Echoes of Incense A Pilgrimage in Japan by Don Weiss

Chapter Six

Around The Far Turn

I crossed the border between Ehime and Kochi prefectures by a bridge over a mountain stream. Just before the bridge, I stopped for a cold Muscat soda from a vending machine. For the first time on the trip, the weather was warm enough that I wanted a cold drink. As I sat and sipped, I looked across the river and saw a cherry tree bursting into bloom. It was only January 31st.

I had a lot of trouble finding an inn for the next night. Every place listed in the guidebook refused me, saying, "Sorry, we're full." It was an awkward situation. There seemed to be 55 kilometers between inns where I could stay. But the innkeeper where I was staying made a phone call and got me a reservation at a new inn he knew of. He assured the owners I could speak Japanese and understood Japanese customs.

I found the inn just down the road from two of the ones that said they were full. They both looked empty. The new inn had only two other guests. I was shown into a beautiful new building just behind a small restaurant. My room was filled with the sweet scent of the new tatami mats that covered the floor. Five minutes after I got there, I was given tea, cookies, and two kinds of cake. Then, for dinner, I had steamed nodogoro (a fish like red snapper, but with bright pink skin and big eyes), excellent tuna sashimi, and a small, tender steak. I paid 6,000 yen, only a little more than usual. I was careful to be seen to follow all the rules of Japanese inn etiquette, even lining up my slippers neatly outside my room. I hoped the owners of all the inns in town got together to compare notes so the next foreign henro wouldn't have so much trouble finding a room.

The next morning, I walked out the door and into a cloud of white. Fat snowflakes zoomed through the narrow village streets. But it was two degrees and the road was clear of snow. Ten minutes later, the clouds parted to the east and the sun shone through the falling snow. I passed dozens of high school students riding their bikes to school. I walked into the wind, the snow coating my glasses. The students, coming towards me, laughed and stood up on the pedals, sailing with the wind.

Beyond the village, the road narrowed to less than three meters wide. Fortunately, there was almost no traffic. In a little while, the snow stopped and the clouds rolled away, but trees arched overhead, keeping me in shadow. The valley was beautiful and the day warmed rapidly. Soon I was really enjoying my walk. I stopped to take off first my jacket, then my sweatshirt. As the morning went on, I heard more and more birds singing in the thick forest. With every step, I was getting nearer the southern tip of Ashizuri, the island's southernmost point.

Ashizuri Cape, the site of Temple 38, is a famous place for the search for Fudaraku, the Pure Land in the South. There are four Pure Lands in Buddhist legend, places beyond worldly longing, where the aspiration to enlightenment can easily be achieved. Though orthodox Buddhism considers them stages in the development of the mind, some people think they are just out of sight, just beyond the horizon. Over the centuries hundreds, perhaps thousands of seekers have taken to the sea at Ashizuri, searching the horizon for the Pure Land of Kannon (Avalokitesvara), The Bodhisattva of Compassion, the Bodhisattva mentioned in the Heart Sutra.

I walked steadily for four hours. Most of the time, the trees met overhead, leaving me in a green glow. Then I got to Kongofukuji, The Temple of Everlasting Happiness. Suddenly, by the temple gate, I came out from under the trees. Light flowed around me.

I washed my hands and rinsed my mouth in the fountain, then set down my pack and walking stick. I climbed the steps of the Hon-do, set my hands together in gassho, and recited the Heart Sutra in English. Nearby, a group of tourists talked about me, surprised at seeing a foreign pilgrim, surprised that I knew the Heart Sutra. (Though they didn't know English, they realized that must be what I was reciting.) When I finished, they asked if they could take their picture with me. The two women posed on either side of me, both wearing fancy leather jackets with fur collars. They thanked me warmly and left. I took my pack and stick and went to the Daishi-do to recite the Heart Sutra again.

I had memorized the sutra in about a week without trying. I just started paying more attention to the sutra and its structure, the way the ideas are arranged. I felt more like a traditional henro now that I knew the basic sutra of the pilgrimage. Gradually, I was finding my own style of pilgrimage. I was reciting the sutra in English and the mantra of the Honzon of each temple in Sanskrit. I felt very comfortable as a henro now. I felt I was doing what I should be doing. I wasn't a tourist or a hiker. I was a henro.

Leaving Ashizuri felt like rounding the far turn on a long, long race. I had passed the halfway point several days before, but Ashizuri feels like the turn-around point. When I turned my face to the north-east and began the long walk around the Bay of Tosa, I felt like I was heading back towards Temple One and home.

From Temple 38 to Temple 37 is the longest distance between two pilgrimage temples, 90 kilometers I took it slowly, spending three and a half days, because there were several long stretches with no place to stay. No place that would let me stay. The day I walked to Temple 37, I called an inn near the temple. By now I could say the standard phrases for making reservations almost perfectly.

"Hello. I am a henro. I would like a room for tonight. Please include breakfast."

"Hello. For tonight?"

"Yes. Tonight."

"How many persons?"

"Only one."

"You want breakfast?"

"Yes, please. Breakfast only. I will eat dinner in the town."

"What time till you arrive?"

"About 3:30 or 4:00."

"Very good. What is your name, please?"

"My name is Weiss. Wa-i-su." I pronounced it in the Katakana way. Katakana is the special Japanese syllabary used mostly for words of foreign (but not Chinese) origin and the names of animal species.

The woman on the other end of the line paused. Then she said, "You are a foreigner?" I felt very flattered about my accent. Very competent with Japanese.

"Yes. I am a henro from America."

Until this point, she had spoken Standard Japanese and I had understood everything she had said. Suddenly she changed to the local dialect. She spoke very quickly. I understood none of what she said. After four or five long sentences, she stopped. I said, "I don't understand." She repeated herself, more slowly, perhaps using fewer local dialect expressions. I caught the phrase, "Our inn is not okay for foreigners."

"There is no problem. I live in Japan. I have lived in Japan for two years." She repeated her objection, adding,

"Our toilets are Japanese, not foreign."

"It will be okay. I live in Japan. I will arrive about 3:30. Thank you very much." I quickly hung up.

I got to the temple about 2:00. After reciting the sutra at both halls and taking a few pictures, I went to the office to get my temple stamp. As the priest was doing the calligraphy (he flourished the brush dramatically) I saw a sign saying the temple had a shukubo that was also a Youth Hostel. For a moment, I considered staying there. But I didn't want to give the people at the inn the impression that foreigners changed their minds too often, so I waited in the temple garden, sitting in the sun, then walked over to the inn at 3:15. I slid open the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind me. Then, since no one was in sight, I called out, "Sumimasen." It's one of the ways to say, "excuse me" in Japanese.

Nothing happened. I waited a minute, then I called out again, louder, "Sumimasen!" I heard voices, then steps. A sliding door opened a meter away. An old man put his head out and looked at me. His mouth hung open. He stared at me. I smiled.

"How do you do? My name is Weiss. I telephoned this morning for a reservation, one person, one night, breakfast only." He continued to stare, his mouth still open. Finally he came into the hall and headed up the stairs. I quickly took off my boots, squeezed my feet into a pair of slippers and followed. When he got to the top of the stairs, he pointed to his left and said, "The toilet is very short."

"That's okay. I live in Japan. I've lived in Japan for two years."

He took me to a room and left me there. I started my regular routine on arriving at an inn. I changed to clean, dry clothes, lit the heater, organized my belongings. But something was missing. Tea. I waited fifteen minutes, then went downstairs. Nobody was visible. I called out, "Sumimasen!"

A western-style door opened at the end of the corridor and an old woman looked at me. I smiled and politely asked for tea. She looked at me, then said, "I cannot use the kitchen right now. Later." I nodded and said, "Gomen nasai," I beg your pardon, and went back upstairs.

Forty minutes later, she appeared with a thermos of already-brewed tea. She put it down on the table and asked if I needed dinner, saying quickly, "We do not serve Western food." I told her I would get dinner in town and I preferred Japanese food to Western food. She looked at me, disbelieving, and left.

As I was heading out the front door for dinner, the old man stopped me and asked when I wanted my bath. I said, "after dinner." When I returned, I could hear the water running someplace down the hall. About half an hour later, he came upstairs, slid open the door and said, "O-furo," bath.

I gathered my things and followed him down the stairs. He led me to the dressing room of the bath and followed me in. Then he picked up a bar of soap, held it in front of my nose and then mimed the universal Japanese rule No Soap In The Bath Tub. I smiled and said, "Yes, I understand. In Japan, soap is not allowed in the bath. First wash, then get in the bath. I understand. I have lived in Japan for two years. I live in a Japanese-style house."

I thought for a minute he was going to stand over me and watch me while I washed and rinsed off, but finally he left. I locked the door in case his wife wanted to check up on me too, then undressed and went in to the inner room, the one with the tub.

The water was overflowing the tub and running out the drain in the middle of the floor. When I checked the taps and the temperature, I found someone had turned on the hot tap only ‹ the water was about 60 degrees. I let some out and let cold water run into the tub while I washed off. It took ten minutes before the tub was cool enough to get in.

Before I went to bed, I told them I wanted my breakfast at seven. At about twenty to seven, I was called down. The dining room was set for ten. Nine places were crowded together at one table and one place was set at the other. I sat seiza, the formal Japanese way, with my legs folded under me, and took my traveling chopsticks out of their case. There was tea set out, so I poured a cup and waited.

In a few minutes, the old lady who ran the inn appeared with a tray holding the standard, traditional Japanese breakfast, miso soup, rice, tiny dried fish, a few bits of vegetables, a raw egg, and a rice cooker full of rice. She set down a fork next to me. I put it aside. "Excuse me, I don't need this. I have my own chopsticks." Then she picked up and waved the rice serving paddle, saying, "This is what we use in Japan for rice." She served me a bowl of rice. I thanked her, adding, once again, my line about living in Japan. Finally, she let me eat.

When I left, the old couple stood by the door. They were both smiling, talking to me in Standard Japanese, obviously relieved I was going and still hadn't messed up anything or gotten mad about any Japanese customs.

"Good-bye, o-henro-san. Your Japanese is very good. Do you live in Japan? Yes? Ah, how long have you lived in Japan? Two years? Ah, I thought so. That is why you can speak Japanese. Do you know which way the henro route goes? You go out the door and turn to the right. Good-bye. Have a nice trip!"

The "short toilet" was a urinal in the men's room that was, indeed, shorter than average but since I wasn't drunk it was no problem.

Published by Don Weiss (henrodon@gmail.com) -- All rights reserved. You may read this electronic copy on the web or print it out for private reading but no part may be sold or included in any work for sale except for short excerpts used for review purposes.All photographs and maps are likewise copyrighted and may not be reproduced without permission except for private, non-commercial use. Updated February 2, 1999.