Confessions of a Japanese Temple Gardener: (P.S – Who's from London, England)

by Ben Stevens

  A few minutes later, the police appear herding the other schoolboys in front of them. One schoolboy – the other fighter – is wearing handcuffs. He keeps his head bowed, and appears to be crying.

  After everyone has gone, I go down and use a bucket of water to clean the spots of blood off the ground. There’s not a lot of the stuff – but still enough to make me feel a bit sick. I only hope the injured lad is going to be okay. I berate myself now for not intervening and stopping the fight before it even started – never mind the temple rule about ‘not getting involved’.

  But then – I’d absolutely no idea the altercation would be this serious…

  (I found out later that the concussed schoolboy spent two nights in hospital, but fortunately made a full recovery. The other teenager – his opponent – was expelled from school for fighting.)

  Bamboo Skill

  The three-day autumn festival known as Okunchi has just passed. Unique to Nagasaki, Okunchi chiefly involves large, ‘ship-shaped’ floats being carried to various shrines, the children sat inside them beating drums. A massive ‘whale’ spurts up water.

  There are also dragons, reflecting the Chinese influence on Nagasaki, while some actors wear 15th century Dutch costume – pantaloons and almost comical moustaches and beards – and perform an elaborate dance and mime.

  Some say Okunchi has its roots in an ancient ritual intended to ask the gods for a good harvest, while the boats and water-spouting whale (controlled by two men sat cramped inside) symbolize Nagasaki’s fishing history.

  The representation of the Dutchmen, meanwhile, signifies the fact that for several hundred years, Nagasaki was Japan’s only real ‘Window to the West’. Otherwise the Land of the Rising Sun was in a state of sakoku – literally, ‘locked country’, with foreigners forbidden to enter Japan and the Japanese forbidden to leave.

  The Dutch were one of the few people with whom the Tokugawa shogunate consented to trade. Even so, they were strictly confined to the small, artificial island in Nagasaki harbor that was named Dejima.

  It was Admiral Perry and his infamous ‘Black Ships’, first arriving in the bay of Edo in 1853, that finally forced Japan to open its doors to international trade. This hastened the demise of the Tokugawa shogunate, who had ruled the country for well over two hundred years.

  All of the above – just part of Nagasaki’s rich history – is reflected in the festival named Okunchi.

  And once that’s over, you can go to a local Shinto shrine and watch some men dressed up as foxes risk life and limb as they climb fifteen-meter high bamboo poles to perform various acrobatic stunts.

  It’s called Takengea – literally, ‘bamboo skill’. The shrine is situated towards the end of the long road that contains Daionji and several other temples.

  Several long flights of stone steps lead up to the shrine – it’s extremely busy, and there’s a real ‘party’ atmosphere. I’ve brought my eldest daughter (three) for the first time. I stop to buy her some yakitori, or grilled meat on a stick, from a stall.

  We stand in a large crowd in front of the towering poles. It’s already getting dark, so the area is lighted – although all the lights are carefully trained away so that they do not shine directly onto the poles.

  Two men appear, both wearing a ‘white fox’ costume. They pull themselves up the long poles with almost casual ease. Then, once at the top, they perform a series of stunts – swaying from side-to-side without using their arms, hanging upside down, and so on. It’s an amazing thing to witness; these guys must be totally fearless.

  Unbelievably, however, some idiots start using flash photography. This instantly earns them a fierce rebuke from the men who are supporting the bamboo poles (in turn placed in a sort of ‘bracket’) at the bottom.

  These men point out – in rather ‘direct’ language – that if you’re performing a series of stunts on top of a fifteen-meter tall pole, the last thing you really want is to be temporarily blinded by the flash of a camera.

  Okaasan – my mother-in-law – won’t come to see Takengea. This is because the only time she did, as a child (Takengea is a tradition going back hundreds of years) one of the acrobats slipped from the top of a pole and fell to his death. She witnessed it.

  Hence, health and safety now is of paramount importance. These two men on the poles are quite literally taking their lives in their hands.

  Takengea has its roots in the legend of ‘Inari’ – the god of rice. Inari is depicted in various ways, commonly as a rather ‘fox-faced’ young woman, or, somewhat conversely, an old man, his back bowed by the large burden of freshly-harvested rice he is carrying.

  Inari’s servants are white foxes, specially chosen as these animals (white or otherwise) tend to prey on the sort of creatures – field mice, weasels and so on – who would otherwise devour the rice crop…

  …As they perform their acrobatics, the fox-costumed men throw out sweets into the crowd. A young couple catch several, and then kindly give them to my daughter.

  Finally, one man pulls nothing less than a living chicken from inside his costume, and throws it into the crowd. It’s caught by one ‘lucky’ person, who will first have to kill and pluck the creature if they’ve any intention of consuming it.

  Darkness has completely fallen by the time the show finishes. I, my daughter and several hundred other people make our way back down the long flights of stone stairs, past ancient stone statues and figures of mythical Japanese creatures.

  These include the ‘Tanuki’, a mischievous, raccoon-like creature that wears a large hat and has a penchant for beating its massively oversized testicles like a drum.

  My daughter talks excitedly about what she’s just seen. It was indeed an amazing performance. Full respect to the men wearing the fox costumes. They’re a lot braver than me…

  冬

  Bird Watching

  At around noon every Wednesday, the ‘Temple Ladies’ Singing Group’ (the title sounds slightly better in Japanese) meet in the temple main hall to practice – well, yes, singing.

  Today, they’ve asked me to come along, as they require a little assistance with their interpretation of the song Amazing Grace. There are twelve members in all, one of whom also plays the piano as she sings.

  They ask me to sit and listen as they give the song a run through. I have to say, sounds absolutely fine to me. Very good, in fact. I inform them of this after they finish. I state that they sound like native speakers of English, all of whom have very good singing voices.

  The woman who plays the piano (my word, does she bash those keys), looks a little ‘intently’ at me , as though trying to determine whether I’m merely paying false compliments. She’s very much the leader of the Temple Ladies’ Singing Group: she allocates who sings what harmonies and when, and the song stops and starts at her command.

  Finally, she seems to accept that I’m merely saying what I really think. She nods solemnly.

  ‘Okay, thank you, Ben-­san­,’ she says (in Japanese). ‘Although, please – what is a ‘wretch’?’

  I’m slightly startled by this sudden question. Then I start to feel a little nervous as I realize that all the other women are also looking at me ‘intently’. Clearly, this is a question they have all been pondering. They get the concept of being ‘saved’ by ‘grace’ (religion being religion), a ‘sweet sound’, once being ‘blind’ and all the rest of it – but a ‘wretch’…?

  Exactly what, in the name of all that’s holy, is a ‘wretch’?

  ‘Is it like a witch?’ asks another woman now.

  ‘Or a demon?’ ventures another member of the group.

  The women start to stare wide-eyed at one another.

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ I state with faux joviality. ‘It’s like a… a…’

  Like a what, exactly? And, furthermore, how can I put whatever explanation I come up with into Japanese…?

  ‘…a truly pitiful being,’ I say suddenly, still speaking in the women’s own language
.

  The women now just look confused, and doubtful.

  ‘A pitiful person?’ says the woman who plays the piano.

  ‘Yes,’ I declare, with more conviction than I actually now feel. Am I indeed correct? I used to sing this song over quarter of a century ago at junior school, but I never troubled myself over wondering what the words meant.

  Just repeated them, parrot-fashion, as you did…

  ‘But why is that person pitiful?’ asks a woman who looks a bit like an owl.

  ‘Because they’ve not been saved by the… err… amazing grace,’ I say.

  ‘Why is the grace called amazing?’ asks the owl.

  I glance over at the central, golden statue of Buddha – some sticks of incense slowly burning in front of him – and offer up a silent prayer for assistance.

  I’m also reminded of the time, nearly a year ago now, when I taught a couple of schoolgirls English for a few months.

  One lesson they came to me, and demanded to know what George Michael meant when he sang (in the song Last Christmas, released by the ancient 80s’ band ‘Wham!’):

  ‘Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away…’

  The two girls – I have no idea how they actually came to hear this song in the first place – took the lyrics absolutely literally. They found them rather scary. One of the girls actually ‘mimed’ tearing her heart out of her chest with her hand.

  I found myself in the faintly surreal situation of having to try and explain such concepts as metaphors and unrequited love to a couple of wriggling, tittering schoolgirls who listened with obvious, utter incomprehension to everything I said.

  …In any case, Buddha now fails to offer me any divine assistance on how to explain the intricacies of the words to Amazing Grace to the Temple Ladies’ Singing Group.

  Luckily, however, the women evidently lose interest anyway, and the piano player instead decrees that there will be a break for a cup of coffee and some cake.

  I eat my slice of (very good) cake, drink my coffee, and with a well-practiced smile reply that, Yes, I can eat Japanese food, with the sole exception of natto .

  These are fermented soybeans, which are reputedly very good for the health. Taste-wise, however, I’d rather munch my own toenails.

  In other words, I’m asked the standard sort of question someone who’s Japanese commonly asks a gaikokujin. It makes for polite chitchat, although after you’ve been asked ‘Can you eat Japanese food?’ for the 45,837th time, it does start to get a wee bit tedious.

  Practice over, I help the ladies stack the chairs back up against one wall. Then we open the two sliding doors that lead out to the car-park. There’s a beautifully blue sky, with only a few wispy white clouds.

  And directly above us, hovering over the main hall in an ‘H’ shape, are approximately thirty tsuru (‘crane’). We all of us stare upwards, captivated by the sight of the white birds gleaming in the early winter sunlight. (It’s not yet got very cold, although it will do shortly.)

  It’s an amazing sight, these birds that symbolize so much to the Japanese. Longevity, for one thing, having a fabled life span of over one thousand years. Fidelity, also, as they are known to mate for life.

  For these reasons – among others – the Japanese favor tsuru as origami subjects. Legend has it that making one thousand paper tsuru will result in lifelong health and happiness, and is poignantly reflected in the story of Sadako Sasaki.

  Two years old when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, Sadako was diagnosed with incurable leukemia aged eight. Before she died, however, she determined to make one thousand paper tsuru.

  Some accounts say Sadako succeeded in her endeavor, while others state she was still a few hundred paper cranes short before she passed away – but that her friends made up the rest, which were subsequently cremated along with her body…

  …Together with the members of the Temple Ladies’ Singing Society, I stand and watch the birds for a while longer. Why are they in that ‘H’ shape? No one seems to know.

  But one woman remarks that they are in the process of ‘congregating’ –

  as though it was somehow pre-arranged that they would meet over the main hall of Daionji temple – prior to the winter exodus to Siberia…

  Hang on…

  Siberia?

  That’s what the woman says, anyway. Quite why any bird should wish to spend the winter months in one of the coldest places on Earth, however, isn’t explained.

  But, whatever. We stand and watch the magnificent birds until, after a few minutes, they slowly start to fly away.

  The Old Man of the Mountain

  Working four days a week at the temple, I’ve inevitably got to know a few of its regular visitors. These include the ‘tai-chi granny’ (as she refers to herself), Takaguchi-san, a cropped-haired woman of about sixty who stand outside of the temple hall most mornings, weather permitting, and performs some gentle, flowing body movements.

  She says that practicing tai chi, along with following a strict vegetarian diet, helped her recover from cancer a few years before.

  Takaguchi-san is always smiling; one of those people who really is just ‘happy to be alive’. She owns a very small, and exclusively vegetarian, restaurant nearby, next to a coffee shop in one of the quiet roads the temple overlooks.

  There are just two small circular tables inside, and a counter that sits three people. It’s a popular place – while I do like a bit of meat, I have to say that the veggie fare served there is still very good – and so usually busy.

  Other regular visitors to the temple – to attend a weekly service, or to clean and maintain their family tomb – include a smiley elderly couple, who always come by car and, politely addressing me as ‘Gaijin-san’ (‘Mr. Foreigner’), thank me effusively for the work I do.

  Actually, recently I’ve been trying to avoid meeting them. This is purely because the elderly woman always presses a golden five hundred yen coin into my hand – a ‘tip’ (something otherwise virtually unheard of in Japan) she never allows me to politely refuse.

  ‘Use this to get yourself a cup of tea,’ she tells me.

  This happens nearly every time they come to the temple – about once a week. It’s getting a tad embarrassing. Also, it doesn’t feel quite right to be continually accepting money off an old woman.

  I asked my wife what I should do about this unwanted tipping, but she had no idea. So, for want of a better plan, I now just hide whenever I see their small white car drive into the temple car-park.

  They’re already missing me, though – one of the two women who work at the temple office informed me that they’d asked if ‘Mr. Foreigner’ had returned to his home country, as they hadn’t seen me around lately.

  Then there’s the middle-aged lady whose name I can never remember, but who frequently hands me a can of coffee (hot in autumn and winter, cold in summer) when she comes to the temple to clean her family tomb.

  Her heavy make-up and permed hair with blond streaks suggest that she works, or was at least one time employed, in the mizu shobai – the ‘water business’, to give a literal translation, or bar trade. She has a slightly tobacco-gravelly voice, and also refers to me as ‘Mr. Foreigner.’

  Otherwise there’s a variety of passing salaryman, schoolchildren, housewives and such who I see every day I work, while sweeping the temple’s one hundred stone stairs or cutting the trees and bushes in the grounds. People with whom I exchange an aisatsu (greeting), and on occasion a short conversation.

  And then there’s the Old Man of the Mountain.

  Just like the yeti, he is glimpsed only occasionally on the mountainside that is behind the temple. He has his family tomb about halfway up; his wife is interred there.

  Many tombs have within the low walls which enclose them a sort of ‘cupboard’, constructed just like the tomb from stone or marble, that has a sliding plastic door. In this cupboard are kept such things as buckets, brushes, towels and various ot
her items used for cleaning and maintaining the tombs.

  The Old Man of the Mountain, however, keeps in his tomb’s storage area cans of food, a small gas cooker, some pots and pans, plates, spare clothing, a sleeping bag…

  All the things he needs, in fact, to apparently live ‘in’ (i.e. within the outer walls of) his tomb. There’s probably a small, foldable tent in that cupboard, too, for when it rains.

  TOMotM spends his days clearing up leaves, unblocking the water gullies that run on either side of the paths that lead up the mountain, lighting small fires…

  And occasionally running around stark-naked, something that resulted in one extremely shocked woman calling the police the previous summer.

  The police managed to track down TOMotM – by which point he was at least partially clad in pants and vest – and asked him what he thought he was doing.

  It transpired that TOMotM had washed all his clothes under one of the taps that are to be found all over the mountain, and had then hung them from the branch of a tree to quickly dry in the sun.

  But while he waited for them to dry, he had nothing to wear…

  The police gave him a stern warning not to run around naked again, and then left.

  But as it’s now winter and so starting to get cold (in Nagasaki, it’s around mid-November that the temperature drops noticeably), every time I catch a glimpse of TOMotM, he is fully-clothed.

  Recently I observed him sat on the wall that surrounds his tomb, sewing up a rip in his shirt – naturally, he keeps a needle and thread in the tomb’s storage area – and using generous amounts of sticky black masking tape to bind up his ancient and decaying shoes.

  In fact today, as I come back down from the mountain, carrying the spanner and screwdriver I needed to fix a leaking tap, I pass by TOMotM’s tomb and actually hear him speak.