Lost Japan

by Alex Kerr

  Japan is fascinated by secrets. They are the defining feature of the way traditional arts are taught and preserved. They cause problems for government and business, since different departments of the same organization tend to guard their knowledge jealously and not speak to one another. In museums, the finer an artwork, the less it will be shown to the public – which is why you will often find that the National Treasure you traveled so far to view is actually just a copy. The real piece stays in storage, and is shown only to a chosen few curators.

  This tradition goes back to ancient Shinto, when the objects inside shrines, typically a stone or a mirror, became invested with mystical secrecy. At Izumo, Japan’s oldest Shinto shrine, the object has been hidden from view for so long that its identity has been forgotten; it is referred to merely as ‘the Object’. At the Grand Shrine of Ise, the object is known to be a mirror, but no one has laid eyes on it for at least a thousand years. When asked about Ise, the nineteenth-century Japanologist Chamberlain replied, ‘There is nothing to see, and they won’t let you see it.’

  In Esoteric Buddhism, secrecy manifested itself in mandalas (diagrams of spiritual truth). A mandala can be a painting made up of squares and circles with Buddhas at strategic corners; equally, it can be an arrangement of statues, the layout of a building or a temple circuit followed by pilgrims. The largest mandala of all covers the whole island of Shikoku, which is made sacred by a ring of eighty-eight temples founded by the monk Kukai. Iya Valley, as it happens, lies right at the heart of this great mandala – appropriately, since the heart of a mandala should be inaccessible and secret. Buddha statues with great power became hibutsu (hidden Buddhas), and were displayed only once or twice a year. Important hibutsu could be seen only once every few decades, and there are some that have stayed in hiding for centuries at a stretch.

  The ultimate cauldron of secrecy was the area around Nara, where ancient Shinto grew up and Esoteric Buddhism flourished. Over time, the mountains ringing Nara evolved into one vast mandala, made up of overlapping sub-mandalas, and every peak and valley was imbued with romantic and esoteric overtones.

  A good example is Mt Yoshino, which lies south of Nara and is famed for its cherry blossoms. Going to view cherry blossoms at Yoshino would, on the surface, appear to be no different from making a similar excursion to anywhere else in Japan during spring. But for people familiar with Kabuki, the cherry trees here are the backdrop for Yoshitsune Senbon Zakura, a famous play which centers around the ill-fated warrior Yoshitsune’s exile in Yoshino, his beautiful wife, Shizuka Gozen, and a magical fox which has disguised itself as one of his retainers. Yoshino is also celebrated as the center of the Southern Court, a group of exiles who fought a guerrilla war here in support of the legitimate Imperial line against the Shogunate for much of the fourteenth century. So for the historically minded, the cherry trees stir thoughts of this brave band of loyalists and a long sequence of Imperial visits to view the blossoms. And from a religious perspective, Yoshino is important because it was the headquarters of the Yamabushi sect of mountain mystics. To someone familiar with Esoteric Buddhism, the cherry trees lining the ridge at Yoshino mark the border between two huge sub-mandalas covering the mountains to the east and west.

  The interest of a place like Yoshino is therefore not something you can see easily with the naked eye: it is veiled by heavy overlays of history, literature and religion. As a result, although they are only an hour or two’s easy drive from Osaka or Kyoto, the outer mountains of Nara are among those least accessible to the public, and are more distant psychologically than even the so-called ‘Three Hidden Regions’. Other than during cherry-blossom season, the public by and large ignores this area; but over the years, these mountains became my playground.

  Mt Koya lies between Osaka, Nara and Ise at the core of one of the area’s mandalas. Founded in the ninth century by Kukai, it is a complex of temples and monasteries built on a plateau in the mountains of Wakayama, southwest of the city of Nara. It is the sacred ground of Esoteric Buddhism. For a long time I hadn’t had a chance to visit it, but at last I was invited to join some friends on a pilgrimage to the mountain.

  A Tibetan lama once gave me the following instructions about how to explore a mandala: never rush headlong to the center. The proper way to contemplate a mandala is to first train your thoughts on the Buddhas guarding the gates along the periphery. Having entered, you gradually work your way into the interior, going round and round in ever tighter circles until you arrive at the center. Taking this advice to heart, we spent three days driving around southern Nara and the Yoshino range before approaching Mt Koya. As we finally neared the peak, the mountains grew higher around us, and the winding road to the summit was nothing short of spectacular. I could well imagine the feelings of pilgrims to this sacred place, far from the ‘dust of the world’. Our excitement built as we speculated on what esoteric wonders unknown to Nara and Kyoto lay at the heart of the mandala. But on arriving at the summit, our hoped-for realm of wonder was nowhere to be found. The temples of Koya make up a small town; this in itself was no surprise, but it was the sort of town you see everywhere in Japan. The ‘dust’ had penetrated even here.

  Koya turned out to be a series of such letdowns, for the interest lay entirely in the approach and never in the central object. For instance, the forest path leading to the grave of Kukai is lined with stone stupas marking the burial places of famous historical families. Walking along the dim, tree-shaded path, the flavor of history grew stronger as our eyes passed over one great legendary name after another carved in mossy stone. But when we arrived at Kukai’s grave, we found that it had been obscured by a shiny, steel-reinforced Hall of Lanterns, which jarred against the backdrop of moss, stones and ancient conifers.

  As we made our dutiful round of the temples in this disappointing town, I reassured myself that we had only just entered the mandala. There was much more to explore before we reached the center: the Konpon Daito (‘Fundamental Great Tower’). A round tower with a square roof, the Konpon Daito symbolizes the center of the universe. In Esoteric Buddhist temples throughout Japan, one finds a square table before the high altar, its sides marked off with string, and flowers, bells, vases, cups and dishes geometrically arranged on its surface. This array, called a goma, is a three-dimensional mandala made up of ritual utensils. The word ‘goma’ comes originally from India, and the mandala represents a map of the heavenly capital. At the center is sacred Mt Sumeru, identified as Mt Kailash in Tibet, which is said to be the great Shiva lingam of the universe. The concept of the ‘heavenly capital’ spread throughout East Asia, and can be seen in the layout of Angkor Wat and in Thai palace architecture. In the case of the Japanese goma, one often sees a small tower at the center of the table of implements. This tower, the symbol of Mt Sumeru, is the Konpon Daito, modeled after the large tower at Mt Koya.

  When I was translating for the Oomoto traditional arts seminar, one of the modern masters of Zen, Abbot Daiki of Daitoku-ji Temple in Kyoto, paid a visit. A student asked the abbot, ‘What is Zen?’, and Daiki Roshi replied, ‘Zen is the Konpon Daito of the universe.’ As a fledgling interpreter I was completely at a loss. Not knowing all the symbolism involved, I couldn’t figure out why a Zen monk was referring to a building at Mt Koya.

  At long last we approached the Konpon Daito, and I could see this mysterious tower with my own eyes. However, it turned out to be not the least bit mysterious! The original building had burned down, and the present tower was a Meiji-period reconstruction with no magic about it at all. In goma arrangements, the Konpon Daito is set apart by string and flowers, but at Mt Koya, the Konpon Daito just sits alone in the midst of an empty space.

  With that, I gave up on Mt Koya. That evening, we stayed at Kongo Sanmai-in, one of the sub-temples that offer rooms to pilgrims and travelers. We arrived at our lodgings at around half past four. One of the monks asked us if we would like to see the Buddha in the main hall, but we were all exhausted. After an early supper, I went to my room t
o read a book and relax for a while. That night, on my way to the bath, I passed a monk in the hall. ‘Good evening,’ he said pleasantly. ‘How fortunate for you to have come here today. You were able to see our great Buddha of divine power.’

  ‘Well, actually we were planning to see it tomorrow,’ I said. The monk shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Sanmai-in’s Buddha is a hibutsu. Mt Koya’s other statues are sometimes put on display, or even lent to other temples and museums. But this one has never left the mountain. This is the first time it has ever been shown to the general public. It’s called a “five-hundred-year hibutsu”. The doors closed at five o’clock today, and you’ll have to wait another five hundred years if you want to see it.’

  This was my greatest failure ever as a travel guide. I was so embarrassed that I could not bring myself to confess to my friends, and to this day I don’t believe they realize that they missed seeing a five-hundred-year hibutsu by only thirty minutes.

  Faubion Bowers, my friend and mentor in Kabuki, once told me this story about Greta Garbo. One day he was walking with her in New York, when a fan approached the actress for her autograph. The fan begged with tears in her eyes, but Garbo coldly turned her down. When the woman had left, Faubion turned to Garbo and said, ‘That’s a cruel way to treat your fans! What would it have been to you to give your signature to that woman? She would have treasured it all her life.’ Garbo retorted, ‘If I’d given her my autograph, she would’ve grown bored and put it aside in a week or two. But because I refused, she’ll treasure my autograph until the day she dies.’

  Thinking back on it now, I realize that had I actually seen the five-hundred-year hibutsu, I might not have been all that moved. It could well have been as uninspiring as ‘Use glue’. But thanks to the hibutsu I never saw, Mt Koya was transformed into a mystical realm, and among Japan’s countless Buddhas, the secret Buddha of Sanmai-in remains for me without peer. My joy lay in the discovery that behind the desolate Konpon Daito and the harsh steel Hall of Lanterns, Mt Koya still has places that are dark and hidden. In a sense, Mt Koya is a model of all Japan: there are still mysteries hidden within.

  In Nara, unless you have done considerable historical research, the names of the gods, even the reasons why the temples exist, are a closed book. The name of the god of Omiwa Shrine, Yamato no Omononushi Kushimikatama no Mikoto, is an arcane rush of syllables which are completely meaningless to Japanese ears today. Ancient Shinto and Esoteric Buddhism are populated with unseen gods and spirits, not meant to be understood by the average person. In this lies the fundamental distinction between Kyoto and Nara: Kyoto, for all the philosophy underlying Zen, wabi, suki and so forth, is a city of art; Nara, however, is a realm of religion.

  Even within tourist-clogged Nara Park there are places that possess this religious appeal. Entering the Sangatsu-do Hall, next door to the Hall of the Great Buddha, you find a quiet room far removed from the flurry of people in the park. In this dim space, there towers a magnificent gilt statue of the Fukukensaku Kannon Buddha, surrounded by a mandala arrangement of statues of guardians, the Sun and the Moon, and other bodhisattvas. From the halo behind the Buddha’s head project gilded rays, gleaming in the darkness. Tourists come into Sangatsu-do talking and laughing, but they soon fall silent in the presence of Fukukensaku Kannon’s fearsome light. None of them, including myself, has the slightest idea what the significance of Fukukensaku Kannon is. It doesn’t matter – those beams of light are enough.

  But Sangatsu-do aside, for me the real Nara lies outside Nara Park; so when I take friends to Nara, after a quick circuit of the park, we head out of the city. Our goal is the southern and eastern mountains, via the temples and relics scattered over the surrounding plain.

  Our first stop is Akishino Temple. Its statue of Gigeiten (the god of art) is one of the finest masterpieces of Japanese sculpture. In the delicacy of the face and slightly turned neck, the S-curve to the body and the gracefully bent fingers, the figure of Gigeiten seems to condense all the pure beauty conjured up by Tamasaburo’s dance into a single sculpture. It almost seems that the statue is swaying slightly as you watch it. As is to be expected from a truly Esoteric work, it is easy to believe that the soul of the god of art actually resides within this sculpture. In Nara, you often feel that you have not seen a statue, but that you have met a statue.

  After leaving Akishino Temple we head southwards, keeping to our left the Yamanobe no Michi (the Path at the Foot of the Mountains), a historic road running along the foothills. I often make detours to explore the little farming villages at the base of the hills. To the right is the Yamato plain. Birthplace of Japan’s religion and culture, it is now a vast web of power lines, lit up by the imposing glass and neon palaces of pachinko parlors.

  Pachinko is a mild form of gambling. The player sits in front of a vertical pinball machine, in which a stream of ball bearings descend through circles of pins. When a ball falls into the correct slot, the player gets a jackpot of hundreds of ball bearings. If the player has any ball bearings left over when he has finished, he takes them to the counter and receives cigarettes or candy in exchange. These are then taken to a booth outside the premises, where they are traded in for money.

  There being no such thing as sign control or zoning in most of Japan’s neighborhoods, pachinko parlors have developed a uniquely garish style: enormous rows of neon lights, several meters high, flashing every color of the rainbow, and roofs capped by dramatic floodlit towers in the shape of the Statue of Liberty, spacecraft or dinosaurs. I recently took a European architect to visit Shikoku and Nara. I had intended to show him temples, houses and natural scenery, but the only things to catch his eye were the pachinko parlors. He explained, ‘The old temples and shrines are just dead ruins. Looking at what is happening to Kyoto, it’s clear that these things have no relation to today’s Japanese. On the other hand, they don’t seem to have mastered true modernism. The layout of new office buildings and apartments is very out of date from the point of view of the rest of the world. Only the pachinko parlors are luxurious in their own way, creatively and fantastically built. Of course they’re tasteless, but isn’t it exactly this poor taste which defines modern Japan? Because pachinko parlors have perfected this taste, they are the most consistent and interesting examples of contemporary Japanese design.’

  Though depressing, I realized that this was a very keen observation. When you look at the cultural remains of a historical period, you are able to perceive its dominant ideology. In the Nara and Heian periods there were Esoteric temples; from Kamakura through to the end of Edo there were Zen temples and teahouses; and in Meiji the great monuments of the time were train stations. What about the present? When you travel through the countryside of Europe or Southeast Asia, you notice that the highest point of any village is always a church steeple, a mosque or the soaring eaves of a Buddhist temple. In the Japanese countryside, however, the tallest and most ostentatious building is invariably a pachinko parlor.

  Sitting in front of a pachinko machine is the modern form of meditation. The circular arrangement of the pins inside the machine is today’s version of the mandala, and the old model of thoughts flowing from the circumference of the mandala towards its center has become the flow of balls from top to bottom of the machine. The overwhelming hold of pachinko can hardly be exaggerated. In some rural districts, it accounts for up to twenty per cent of disposable household income. Pachinko is now the single largest industry, outpacing cars and computers, and Japan’s richest man by some calculations is a man whose company produces most of the machines. Pachinko has developed its own style, consisting of brightly colored rooms laced with constructions of chrome and neon, and oversize plastic statues of animals or gods of good luck. It has become the preferred style of Japanese entertainment: you find it everywhere, from restaurants and bars to the sets of most popular TV programs. It influences architecture, and is the inspiration behind many a glitzy hotel lobby. Kyoto Tower is very much in this pachinko mode.<
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  Pachinko style has even colored industrial design. Recently I spoke to an official of the Japan Design Association. ‘A decade ago, Japan was a leader in world industrial design, producing simple classics like the Walkman,’ he lamented. ‘But today the mainstream in modern design is pink toasters in the shape of pigs. What happened?’ The answer, of course, is pachinko. With all the energies of the economy and culture flowing into pachinko parlors, they have become Japan’s modern Konpon Daito.

  Back to showing my visitors around. After driving south for about twenty minutes from Nara, we arrive at two large burial mounds: the tomb of Emperor Sujin and the Kushiyama mound. Many old tombs can be found in the Osaka, Nara and Asuka regions, some of them hundreds of meters in circumference. The tomb of Emperor Nintoku, on the outskirts of Osaka, is said to be the world’s largest. Typically, these tombs are built in a keyhole shape, with a raised hill in the center surrounded by a moat. Imperial mounds are under the supervision of the Imperial Household Agency, and so it is forbidden to excavate or even walk on them; thus, little patches of virgin forest have been preserved in suburbia.

  The tombs are not far from the road, but they nestle in the eastern foothills and have national parkland as their backdrop. The nearer of the two is the grave of Emperor Sujin, surrounded by a wide moat of still water, before which stands a majestic torii gate. To either side are rice paddies, and farther back rises the Kushiyama mound. Visitors are rare here, so it is always quiet. In summer, the paddies are awash with green, the leafy boughs of the trees on the mounds reach far over the water in the moat and high up into the sky, while the air pulsates with the droning of cicadas. It is not known who is buried in the Kushiyama mound, and I have no idea who Emperor Sujin was, but walking around the moats I feel as though I have been transported back to Shinto’s legendary ‘Age of the Gods’. Accompanied by the throbbing sound of the cicadas, my heart roams in the distant past. Breaking out of my reverie with a start, I realize we have been standing in front of the graves for over an hour.