Statues of Dogs, Statues of Gods

Posted on 06/01/2023 by Luke

During the reign of Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, the fifth shogun of the Tokugawa shogunate, a ban on the eating of meat and the killing of animals was enacted in Japan. This ban was part of a series of laws and regulations related to animal welfare that were put in place during Tsunayoshi’s reign. Tsunayoshi was known for his strong interest in animals, particularly dogs, and is often referred to as the “Dog Shogun” due to his efforts to protect and care for dogs during his time as shogun.

One aspect of Tsunayoshi’s efforts to protect dogs was the creation of a large sanctuary for them in the area where Nakano Station now stands. It is here that I find many statues of dogs. The ban on eating meat and killing animals was likely intended to protect and care for dogs specifically, as they were considered sacred animals in Japan at the time. Strangely, the ban did not apply to birds.

This interpretation of the ban led Buddhists in Japan to argue that rabbits, which are not birds, should be considered a type of flightless bird and therefore be eligible for consumption. This argument was granted, much to the delight of the Buddhists. This is why the system for counting rabbits and birds in Japanese is the same, and is only used for these animals.

As I continue on my journey, I walk through the bustling shopping and entertainment district of Nakano Broadway. My next destination proves to be a bit more challenging to find, as it is allegedly located somewhere between the Kirin Lemon Sports Centre and Heiwanomori Park. Despite my best efforts, I am unable to locate the Nakano Prison Main Gate “Peace Gate.” It seems that it is either hidden behind a construction site or has been erased from history and replaced by a grassy meadow and a running track. After my search for the old prison proves unsuccessful, I am drawn towards the melodic sounds of a shamisen. As I follow the music, I come upon a peaceful-looking shrine.

The Numabukuro Hikawa Shrine in Nakano is home to the remains of the Dokan Cedar tree, which once stood tall at a height of 30 metres. This tree passed away in 1944 due to old age, but it was a significant and beloved part of the community for centuries. The Dokan Cedar tree, also known as the Dokanzakura, was named after its owner, Dokan Ota, who planted it in the late 16th century. It was considered a natural monument and was protected by the city of Nakano.

The Dokan Cedar tree was known for its impressive size, with a circumference of approximately 14 metres. It was believed to be over 400 years old, making it one of the oldest trees in the city.

The tree was also believed to have spiritual and supernatural powers and was often visited by people seeking good fortune and blessings. Even though the tree is no longer alive, its remains serve as a poignant reminder of my own mortality and the impermanence of life. The Dokan Cedar tree stood tall for centuries, weathering the passage of time, but eventually, even it could not escape the inevitability of death. The tree’s remains remind me of the fragile and fleeting nature of life, and the profound sorrow that comes with the end of all things.

As I continue to explore the peaceful grounds of the shrine, my attention is captured by a group of statues. It is here that I discover all seven of the lucky gods of fortune

For anyone looking to complete the Pilgrimage of the Seven Lucky Gods of Fortune, a traditional cultural practice that involves visiting a series of shrines or temples dedicated to the seven lucky gods in Japan, this shrine offers a convenient shortcut. All seven of the lucky gods, who are revered as bringers of good fortune and prosperity, stand proudly on the shrine’s grounds, making it possible to pay respects to all of them in one place.

As I make my way back towards the station after a long day of sightseeing, I am pleasantly surprised by the sight of three small groups of birds soaring through the air. They fly in a seemingly chaotic but coordinated manner, their movements fluid and graceful as they weave through the sky. This phenomenon, known as murmuration, is a truly amazing and mesmerising sight. The birds dance and swirl in the air, creating intricate patterns and formations that shift and change suddenly. It’s as if they are performing a beautiful, otherworldly ballet, their wings beating in perfect unison as they move through the air.

I stand in awe, mesmerised by the beauty and grace of this natural spectacle, before considering that they might not be birds at all, but rabbits.

Thoughtful Rain, Equal Moisture

Posted on 04/01/2023 by Luke

As part of Hatsumode, it is a longstanding tradition in Japan to visit a temple or shrine during the first three days of the New Year. This involves returning and cremating old amulets, purchasing new ones, having a fortune taken, and making the first prayer of the year. To avoid the crowds, I have chosen to visit a peaceful temple in Shibamata, located in Katsushika Ward. I awake early, the air still cool and filled with the moisture of the early morning dew, and make my way to the temple to begin the new year with a sense of serenity and reverence.

As I approach the temple, I am welcomed by Taishakuten-Sando, a row of traditional Japanese shops flanking a narrow street that leads to the temple. This street and temple survived the bombing of World War II, offering a glimpse into Japan’s history. As I stroll along the 200-metre stretch, the aroma of simmering oden fills the air and I pass shops selling mochi, pancakes, and rice crackers. Taishakuten-Sando serves as the main shopping street for the quaint town of Shibamata.

Upon arriving at Shibamata Taishakuten, I join the short queue of people making their first wish of the New Year. To make a play on words, I have carefully prepared four ten-yen coins and one five-yen coin (totalling ¥45, which is pronounced Shiju-Goen in Japanese, meaning “always lucky”). As I reach the front of the line, I throw in my coins, ring one of the large bells, and follow the customary ritual of bowing twice, clapping twice, and bowing again before praying for nothing at all.

At the temple, there is a large pine tree called Zuiryu-no-Matsu, meaning “dragon of fortune pines.” It towers in front of the main hall and is shaped like a dragon. Its trunk grows straight towards the sky, and its long branches extend north, south, and west. The west branch extends as if the dragon is crawling on its belly on the stone pavement, while the north and south branches spread as if guarding the Taishaku-do Hall. The tree seems to come alive, appearing as a dragon taking flight towards the sky.

The temple was founded in 1629 by a Buddhist monk named Nichiei Shonin, who stopped in Shibamata and, upon discovering a sacred fountain under the grand pine tree, decided to build a hermitage there. The dragon of fortune pines is said to be over 500 years old, stands tall and proud. The Japanese gardens, a later addition in 1926, provide a peaceful and serene atmosphere.

As I leave the tree behind and make my way to the rear of the temple, I come upon the opportunity to purchase a ticket for ¥400, granting access to both the museum and the picturesque Suikei-en Garden. The entrance to the garden is adorned with intricate wood carvings above each tatami mat room, inviting me to step into a peaceful outdoor paradise. The garden boasts stone bridges, flowers glistening with the hanging moisture of the early morning, a charming pagoda statue, a breathtaking lake as its centrepiece, and even a tranquil waterfall.

As I stand before the waterfall, I find myself trying to pinpoint the source of my unease. Could it be the way the water flows so slowly, as if in mimicry of rain? The offerings and coins at the base of the waterfall appear unremarkable, yet something about them feels off. And then I see it – the poorly translated notice above, urging me to “simply wash my hands without water” to prevent infection from the ominous Coronavirus. The absurdity of the statement only adds to the disquietude that lingers in the air.

As I enter the museum, my eyes are immediately drawn to the stunning wood carvings that adorn the walls. Each one tells a part of the tale of the Lotus Sutra, with two chapters represented in each intricate, three-dimensional carving. The language used to describe the carvings is nicely written, and one line stands out to me in particular: “We people are like children busily playing in what is a burning house, without any fears.” The artistry and wisdom captured in these carvings leaves me in awe.

Chapter five, entitled “Thoughtful Rain, Equal Moisture,” was carved by Shinko Ishikawa and depicts the following: “The deeply benevolent teaching of the Buddha is similar to the gentle rain that everywhere dampens the soil. Here, the God of lightning and the God of wind appear, and together they let it rain. The great earth is then embraced with a blanket of foliage in which varieties of flowers proudly bloom. With this, the heavenly beings also joyfully dance down to the paradise below.”

As I leave Shibamata Taishakuten, I step into a large retro sweet shop filled with rows of colourful candy in glass jars. The air is thick with the scent of sugar, and there are every type of sugary treat imaginable. I wander up and down the aisles, passing old arcade machines and pinball tables. On the second floor is the Shibamata Toy Museum, featuring games from the Showa-era. I explore the museum, including a room with a display of dolls depicting the tale of “Momotaro,” or Peach Boy. I eventually head back downstairs to purchase a bag of gummy worms at the counter, before leaving the shop.

The gummy worms turn out to be a lot stickier than I had anticipated, but I have a solution: I’ll just wash my hands without water.

Reflections on a Winter’s Day

Posted on 02/01/2023 by Luke

As I walk along Hikifune Water Park Street, a sense of nostalgia washes over me. It’s been five years since I lived in Katsushika Ward, Tokyo, and revisiting my old neighbourhood brings back a flood of memories. The winter morning air is crisp and chill, and my breath turns to white wisps of fog that swirl and still as I make my way to my first destination.

The street itself is unremarkable. It used to be a train line, but now it has been transformed into a park that stretches from the Arakawa River all the way to Ohanajaya. As I begin to walk its length, I can’t help but enjoy the sense of familiarity.

As I wander down the street, memories of my past come flooding back. On a late night walk home with a friend, we had stopped to rest on one of the park’s benches, halfway through our journey. My friend was convinced he heard the sound of a train echoing down the length of the park. It’s said that at night, a ghost train can be heard thundering down where the old train tracks once were, and I’ve heard similar accounts from others. It’s a story that has stuck with me, and one that has been corroborated by others who have experienced it.

As I continue my leisurely walk, I pass Ohanajaya Station, its name, meaning “Tea and Flowers,” imparting a sense of charm. However, every time I pass by, the song “Govinda” by Kula Shaker runs through my head, as I rhyme its catchy refrain of “Ohana Jaya Jaya.” Eventually, I arrive at the picturesque inner reservoir of Mizumoto Park, my gaze drinking in the peaceful surroundings and the stunning reflection on the water’s surface.

Mizumoto Park is the largest park in Tokyo. Bursting with lush gardens and natural beauty, with a large pond at its centre. The park boasts an aquatic plant garden, a bird sanctuary, a babbling stream field, and three car parks. In early spring the park becomes awash with the gentle pink hue of the cherry blossoms.

I make my way over to one of the ponds and sit upon a bench for a time. I watch as a turtle gracefully swims through the water, its movements causing ripples to spread across the surface. The reflections of the surrounding trees dance and shimmer upon the water, creating a mesmerising visual display. The soothing sounds of chirping insects and rustling leaves add to the peaceful atmosphere, and I am content to sit and take it all in.

As I sit on this bench, surrounded by the tranquil beauty of the pond and the trees, a sense of melancholy envelops me. I reflect, thinking back on the year that has passed, and the ephemeral nature of time. I realise that I don’t have any plans or dreams for the future, and the thought fills me with a sense of sadness. All I know is that for now, I want to keep exploring the hidden corners of Japan and sharing my adventures through my words. But in this moment, the weight of my own insignificance and the impermanence of everything feels almost overwhelming.

As I continue my peaceful walk through the park, I come across a telephone box nestled amongst the flowers. Legend has it that this particular telephone box is also haunted, and that at dusk a ghostly figure can be seen lurking inside. However, as I peer closer, the only ghost I find here is the reflection of Mount Fuji in the glass. It’s a breathtaking sight, and I stand for a moment, mesmerised by the beauty of it all. For some reason, the mountain is not visible to the naked eye here; it exists only in the glass of this haunted phone box.

As I wait for the sun to set and darkness to envelop the park, I am treated to a daily ritual at 5 o’clock. The speakers throughout Katsushika emit a creepy, slowed-down song accompanied by an eerie chime. The song echoes throughout the park, reminding me that the day is coming to a close and it’s time to return home. The pealing bell of the mountain temple beckons me, promising the sight of a bright, round moon shining down and illuminating the sky in twilight, filled with the brightest stars as the birds begin to dream.

Death Becomes Here

Posted on 04/04/2015 by Luke

Today is warm again, and I have arranged to go on a bicycle tour with three very close friends. We meet up at half-past one and cycle in the direction of Yanaka Cemetery. It might sound a little morbid, heading once again to this huge cemetery, but the reason we have settled on this location is that it is quiet, out of the way, and not packed full of tourists. Today might well be the last day we can view sakura, and I can’t think of a better way to enjoy the flowers than with my friends in an area that is free from the usual crowds.

We decide, for whatever reason, to park our bikes in a zone where abandoned bicycles are collected and locked away. This fenced-off area charges a fine of ¥5000 to people who have left their bicycles illegally parked. After impounding our own bicycles, I worry that something might go wrong, and we too will have to pay the hefty fine when we return here later this afternoon. “Don’t worry about it,” says one of my friends, “we can just pretend that we don’t speak any Japanese, it’s no problem.”

We head through the cemetery, getting very lost in the process. The interesting thing about Yanaka Cemetery is that there are no bodies in the ground. Every grave here features a cremated corpse in an urn. Something about the blend of cherry blossom trees mixed in with the gravestones soothes me in a way that I can’t really describe. I really like this cemetery, and today is perhaps my tenth visit to this area since arriving in Japan.

On the other side of the dead, there are some old houses and a street known as Cherry-blossom Avenue. I noticed a sign here a few months ago that displayed the four seasons of Yanaka Cemetery and various flowers. The section for winter was incomplete, but now, finding the sign, I can see that whoever is in charge here has finally updated the winter information, and it was worth the wait: a snow-protective lifting tool.

The photograph shows nothing resembling winter, and the sign is meant to depict the different flowers of each season (it doesn’t). I’m not certain if a snow-protective lifting tool is a genus of flowering plants or perhaps something more obscure; nevertheless, I am intrigued enough to make plans to return here next winter and investigate this peculiar seasonal tool.

On Cherry-blossom Avenue, it is slightly more crowded than we had anticipated. Dozens of people meander the street, each side adorned with a wall of pink flowers arching over the tunnel-like path, creating an incredible sight. It’s unquestionably worth the visit, offering the most serene view of sakura I have seen so far. We continue our stroll on this lovely spring afternoon, relishing views under the canopy of blossoms.

On the other side of the street, we enter a very large temple. Tennoji Temple boasts a massive statue of Buddha and an ancient well that still functions today. One of my friends appears excessively excited about the well and immediately starts pumping water from the ground below. Apparently, the water has a metallic taste.

We leave the temple and the cherry blossoms behind us, heading down Yanaka Ginza Street. The market is an unusual bustle of crowds and tourists, drawn to the area for flower viewing and now wandering along this ancient street. Although tea houses, locally sourced products, and hand-made items are on sale, none of them capture our interest. In our quest for food, we stumble upon the knowledge that there’s a cat cafe nearby, and given our shared love for cats, we eagerly turn a corner and walk for ten minutes in a vague direction before finding a cafe adorned with cat paraphernalia. “Maybe this is the place?” I am told, with transparent obviousness.

We wander into the deceptively small cafe and take a seat on the floor around a small table. Unlike the other cat cafe I have visited, this one doesn’t require us to pay any additional fee to eat with the cats. It feels more like someone’s living room than an actual cafe. Although the place is slightly pricey, perhaps the extra charge is used to subsidise the cost of cat food, care, and maintenance.

I order a vegetarian curry and wait. My friends, seemingly uninterested in real food, opt for a selection of cakes and sweets. As we sit and talk for a while, I completely forget that I am in the company of cats; perhaps the reason for this is that there is just a single cat here. Only one. Sleeping quietly under a heated table. Eventually, my food arrives, and a second cat appears from seemingly nowhere. Much to my surprise, my food looks nothing like any curry I have had before. Something is very different about it, and it takes me a while to realise exactly what it is.

As I dine on curry and rice shaped like a feline, or perhaps a fox, I begin to wonder if this is okay. Eating food in the shape of a cat, while surrounded by two actual cats, makes me feel very strange indeed. What would a cat think if it saw me eating one of its friends? Perhaps it would get angry, maybe even scratch at me. After finishing my curry, I attempt to pet the awake cat, but it runs away in fear, confirming my suspicions about eating cat-shaped food. The owner informs us that the manager of the cafe is, in fact, the sleeping cat. It makes me wonder if the cat even knows how to operate the antiquated till system (it doesn’t).

We set off in the direction of our bicycles, and along the way, we once again inadvertently stumble upon a temple. This particular temple houses the King of Hell, Enma-raja. The statue, carved from stone, depicts him with his servants sitting on either side. His servants are Shimyo and Shiroku, tasked with delivering the King’s judgment and recording it, respectively.

It is believed that Enma-raja judges the conduct of the living and determines their destination after death. Rumour has it that if you tell a lie in front of the statue, the King of Hell will remove your tongue. Intrigued, I decide to test this out with a paradoxical statement, “You will cut out my tongue.” Nothing happens, indicating that I have told a lie, meaning the statue should cut out my tongue. But if it does, then I can’t have told a lie, and this creates a paradoxical loop. The logical conundrum continues endlessly. Eventually, the statue disintegrates in a quarrel of logic (it doesn’t).

It is quite fitting to find such a statue here, as the area of Yanaka is in the direction of the Ox Tiger, depicted with horns, sharp claws, and an evil demeanour. Because of this, it is considered an unlucky direction, and Yanaka shares the unfortunate possibility that it contains a demon gate—an invisible gate that leads directly to hell, known as a Kimon. Often, temples in Japan face the same direction as this Chinese zodiac symbol. This might explain why there are over thirty temples and shrines here, helping to purify the area and prevent an oni demon from showing up and killing everyone.

With death surrounding us, it is a pleasure to encounter something that brings a wry smile to my face. A man quietly sweeps up the fallen, dead petals of cherry blossom flowers that litter the floor. I watch eagerly as he sweeps. The area he cleans is instantly covered with petals within a minute of him finishing, and I fear for him; his job might be unavailing and endless.

We eventually return to our bicycles, relieved to find them unharmed. However, a man looks confused as we stroll into the compound, unlock our bikes, and race toward the exit. Speaking in Japanese to one of my friends, he seems suspicious about our actions. “Next time, you should kindly ask for permission first,” is all he says. Fortunately, he doesn’t impose any penalties or cause any problems. As we cycle away from the cemetery towards Asakusa, it appears I had nothing to worry about, except perhaps for the sudden sharp pain that starts to shoot through my tongue.

Under the Spreading Cherry Blossom Tree

Posted on 02/04/2015 by Luke

As the heat of 23°C sweeps across Tokyo, it brings with it a sea of pink and white flowers. Spreading in every direction are sakura, flowers that only bloom for about a week of the year and are so delicately dependent on weather conditions that they could easily vanish in an instant. The problem with cherry blossoms is that they take a while to reach full bloom, and in previous years, 100% hasn’t quite been reached. This year I am fortunate, and the weather has been excellent. Today, the flowers are at their full potential and will stay like this for a few days or until it rains. If it rains, the flowers will wash away, sharing the same fate as a ludicrously named spider in a nursery rhyme.

I head toward the Sumida River, passing rows of flowers that line the river on both sides. The same river, but this week, offering an entirely different setting.

I cross the river and head into Sumida Park. I have arranged to meet my friends for a traditional event known as hanami. I wander the park, passing large groups of people drinking alcohol as they sit shoeless on bright blue tarpaulin. As I traverse the verdant gardens, after a full thirty minutes, I arrive at the location of the first-ever cherry blossom viewing party of the Imperial Court. Just over the hill behind this historic location, sit my friends, drinking whisky at noon.

As I gaze at cherry blossoms and observe the other people here enjoying their little picnics of alcohol and snacks, I realise that a man from Pizza Hut is delivering a hot pizza to one of the groups at the bottom of the hill. I find it astonishing; firstly, how could the delivery man ever find the group that ordered, and secondly, if this were in England, the company would never deliver to a crowded park. They would insist on a postal address, and if that couldn’t be provided, they would simply refuse.

We sit under a cherry blossom tree, mostly in quiet contemplation. The point of hanami is to enjoy the flowers, the alcohol, and the company of others. As I stare at the flowers, I recall a story about horses. In the past, many Buddhists would ask to be buried with sakura, so to shake the branches and release a snowfall of flowers, horses would be tied around a cherry blossom tree. This is actually the reason that raw horse meat in Japan is known as sakura.

Sakura also has a third meaning, a stooge. Many years ago, people would be allowed to view kabuki shows for free, in exchange for over-the-top laughter and applause. These stooges would sit in the audience to encourage the paying members watching the show to participate in applause. It is said that the applause blooms very quickly, spreads, then fades away, much like the flowers. Our party eventually fades away too, just like the flowers, and I take my leave and walk toward Asakusa, to look at some cucumbers.

Within the grounds of Sogenji Temple sit a pair of perfectly preserved kappa. Child of the river and an imaginary animal said to help local people with float control, or so the confusing sign states. It is said that a kappa has a bowl on its head, always full to the brim with water. If the bowl becomes empty, then the kappa sadly dies. Apparently, eating cucumbers rehydrates the kappa, keeping it alive, which might explain the cucumbers. I bow at the kappa statues, hoping to see them bow back, thus spilling their bowls and killing them in the process, but nothing happens. Just a statue covered in cucumber, staring blankly at me. A man cutting the lawn tells me that there are limbs from an actual kappa inside the temple; however, I am not allowed to see them, and am given no explanation as to why not. It makes me wonder why he even mentioned it in the first place. Regardless, I leave the temple with a free cucumber under each arm.

I turn back to cherry blossom viewing once more and head to the overly crowded Ueno Park.

The park has one of the best spots to view flowers in Tokyo, with endless rows of blossoming trees spreading from the middle of the park all the way to the Fountain of Frog. There isn’t much else to do here though; I have seen flowers already and am perhaps losing interest slightly. I instead wander away from the park, in search of something interesting.

Eventually, I stumble into Toeizan Kan’ei-ji Endon-in, a temple that features many graves of famous perished people, including that of a priest named Ryoozenji. The priest had a revelation in a dream, and upon waking, he invented a powerful medicine named Kintaien. This medicine cured every illness in the world, and he sold it at a drugstore that was owned by his nephew. All of the profits from this super drug, Ryoozenji spent on a library in the grounds of this very temple. I find it a little odd. If I had invented a drug that cured every illness in the world, I would have thought my profits would have stretched a lot further than a simple library. Still, the story of Ryoozenji isn’t the strangest thing at Toeizan Kan’ei-ji Endon-in.

Next to the copper bell sits a large stone surrounded by plants. I take a closer look and discover that this rock is a tomb that contains the souls of insects. Specifically, insects that were sketched by a lord in the Edo Period. This type of monument is known as a Mushizuka and was built to console the spirits of various insects that were both drawn and used for science.

I leave the temple and return to Ueno Park. Most of the people in the park are gathered for hanami, but there is one area where the crowd seems to be oblivious to the beauty all around them, engaged in a protest of sorts. A man stands with a book and a microphone, shouting loudly and with anger, as fifty elderly Japanese men sit and watch in awe, nodding in agreement. I am not sure what the man is so angry about, perhaps the flowers, but regardless, he does his protest next to a sign that ironically says, “No protesting, no gathering, no advertising, and no politics.”

I leave the park with a head full of cucumbers. As I wander down flower-covered roads, I turn onto Kappabashi Street, in the hope that I might meet an actual kappa. Obviously, nothing transpires, so my float control dilemma will have to wait until another day.

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