I am not sure exactly where to begin, so how about right here. I know that there have been instances while we have been here when I have mentioned the conservative nature of our Japanese hosts. With their six day a week work load and a lifetime on the train getting to it. Umbrellas materialize at even the mention of rain and regardless of circumstance. Japanese men and women can be riding their bike while text messaging on their phone when that first drop drips and, like Zorro with his trusty sword, their umbrella is there to protect. But, on this day, and for this tale, I'm asking you forget all of this talk of conservatism . For what i used to consider amazing is now mundane....the unbelievable of old is now shrugged off with a shoulder raise and my best whatever face. Yes my friends, I now have seen it all, and oh my gosh do I respect them in the morning. So have a seat, rock if you're able, and try to envision the madness I'm dishing.
This past weekend Maggie and I, along with a group of our cronies and colleagues, headed to a town where houses are built on boiling baths. Where you can end a great day on the slopes by skiing all the way home. Or, just pop off those confining boots, sit on the curb and dangle your dogs into any visible water that flows; for it is locally known that it will be hot and soothing. Though don't be alarmed if in your post skiing haze you plunk down for a dunk in the wrong steaming stream, and your are run off by the cutest of Japanese Grandmas chattering something about hot veggies or eggs. You see, in this town, if potatoes, dycons or hard boiled eggs are on the menu, not a soul will bat an eye if you are dunking them in your backyard boiler. But as fun as it sounds, and rest assured we definitely had fun, this is not what has me ratcheting my jaw off the ground so many days later. What lured us out of our military town was a festival of fire: an odd coming of age for local boys born in this and past years of the boar. I had no idea what I was walking into. I was told by past pilgrims that we were in for a treat. That this fiery spectacle was one not to be missed. However, no amount of preparation could have us prepared...and my imagination that I tout as tremendous, on this day, was one dimensional, and I was left humbled. I thought fireworks and got mayhem.
It begins:
Day of:
I went out to scan the scene as the sun was giving up on the day. I knew that at the edge of this smoking village there was a structure three days in the making. That here, on this tower of timber, boys were to become men. The tower was not tough to find. I simply followed the line of rubber-neckers each out for the same pre-festival peek. I found it on a well leveled field of snow, standing two stories tall with a ladder at the ready in the rear. At the top of the ladder there was a sitting area that was mostly covered by a large stack of bound dowels. I thought it was an odd thing to spend all that time and energy building a place to hold sticks, but I shrugged it off as nonsensically Japanese. At the base of this impressively built platform there were hand made ropes secured soundly from the base, and dangling down about three feet from the ground. Each rope with a knot on the end and all of this sitting atop a gradually sloping standing area of packed snow. The marvel of all of this was the entire tower was built with organic material. There wasn't a single steel reinforcement. There were no nails. Just a lot of perfectly placed ropes binding all of the wood together. Panning out away from this main attraction, I saw a large gym sized area lined with tripods and TV cameras. Everyone around me seemed to be excited as the time ticked under two hours to the event. Off I went.
Night of:
With full bellies and the sum of our warm clothing weighing us down, we headed out into the night. Our breath remained visible much longer then on my earlier stroll letting me know that it was somewhere around cold. Not a moment was spent dwelling on that, we were surrounded by excitement and on our way. Halfway to the festival we were met by a procession of very drunk men holding lanterns and chanting in slurs. At the front of it all was a man wielding a large bundle of flaming dowels, not dissimilar to those positioned atop of the tower. To and fro the fire was swung. No mind was paid to people in his way. Children, parents, and grandparents, all scattered with equal agility. Phones were out and pictures were being taken. This procession was met by another. More dowels were lit, each with the same drunken abandon. Prefunking was not a prerequisite to this party, sake flowed through these streets like the boiling water. Everyone seemed to be carrying a bottle with a wooden cup attached for any daring passer-bye to nurse. Smiles were contagious. No one looked cold.
The beauty of walking in with the procession was that we were able to follow it right through the crowd and up to the tower which was now transformed. On top were the 42 year old men of the boar (or so we were told in broken drunk-speak). At the base, swinging like rubber pendulums, were the twenty-something boar men, each one clinging to the knots on the ropes; all of their weight hanging on these little ropes. They were each holding, in their free hand, a branch of a pine tree. Anyone who got near them would get whacked. They were the protectors of the tower and all that was sitting upon it. Oh yeah, they were well numbed by sake too.
The object of the festival was this... At the edge of the snow field was a bonfire lit by the people we followed in. The 42 year olds sitting on top of the tower would toss down the bundled dowels onto the crowd below. A group of pre-selected men would then gather the dowels (which I now could see were hollow for rapid lighting) and take them back to the bonfire, light them, and then try to get past the drunken pine tree switch wielding, rope dangling protectors to light the tower on fire. All the while, we were in a sea of pushing people all trying to get to the front of the line and as close as they could to the action. We were the front of the line and were about as close to the action as we could get. Therefore, we were the most heavily pushed. If you got thirsty there were now not only people walking around with sake, but there were also giant buckets filled with the stuff. Just fill, chug, and go. Yelling was a must.
It played out in a scene that outweighs my writing abilities. In the front of this mosh-pit, I took about 500 pictures. I had no flash. 32 shots tell the story. I will however, tell you this: I don't think this year saw any fatalities, but that might not be fact. Kids no older than five carried the first flaming dowels to the tower sitting on the shoulders of dads. Some were draped with wet towels so that the showering sparks would not burn their tiny ears.The protectors waked them with a gentler hand. After that, anything went. I witnessed people in the crowd on fire. I watched as the protectors of the tower got hit in the face with full flaming swings, knocking them to the ground and down off the snow platform. Then they were trampled by the next round of fire swinging attackers. At one point, benevolent hands from behind were swishing away embers from my clothes after I was hit in the head with a flaming bundle. I lost a little arm hair, but I gained a whole new level of respect for festivals.
The Festival of Fire ended how it always does. The protectors stumbled off into the night with less eyebrow hair, bumps on the heads from many flaming blows, and with faces black from soot. The 42 year old boar men climbed down the ladder when it was clear that the dangling protectors couldn't hold back the fire any longer. Finally, the tower collapsed with a whoosh.
Please go to the right of the page and click on the fire festival photos. They bring to life what I was unable.
