Confessions of a Japanese Temple Gardener: (P.S – Who's from London, England)

by Ben Stevens

  Later, police on the scene, insurance details exchanged and tempers soothed, the same man bowed to my wife and sincerely apologized for his behavior…

  …I’m crossing the bridge that spans two wide, busy roads next to Nagasaki train station, when I hear the racket of a tram blowing its horn.

  Nothing new there. The drivers of the trams in Nagasaki blow their horns whenever there’s a car or some other vehicle blocking the track – usually a taxi waiting to perform a turn.

  Blocking the track is strictly forbidden, although it’s something that everyone who drives (by which I mean me too) has inadvertently done at some point or another.

  The two choices are to try and reverse (dangerous), or wait until there is a gap in the oncoming traffic, while pulling apologetic faces and holding up your hand to the indignant tram driver, and ignoring the smirks of any passing pedestrians.

  Down below me, in the fast-gathering evening gloom, the tram again blows its horn at the car blocking the track. But something now tells me that repeatedly blowing a horn at the driver of this particular car isn’t a very good idea…

  Because the car is black, with near blacked-out windows. It has luminous blue ‘under-lighting’ strips, and extremely bright headlights…

  In short, I’m beginning to suspect that the driver of this car belongs to Japan’s criminal fraternity. This isn’t the type of car a mild-mannered accountant is likely to be driving, in any case.

  My suspicions are proved correct when the driver of the car opens his door and makes a sudden, explosive appearance. He’s wearing sunglasses, has numerous arm tattoos (revealed by his T-shirt) and a hair-style that might best be called ‘funky’.

  This guy may not actually be a member of the yakuza – Japan’s infamous criminal outfit, which has something in the region of 90,000 members nationwide – but he’s certainly not someone you would want to meet down the proverbial alleyway.

  He stomps over to the tram and hammers with his fist on the glass of the door that’s situated just by the driver. Of course, I’m too far away to see if he has the three small, but still distinctive dots tattooed between his thumb and forefinger – something which shows he’s been in prison. (Or the butabako – literally, ‘pig-box’ – as the authentic Japanese gangster would have it referred to.)

  The language is shouted and guttural; the man threatens to drag out the driver and beat him up.

  He demands to know what the fuck he’s supposed to do, stuck on the tramline with this asshole blowing a horn at him.

  The tram driver stares straight ahead, his frozen expression perfectly illuminated by the bright lighting inside the tram. The passengers – the tram’s about half-full – concentrate on looking anywhere other than at the irate car driver.

  Finally, with a farewell blow of his fist on the door of the tram, the driver walks back to his car and gets inside. The road he wants to turn onto is free of traffic for a few seconds, and with a screech of tires and a roar of his engine he’s gone.

  The tram driver starts driving again, still staring straight ahead.

  Occasionally you see – and maybe directly experience – such situations as these. Just something to remind you that Japan isn’t always the fabled ‘Safest Country in the World’.

  Also, it’s perhaps ironic that this altercation involving a possible member of the yakuza took place right outside Nagasaki train station. For it was here that the mayor of Nagasaki, Iccho Itoh, was shot and fatally wounded on April 18, 2007, while campaigning for re-election for his fourth term.

  His assassin was Tetsuya Shiroo, a member of the Yamaguchi-gumi (‘group’ or ‘organization’) – Japan’s largest and most notorious yakuza gang.

  The motives for Shiroo killing the mayor remain a little vague. One suggestion is that he is meant to have been annoyed that his car got damaged when he drove into a hole on a public works’ construction site, with his repeated demands for compensation then being ignored. It has never been suggested that the Yamaguchi-gumi actually ordered the mayor’s assassination, or were even aware of Shiroo’s deadly intentions.

  (Iccho Itoh clung to life for several hours after he was shot twice in the back at point-blank range, before dying in hospital from loss of blood.)

  After his arrest, Shiroo informed police that he’d intended to commit suicide after killing the mayor. Sentenced to death in May 2008, a subsequent court hearing in September 2009 overturned Shiroo’s capital sentence in favor of life imprisonment…

  …Actually, talking about organized crime and the yakuza in Japan, a friend of mine once told me a slightly ‘lighter’ and even (dare I say it…) quite amusing story. It concerned a time when my friend (a twenty-year gaijin veteran) ran his own bar in Shianbashi – Nagasaki’s drinking and red-light district.

  My friend has since given up the bar, and moved onto pastures new – we’ll call him ‘Mike’.

  When he had the bar – popular with both young gaijin and Japanese – Mike barely noticed the older, well-dressed Japanese male who sometimes entered and had a quiet drink at the bar before leaving.

  Only when the middle-aged man one day entered accompanied by two, younger men with faces like slabs of concrete, did Mike begin to suspect just who he actually was…

  But there was no subsequent ‘shakedown’; no protection money demanded. The man continued to come in (sometimes on his own, sometimes with his bodyguards) and just have the one quiet drink at the bar before leaving. Sometimes he bought a drink for Mike, too. In time, they began to get along reasonably well.

  Exactly why this man should have chosen an often-lively gaijin bar as one of his hangouts was beyond Mike – but, whatever. He came, he drank, he paid.

  In other words, a good customer.

  Then this man’s nephew also started frequenting the bar – only never when his uncle was also there. This nephew, in his middle-twenties, was a different specimen. He liked to get drunk, and start fights. Only, he wasn’t very good at either activity. But as his uncle was one of Nagasaki’s yakuza bigwigs (as Mike was by-now fully aware), he felt fully entitled to continue acting like a total twat.

  He also had a strange habit of standing or sitting at the bar with the little finger of his right hand ‘tucked’ underneath his palm. So that, to a casual glance, it appeared as though he was missing said finger.

  The amputation of the pinkie is a famous yakuza ‘trait’. The finger cut off at the top knuckle for the first offence – a mistake in correctly carrying out the orders given by a boss, for example – and then at the next knuckle for the second offence, until finally a particularly inept and/or rebellious member of the yakuza has any dreams they might have had of becoming a classical pianist pretty much quashed.

  In spite of who his uncle was, however, the nephew stood no chance of becoming a proper, paid-up member of Japan’s most famous organized crime syndicate. Because he was clearly lacking in such essential things as guts, common sense, fighting ability, etc, his uncle had categorically informed him that he could never join the yakuza.

  When the nephew was very drunk, this information sometimes – very unwisely – came out.

  It wasn’t long before he pushed Mike too far with his behavior. Thus one night was the nephew ‘literally’ thrown out of the bar, to unceremoniously land on his backside in the street. Cue much shouting and numerous threats being issued by the nephew –

  ‘Okay, my uncle will come by here tomorrow, you Yankee sunna-a-bitch!’

  (Mike is indeed an American – although ‘Yankee’ is a common ‘insult’ hurled at random gaijin by inebriated, foreign-hating Japanese. I’ve been on the receiving end of it a number of times.)

  Mike thought he knew the uncle well enough…

  But still… He had, technically speaking, just assaulted the man’s nephew…

  For the rest of that night and all the following day, Mike couldn’t shake a slight feeling of unease…

  Just supposing the uncle did take his nephew’s side – that is, believe w
hatever side of the story the nephew was doubtless telling – and enter accompanied by those two men with faces like slabs of concrete…?

  And then, the following evening, the uncle did make an appearance. Alone. He entered the bar and asked to speak to Mike in a quiet corner of the bar. Mike asked the girl he employed as his assistant to mind things while he and the uncle talked. He tried not to betray his nervousness.

  But the uncle only offered an apology for his nephew’s behavior of the other evening.

  Immediately Mike spoke up, saying that he’d probably over-reacted, that…

  The uncle politely silenced Mike’s attempted apology by raising his hand. He went on to say that the nephew would never be returning to this bar again. He also chose to reveal that he’d barred his nephew from attending numerous other bars in Shianbashi.

  The uncle invited Mike to join him in a sake toast, and then paid and left.

  He returned a few days later, and again after that, as he had before – just another customer.

  Sometimes with bodyguards, sometimes without. No problem either way.

  The matter of the errant nephew (who was eventually sent to jail after being caught with mayaku – drugs) was never referred to again.

  Mr. Bear, Cats and Dogs – and Buddha’s Breakfast

  Exactly one hundred stone stairs lead up to Daionji temple. At the foot of these stairs is the san-mon, or ‘main gate’ (literally ‘mountain gate’).

  The san-mon actually consists of two very big wooden doors, which are some twelve foot in height.

  These doors are tied back against the surrounding wooden frame, whenever a hurricane comes. Otherwise, there is a strong possibility that they would just be ripped off their hinges and fly away like two big sails – even bring the entire, surrounding frame crashing down.

  Normally, however, the doors of the san-mon are bolted shut in the evening, with just a small side door remaining open.

  In the morning, as the monks perform the day’s ‘opening service’ in the temple main hall, accompanied with lots of chanting and banging of mokugyo or the ‘wooden fish blocks’, I walk down the hundred stone stairs and open up the san-mon.

  Often I find ‘Kuma-san’ sitting just outside, sheltering from any sun, wind or rain under the ornate wooden roof of the structure that surrounds the doors of the san-mon.

  Kuma is Japanese for ‘bear’, although no-one knows how he came to be given this nickname. (Far less does anyone know just what his actual name is.)

  In any case, a less ‘bearlike’ character it would be hard to find. He’s small, slightly-built, very quiet and shrinks from any human contact beyond a brief ‘Hello’.

  He’s one of the few homeless people I’ve seen in Nagasaki. Other times I see Kuma-san in the shopping arcade that’s close to the temple, drinking a small can of beer in the evening.

  But it’s not just homeless men who call themselves ‘Bear’ you can find outside the san-mon, when you open the large doors in the morning. Sometimes there are real animals – like today, when I find that a kitten has been deposited, left inside a cardboard box.

  My heart sinks. Already I know that the temple cannot take in any more cats. Or dogs – for these too are sometimes left (always at night and in secret), by people who can, for whatever reason, no longer take care of their pet.

  The temple’s ‘actual’ cats number in the ‘teens: those felines that have such luxuries as a flea collar, a nametag, and who are permitted to roam around outside the temple kitchen.

  But many stray cats also come down from the mountainside behind the temple, attracted by the little plates and bowls of food and milk which various well-meaning visitors to the temple leave dotted around the cemetery.

  These stray cats are scarred veterans of innumerable, vicious fights, often missing tails, ears or eyes. I once saved a tiny kitten that was stuck between two thin walls in the cemetery (these crumbling walls were barely inches apart in places). The kitten was mewing pathetically, and would surely have perished if I hadn’t pulled it out.

  Just as I got it free, its mother suddenly leapt out of some hiding place at me, spitting and snarling. For my pains I received a scratch on my nose – for these aren’t cats that are remotely afraid of taking a swipe at a gaijin gardener.

  But at least there’s not rabies in Japan – so far as I’m aware…

  So the stray cats can take care of themselves. The temple cats are positively pampered in comparison. Which is why those people who leave their pets (or their pet’s offspring) outside the san-mon at night, are hoping that their cat will also receive such a luxurious life.

  Sadly, however, unless a vacancy has for some reason arisen within the ranks of the temple cats, then the hopeful candidate is instead taken straight to the vets, there to be put to sleep.

  The same is true for the dogs. The temple has seven of them, and they occupy their own high-fenced ‘compound’ towards the back of the temple, near to the winding path that leads up through the sprawling mountainside cemetery.

  Along with the usual biscuits, meaty jelly and other such dog food, the temple canines also receive an unusual meal early each evening – ‘Buddha’s Breakfast’.

  This is the name given to the rice that is served, in a number of small brass cups, by the monks each morning to the big statue of Buddha that is in the temple main hall. There it remains for part of the day, later taken away and then served to the dogs in the early evening.

  They gather around the gate of their compound, eagerly wagging their tails, as someone (usually my wife’s grandmother, who lives at the temple along with my wife’s mother, my priest brother-in-law and the family Stevens) dispenses their daily treat with long chopsticks through the gaps in the wire fence.

  Yep – being a temple cat or dog sure is an easy gig. Sadly, however, few of the animals left outside the san-mon ever get to find this out for themselves…

  A Curse?

  The large living quarters at Daionji (intended for the priest and his family members – the three monks all live ‘off-site’) are located on one side of the temple. They are entered through a door that marks the boundary between the public and private areas of the temple.

  Just outside this door is what is known as the ‘temple kitchen’, with its two large sinks and brick-built ‘ovens’ (made hot by burning wood in the cavities underneath) which are used to cook rice throughout the year, and the vegetable soup and hot green tea which is served to everyone who comes to the temple for Omisoka or New Year’s Eve.

  In the centre of the wooden-floored temple kitchen is an old table-tennis… err… table, which usually has upon it various boxes and piles of paper. In other words, it’s something people use to dump stuff upon.

  The temple cats are allowed the run of the kitchen, especially when it’s cold.

  However, this act of compassion towards the temple felines proves unlucky for my mother-in-law (‘Okaasan’) this evening.

  Leaving the ‘priest’s quarters’ for a minute, walking into the temple kitchen to retrieve something from its industrial-sized fridge, she neglects to turn on the overhead light and so fails to see the cat that’s lying directly in her path.

  She trips over the yowling creature, hits the hard floor, and immediately realizes that there’s something very wrong with her right shoulder. Her cries for help alert the priest, Kazuyo and I (we are all sat watching television) and so we all go quickly to help her.

  Miyazaki-san – one of the two women who work in the temple office – also comes running. She was just locking up the office to leave when the accident occurred.

  Miyazaki-san is a big believer in all that ‘New Age’ sort of thing. So crouching beside my mother-in-law she wiggles her fingers above the injured area, and then moving her hands a lot says ‘Shooo! Shooo!’ as though she’s somehow ‘dispersing’ the pain.

  Remarkably, this particular form of treatment does not bring Okaasan much relief. (In fact, it’s probably fair to say ‘none at all’.) A much b
etter course of action seems to be to call for an ambulance, which my wife does now.

  But there is the problem of the temple slope. Only one road leads to the temple, up the aforementioned slope, and it’s very steep and very narrow. (Rock walls, constructed in the 16th century, tower up on either side.)

  Barely wide enough for the small white builders’ trucks that periodically come to the temple, we wonder if the ambulance will be able to drive up it…

  When, in February, there was a fire at the genkan or entrance that’s to one side of the temple main hall, the two fire engines which came had to park at the bottom of the one hundred stone stairs which lead up to the temple, on the road that’s in front of the san-mon or main gate.

  The firemen were then obliged to run up the stairs, carrying their – thankfully very long – hoses…

  No, the ambulance can’t do it. And as Okaasan is now in an awful lot of pain, the two paramedics park up by the san-mon and run up the hundred stone stairs carrying a stretcher.

  I have to say, I’m slightly struck by their motley appearance. There’s no professional-looking, boiler-suit uniform, like that worn by UK paramedics.

  Instead, these guys (they are both male) appear to be able to wear pretty much whatever they please. One wears a crash helmet (quite simply – why?) with a lamp at the front, the other a peaked cap with the legend ‘Nagasaki Fire Department’ written on the front of it.

  What happened, I wonder – did this chap just jump in the wrong emergency service vehicle by mistake…?

  Okaasan is strapped tightly onto the stretcher, covered with a rug, and carried down to the ambulance and driven to the nearby hospital.

  The news comes back: she has a badly broken collarbone, which will require an operation to ‘pin it’ back together. It will be a long while before she is able to lift her right arm above shoulder height – if indeed she is ever able to do so again.

  My wife says that what with the genkan fire early in February, and now this accident, she wonders if someone hasn’t put a bachi or ‘curse’ on the temple.