Hell and High Slaughter

Posted on 12/12/2022 by Luke Kinsella

My plan today was a visit to Ukiha Inari Shrine, a remote shrine with a hillside vista over the Chikogu Plains that offer stunning views of red torii gates and the meadows beyond. However, as I finally arrive at Tosu Station to switch trains, I find that my next train, the Yufu 3 Limited Express bound for Beppu, doesn’t depart for another six hours, so in desperate need of a plan, and a sudden change of itinerary, I rush onto a random train bound for Kurume.

Kurume is a small city in Fukuoka Prefecture. I flip a coin to let fate decide my direction, but woefully fail to catch the coin and it lands in the gutter of a drain. Today isn’t going very well and it’s still morning. I choose to go south. It doesn’t take long for my optimism to return though, for in the distance standing tall and proud, a mysterious white statue captures my attention, and essentially my destination decides on itself.

The statue can be seen from far and wide, and as I finally get close enough, it turns out to not be what I first thought, but instead a 62-metre tall statue of Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy. I always enjoy a good Kannon statue, not only does she save the souls of the suffering, but there’s often something rather unexpected to see.

The first thing that’s a little unusual is the 38-metre tall structure next to the Goddess. This replica of India’s Mahabodhi Temple, the Great Awakening Temple, is the first of its kind in Japan, and is based on the story that Buddha sat under a tree in India for seven days to meditate, became awakened, and then the original temple was built to honour that event. Why there is such a replica here in Kurume I have no idea. Also, and it may be a matter of perspective, but the Mahabodhi Temple is 24-metres shorter than Kannon, however, at every angle, the temple seems to tower over the Goddess.

As I approach the ticket office to enter Daihonzan Naritasan Kurume Temple, I inadvertently wake up a young Japanese woman; obviously this place doesn’t get a lot of visitors despite its massive car park that boasts space for 700 vehicles.

I take a seat on a small stone bench for a time, admiring the statue and contemplating, just like Buddha had once done. A statue of Ebisu disturbs my thinking, purely because he’s sitting on a cow next to a big pile of money. Distracted, I walk around the temple grounds, here there are numerous smaller statues depicting twisted souls in anguish.

I notice a shaft in the side of the Kannon statue, and decide to enter. Endless corridors greet me. Random artwork lines the walls, steep steps twist and turn through the statue, there is no elevator, and the climb to the top takes an age. From the top there are tiny windows that offer a nice view of the city below.

After admiring the landscape, I decide it’s probably time to leave now, and as I climb back down to the ground floor, I notice steps leading deeper down into a basement. As I further approach, I hear the creaky voices of evil spirits echoing down the lonely hall. A room here is marked either side by a pillar of skull heads. Inside are some lifeless effigies, but as I approach, I activate a sensor of sorts, and the first model begins to move.

This animatronic demon is sawing a naked man in half; the saw slides back and forth for as long as I watch. The man, despite his obvious injury is still alive, his screams are piercing and chilling, the sound effects of the saw all adding to the macabre scene. An absolute show of horror.

I move through the exhibits. A woman surrounded by spike traps gives me a jump scare as she screams into life. Two children covered in bruises and blood rotate on a platform as a demon with a sinister grin watches on. A man holding a huge boulder is about to smash in the head of a woman whilst a giant towers above. A chained up man is having a red-hot poker stuffed into his mouth.

I decide that this is one of the most harrowing things I’ve seen in my whole life. The passable realism of the statues blending with the authentic yet disturbing sound effects really adds to the eeriness evoked by this imagery. It seems that hidden beneath this innocent looking statue of the Goddess Kannon holding a baby, is a secret haunted house.

I take one last walk through what I learn to be the Hell Museum, before leaving the basement, the statue, and stepping quietly past the ticket gate as to not wake up the sleeping woman.

As I walk away, I look back at the statue, its phallic shape from behind visible for miles and miles, it makes me wonder if it was indeed designed that way, or just a misshaped mishap. I guess I’ll never know.

Death Becomes Here

Posted on 04/04/2015 by Luke Kinsella

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.

A Streetcar, Feigned Desire

Posted on 29/03/2015 by Luke Kinsella

I decide that despite the warm weather today, it would be a nice idea to explore the area around my own neighbourhood on foot, rather than heading further afield by bicycle. Looking at the map outside of my apartment, I notice a few points of interest that I had never previously given much thought. The first is the Toden Arakawa Streetcar, the last remaining streetcar that still operates in Tokyo. I wander five minutes from my home in that direction. As I approach, I follow the sound of silent electricity until I arrive at the tracks.

At the streetcar depot, nobody is waiting to ride. The only sign of life here, other than the movement of old trams, is a superabundance of starving pigeons waiting for their next meal. Opened in 1913, this streetcar somehow survived when all other streetcars were scrapped in Japan some fifty years ago. I consider taking the tram, but because there is no official timetable, I fear that if I do, I will end up in the middle of nowhere, with no way of getting back. Instead, I try to photograph this historic vehicle, but a blur of pigeon rudely interrupts my photography.

My next stop is at the nearby Jokan-ji Temple, a historical site and cultural asset of Arakawa. It becomes apparent as I enter the temple grounds that this temple contains some rather dark history. The temple dates back to 1665, and with such close proximity to the nearby Yoshiwara red-light district, it became known to the locals as the throw-away temple. A place to dispose of unclaimed or discarded deceased prostitutes.

The temple itself looks like any other temple, but beyond the shiny temple walls is a memorial to the unknown dead and a hidden entrance that leads into a vast cemetery.

The 1854 Tokai earthquake claimed many lives, including young women who had been sold by their parents to the Yoshiwara district. These prostitutes were often forced into this trade, considering themselves as living in hell, destined to eventually die and join the other women in a mass grave at Jokan-ji Temple. The deceased women were not granted a proper funeral or burial; instead, they were wrapped in a straw mat and left outside the temple gates for someone else to collect, burn, and add to the pile of death and ash.

I stroll through the cemetery, and it becomes evident where the souls of the twenty-five thousand deceased prostitutes are laid to rest. A small tomb is adorned with artefacts related to prostitution. An inscription above the tomb reads, “Birth is pain, death is Jokan-ji.” Cosmetic products, hair clips, and makeup rest on top, leaving a haunting reminder of death. It is even possible to peer inside the tomb through an overly exposed metal grate, offering no dignity to the departed. Inside, a stacked pile of white urns extends down into oblivion.

I leave the tomb with mixed feelings. I question why I even visited here; perhaps I should have simply boarded the streetcar and escaped the sense of doom and gloom. Another notable presence is a monument dedicated to the novelist Kafu Nagai, who used these deceased women as a source for his satire. I ponder on the motivations of someone writing about such a macabre subject, only to realise that, in my own way, I am no different as I write these words.

I depart from Jokan-ji Temple and start walking toward Minami-Senju, an area my friends have deemed extremely dangerous. As I approach, it appears to be like any other place I’ve visited in Tokyo: a Seven Eleven, a few shrines, a clean park, an old woman feeding a cat, bullet holes, a train station … Bullet holes?

Entsu-ji Temple stands large, featuring a twelve-metre-tall golden statue of Kannon. What is remarkable about this temple is that it proudly serves as the new location for the Black Gate. Kuromon was previously the gate at the entrance to Akizuki Castle, but after a gunfight during the Battle of Ueno, the gate was damaged, hence the bullet holes. The gate was moved to this location in 1907. Not one to dwell on death and misery, I leave the temple in a rush and forget to take a photograph of the famous Black Gate.

I head back in the direction of Minowa, and with prostitution on my mind, I take a stroll through the Yoshiwara area. What always strikes me as odd about Yoshiwara is that at one entrance to the legalised brothel district is a police station, and at the other end, there is a shrine that houses a goddess that offers protection to women.

Every day, when a prostitute finishes her shift, she will walk past this shrine and bow deeply. I have seen it so many times, due to this shrine being on my route from my home to Asakusa. In fact, I pass this shrine twice a day, and almost always see women here, praying, bowing, and hoping to not share the same fate as those other twenty-five thousand abandoned dead women.

Murder on the Tsukuba Express

Posted on 14/03/2015 by Luke Kinsella

Today, the weather is very warm, so I decide to take a train to Ibaraki Prefecture, to a little place called Tsukuba. At Tsukuba Station, I take a ¥720 bus that crawls for thirty minutes toward Tsukuba Mountain. Eventually, I get off the bus. The only tourists here are old Japanese women who have made the journey to this mountain to look at flowers.

The first thing that strikes me as I stroll off the bus is the view. The day is relatively clear, and the distance is a sea of fields and countryside that seemingly spread forever before eventually blending into the whiteness of bright, sunlit clouds. One of the reasons I am here today, like the old women, is to look at flowers—flowers of beautiful pink and white. The other reason is that this steep mountain is steeped in history.

In March 1864, an army was raised on this very mountain, led by a samurai named Fujita Koshiro. The army, known as Tsukubazei, opposed plans to close Yokohama Port and exclude foreign ships from entering Japan. Even the law to stop foreigners from entering Japan was considered barbaric; it was called the ‘Order to Expel Barbarians’.

The twenty-three-year-old leader led his army of samurai and farmers in what became a war against Emperor Komei. The battle was lost, and the entire army was beheaded. This event contributed to the ending of the Edo Period and the start of the Meiji Restoration.

Still considered a terrorist, a statue of Fujita Koshiro stands proudly at the entrance to Tsukuba Shrine, a shrine said to house the god and goddess that protect from evil and illness. The shrine has been a place of worship for over 3000 years. I continue my walk through the mountain paths, passing a random telephone box with a huge statue of a frog on its roof, Omido Temple with its massive bell, the cable car service that isn’t running today (as usual), and a statue seemingly standing guard in a small car park.

The statue is of a man carrying a cup of medicine. Using my amateur translation skills, the medicine is made from gamagairu, a giant frog said to live in this area; hence the telephone box. The medicine is taken from the ear of the frog and is said to have magical healing properties. That’s right, magical.

People in England or America will be familiar with the expression ‘snake oil,’ a term used to describe health products that don’t actually work; a swindle of sorts. In Japan, a similar expression exists, and that is frog oil. Salesmen use a special sword that contains fake blood in its tip, pretend to cut their arm revealing a huge gash, then proceed to rub the frog oil on their skin. The wound disappears in an instant, and fools buy.

I continue my stroll and head in the direction of Mount Tsukuba Plum Blossom Gardens. These gardens are free to enter and feature over 1000 trees. Thirty kinds of flowers blossom in this area, and mixed in with the flowers are the famous rocks of Tsukuba. Rocks, I might add, that are for sale.

I lug my rock up the mountain path and realise that I should have probably bought it on the way down. The flowers in the mountain are beautiful to see. Red plum is in full bloom this time of year, and white plum is apparently in half bloom. I walk through sweet plum groves and fresh-smelling flowers before arriving at Lookout Point Arumaya, a small mountain hut that looks as though it was stolen from a children’s fairy tale.

I stand, gazing in the direction of Mount Fuji, 155.6 km away and visible on a clear day. Today is such a day, but for whatever reason, the mountain remains invisible, as always; forever shrouded by the white layer of clouds that blend into the distant horizon.

I stand in quiet contemplation in the small hut at the top of the mountain, admiring the beauty of the flowers and the endless nature. Staring out into the distance, I begin to wonder where it all went wrong. Before the thought connects, a Japanese man taps me on the shoulder, disturbing my moment.
“We made it from bamboo and straw, squashed real hard.”
“I’m sorry?” I say, confused.
“We made it from bamboo and straw, squashed real hard,” he repeats.
“I heard you, but what are you talking about?
“The walls, here,” he points at the walls of the hut, “We made it from bamboo and straw.”
“A bit of a fire hazard,” I tell him, but he doesn’t understand. The man remains fated to repeat his set phrase, the only phrase he knows in English. Time to go, I decide.

As I walk back down the mountain, I recall a story that a friend once told me.

Many years ago in Japan, people were very poor. Many families lived in one house, grandparents, parents, and children together. When times became tough, and the families couldn’t afford to feed the young children, a sacrifice was made. Children were the priority, so what happened was that the parents would carry their grandparents to Tsukuba Mountain, abandon them, and go home to their children. The grandparents would starve to death on the mountain, so that the family could continue to feed the children. A sad tale of Tsukuba Mountain, and the many poor old people that perished in its lonely grip.

At the bottom of the mountain, most stores are closed. The men are sleeping from a hard day of selling snacks and frog oil; the only shop still selling anything is the Tsukuba Rock Shop.

There are so many more sights to see on this 877-metre-tall mountain. The place is littered with things to do. Unfortunately, I wasted far too much of my limited time in the mountain hut and end up running back, rock in hand, toward the bus stop. I make the last bus with seconds to spare and head back toward Tsukuba Station.

On the Tsukuba Express train home, I read ‘The Hanging Stranger’ by Philip K. Dick and realise that this information has no relevance here, and perhaps never will.

From Rush Hour With Love

Posted on 17/02/2015 by Luke Kinsella

Today is Valentine’s Day in Japan. What would normally be a day of loneliness and misery is dissolved by chocolate. Unlike in England, where you are expected to buy flowers, chocolates, and take your partner for a meal, Valentine’s Day is remarkably different here. It is on this day that women buy chocolates for men. I have become very used to not receiving even a card on this day, so when I found myself unable to leave my house because of the vast quantities of chocolate blocking my path, it was a pleasant surprise. Even my dentist gave me chocolates, which is rather odd considering the high sugar content and the effect it will have on my teeth.

In Japan, one month after Valentine’s Day is White Day. On White Day, the man returns the gesture to those who gifted him by buying the women sweets. As much as I appreciate the abundance of chocolate that I received today, it becomes apparent that White Day will be extremely expensive for me.

It is perhaps a sad part of Japanese culture that on Valentine’s Day, a man will wait with anticipation to receive chocolates from a woman that he might like, if only for the opportunity to return the gesture a month later. It is this style of gift-giving that makes the shy Japanese male miserable when no chocolate is received. I suppose that this theme remains common among all other cultures; Valentine’s Day and the misery attached to it. I can hardly complain, though. I received many gifts, despite the fact that I don’t really like the taste of chocolate. I actually preferred playing with the bubble wrap, after a nine-month absence of popping pockets of air-filled plastic.

After consuming the equivalent of my weight in confectionery, I head into Asakusa. Today, I have decided to finally visit a temple that I walk past every single day but never visit. It is a temple that is always absent of people, possibly cursed, and is surrounded by some strange energy that I have previously been unable to bring myself to ingress.

The temple offers very little description about itself; not even a name. Before the temple sits a small rock garden where it is impossible to view all of the rocks from any one angle. It is said that if you are truly enlightened, then you are able to see the eighth rock. Despite the various viewing angles I deploy, I find it impossible to see every rock at the same time, and consider that even those that surpass the normal level of human consciousness would still find it difficult to see all of the stones at the same time. Other than a cemetery for the wealthy tucked behind the temple, nothing much else is on offer here.

I leave the temple and head over to Akihabara. Today, there is an art exhibition taking place at 3331 Arts Chiyoda, a former high school converted into an art gallery. The exhibition features students who will graduate next month from the Takarazuka University of Art and Design. A friend of mine works for the university and has invited me along to sample the artwork of his students.

There are seventeen displays here from seventeen students, all twenty-two-year-old women. The first thing that strikes me is that a lot of the pieces have some form of macabre imagery. Paintings depict homosexual angels, others heavily feature corpses, and some are simply storyboards for books about clowns for children; obviously, the clowns look deliberately menacing and have been painted just to scare me.

Other pieces here are heavily influenced by famous stories. One piece is based on Ryunosuke Akutagawa’s ‘The Spider’s Thread,’ a story about too many people in hell (known in the story as the Pool of Blood) as they try to escape and reach the paradise above. One man walking through a forest didn’t kill a spider one day, so the silk of a spider’s web is dropped down to hell from paradise in an attempt to rescue him. Everyone reaches for the web in an attempt to climb to safety. Obviously, the weight of everyone in hell is far too heavy for the silk, and the web snaps, committing everyone to the Pool of Blood for eternity.

The highlight of the exhibition is a piece by Ozawa Yuki. Her painting depicts a dream, more specifically, the moment when you become fully awake and are only able to remember fragments of what was left behind. Another artist that I enjoy is Ogawa Sayako. These two pieces offer less of a description but are once again based on dreams. Something about places in dreams never existing anywhere in real life. I suppose these pieces are my favourite due to their abstruse and rather abstract style. After the art, I take the packed rush-hour train back to Asakusa, somewhat confused by the imagery I have just viewed.

There are certain things that become written about more often than others in Japan: signs with bad English and vending machines. I am guilty of writing about both of these things, and perhaps they aren’t the most interesting to mention. But when I saw another strange vending machine, I got a little excited, so I decided to include it here.

This machine, covered in dust, sells batteries from 1931. These batteries, made by Panasonic, are no longer in production. Yet, this machine sells them for around ¥300 a pair. Even though they do claim to be a ‘Top Seller,’ batteries are the very last thing I need in my life right now. The machine doesn’t actually work and seems absent of any power. Somewhat ironically, what the machine could really do with is some new batteries.

Japanising.com

about Japan

Tag Archives: Death and macabre