyo. An Asakusa native need only step onto the temple grounds to feel he is treading his native soil.”
The most celebrated object in the temple remains an enigma. According to believers, the golden image of Kannon-sama, the bodhisattva of mercy trapped in fishing nets by the Hinokuma brothers all those centuries ago, is enshrined here. While some scholars and historians subscribe to this interpretation, others have questioned the very existence of the image. Japan is as rich in religious relics as it is in legends. A satisfactory explanation remains elusive, as the key evidence, just two-inches tall according to the temple, is shielded from human eyes.
The official version of the story claims that the reliquary holding the statue decayed centuries ago, requiring others to be built over it. The statue, despite being removed time and again to escape fires, remains at the heart of the temple. During the Meiji period a group of minor government officials demanded to see the object under threat of punishment. The statue was taken from its sanctuary by priests who bowed their heads respectfully low, but also in order to avoid casting their eyes on the image. This was strictly in accordance with the wishes of St. Shokai, the original founder of the temple, who received a divine injunction in a dream, commanding him to preserve the image from human gaze. It seems that the officials, all of whom subsequently died under mysterious circumstances, were the last mortals to see the golden statue. It is just the type of story that people, more interested in the essence of a tale than its historical veracity, appreciate. Never seen nor verified, its presence is truly mystic, for it exists on faith alone.
In Ghostly Tokyo
For all the city’s modernity, the spirit world is never far away. Scratch the surface and old beliefs come bubbling up. Strong folkloric elements associated with rural societies saturate this post-industrial city.
When Edo was built, shrines and temples were situated to ensure the correct flow of ki, or spiritual energy. Kimon (devil’s gates) were positioned to block or divert malign forces and promote beneficial currents. Redevelopment projects and the demolition of many of these gates have upset the old balances, weakening the protective barriers. According to traditional geomancy, the north-east is the direction from which malevolent spirits enter the city. Two temples positioned in the north-east, Kanneji in Ueno and Senso-ji in Asakusa, still function as spirit barriers.
The geomantic concerns of Edo were planned by the priest Tenkai with full consideration for the most propitious flow of ki. Subsequent buildings and subways were constructed in accord with feng shui principles. A notable exception is the Oedo subway line, completed in 2000. Disregarding the plan, the line passes under Aoyama cemetery, disturbing the spirits resting there and sending currents of destructive ki west towards the entertainment and commercial district of Roppongi. With no shrine positioned to send the flow back, the area, with dozens of misaligned buildings, has suffered an unusually high outbreak of private and corporate crimes and malfeasance over the years. Passengers expected to use the line, with reduced commuting time to districts like Shinjuku, have failed to materialize. In other instances, measures have been taken in advance to avert the effects of negative energy fields. Bad ki at Nogi Shrine, built to enshrine the spirit of the general who entered a suicide pact on the site along with his wife, obliged the Defence Agency headquarters to relocate.
The bronze surface of a seated cow at Ushijima Shrine near the eastern banks of the Sumida is worn smooth. This supernatural statue, like many others in the city, is believed to have the power to cure illnesses. Stroke the part of the cow’s body that corresponds with the area that is troubling you and relief will soon come. Inari shrines are the most visible expressions of a world where strange spells and transmutations are common. Nominally part of Shinto religion, these shrines feature an astounding number of stone foxes with red bibs tied around their necks that serve as messengers of the gods. Capable of taking on human form, they properly belong to the animist world. The oldest Inari shrines are located just at the foot of the high ground of the Yamanote hills, often at the point where they drop to the flatlands. Appearing in the gardens of feudal mansions and in the back streets of almost every block in the city, their number increased dramatically in the 1770s and 1780s, decades with a particularly high incidence of natural disasters.
Devotees washing the auspicious Togenuki Jizo statue at Kogan-ji temple in Sugamo
Fox possession was a grave problem. There are countless shrines around the city bearing the names of people who erected them in the hope of exorcising the spirit. The place where a victim was possessed would often draw large crowds, creating, as markets and cult followers sprang up around the spot, a near millenarian atmosphere. In the quiet residential district of Hakusan is an eerie fox shrine called Takuzosu-Inari. Shoehorned into its pinched precincts are rows of torii gates, Jizo and Kannon statues and fierce-looking fox messengers. This is not a place to venture much after twilight. A flight of stone steps descends under blackened trees that seem permanently damp to a spirit cave called the Oana, its dank rock-face the home, it is believed, of the resident white fox. Credence is lent to its existence in an account by Kafu who, in his short story The Fox relates how his father spotted the bushy-tailed messenger here one afternoon.
Basil Hall Chamberlain, one of the most astute observers of frantically modernizing Meiji Japan, recorded a supernatural tale told of the metamorphosing powers of the fox. The account was
... widely circulated and believed of a fox having taken the shape of a railway train on the Tokyo-Yokohama line. The phantom train seemed to be coming toward a real train which happened to be running in the opposite direction, but yet never got any nearer to it. The engine-driver of the real train, seeing all his signals to be useless, put on a tremendous speed. The result was that the phantom was at last caught up with, when lo and behold! - nothing but a crushed fox was found beneath the engine-wheels.
Tanizaki remembered that his mother and grandmother “had often told me how a badger kept appearing at the foot of the Ogibashi bridge in Fukagawa, playing tricks on the unwary residents.” Residential areas, even in downtown parts of the city, were still dark during the late Meijiperiod night. Tanizaki recalled his childhood reluctance to venture even to the washbasin that stood besid
e the yard of his house:
My fear at such moments focused not so much on robbers, but on the thought that a ball of flame, the soul of the dead, might come flying by, or that a badger or fox, transformed into something terrible, might suddenly appear... I was terrified, most of all, by the story that badgers sometimes assumed the form of giant bald-headed monsters. Two or three times, I actually heard in the distance the sound of badgers drumming on their bellies. Some adult nearby had always made sure to confirm it, saying “That’s the sound right there.”
Venerated tattoo artist Horiyoshi III recalled seeing a figure walk into his studio while he was working. When he turned to offer a greeting, it disappeared into black powder. Consulting a psychic, he was told that during the Meiji era there was an execution ground on the site of the present studio, so that even now there were many ghosts wandering around his neighbourhood. The story, like an incident from the Edo-period broadsheets, was told to a Tokyo reporter in the summer of 2007.
Noh dramas, Kabuki and the Bunraku puppet-dramas have repertoires swarming with ghosts and unquiet spirits. The Kabuki play Yotsuya Kaidan, regularly shown in film versions on television, provides a cold frisson much appreciated in the torrid summer months, especially August, when homes set out revolving lanterns and festivals of bon-odori dancing are provided for the ghosts of the departed as they return for the few brief days of the Bon Festival.
Tokyo: A Cultural and Literary History (Cities of the Imagination Book 34) Page 29