In step with the Japanese

John Henzell

• Last Updated: January 10. 2009 9:30AM UAE / January 10. 2009 5:30AM GMT

“And why are you doing o-henro [pilgrimage]?” the Tokyo businessman asked, using the formal term to refer to Japan’s most famous pilgrimage route.

His voice seemed hesitant despite his flawless English, but the fact that he was asking at all explained why I was walking the 1,200km route, which links the 88 temples associated with Kobo Daishi, an 8th-century monk who introduced Shingon Buddhism to Japan. “Because walking o-henro gives me a chance to see the real Japan,” I replied, “and the way the Japanese really live in a way I wouldn’t be able to see as a tourist.”

If I’d been taking a more mainstream tour of Japan’s sights, it is unlikely that we would have been chatting, not because of the locals’ disinterest or, even, the language barrier, but because of the inherent reserve that seems such a common Japanese character trait.

But he and I – along with every one of the dozen or so people in the communal dining room of a traditional inn on that spring evening, all of whom had turned to hear my answer – were nojuko henro or walking pilgrims, following the route around the island of Shikoku, the smallest and least populated of Japan’s four islands, either in sections or all in one go. The businessman translated my answer for the others and there was a flurry of appreciative nods.

In the dining room of the inn that night, there had been the feeling of a challenge shared. Most of the hundreds of thousands of Japanese who tackle the pilgrimage each year do so either by car or in organised bus tours, and only a tiny proportion attempt it the traditional but more arduous way, on foot.

And that day we had all had to cope with tough conditions, with steady rain and chilling temperatures as the route took us to two mountaintop temples, with a deep valley in between. The journey crosses every type of terrain. The forested mountain ranges that we had crossed that day were relatively rare and mostly the path traverses the lowlands with a landscape ranging from intensively cultivated farmlets, to windswept surf beaches, rocky headlands and the streets of big cities. Walking the route in spring provided a slow-motion view of the hanami, the fleeting cherry blossom season venerated by the Japanese has the harbinger of summer and renewal.

Whatever the view, it was always intensely Japanese, and that was exactly what I had sought but feared would be somehow diminished under the onslaught of relentless modernisation and cultural ­homogenisation.

For all my secular reasons for doing the Shikoku pilgrimage, it hadn’t taken long to realise just how big a deal it is for the Japanese. The henro no michi or pilgrim trail is often undertaken either to remember a loved one who has died or to atone for past sins. We all wore white pilgrim cloaks known as hakui to signify our status.

A ceremonial version of the hakui bearing the stamps of all 88 temples is deemed a family treasure - the pilgrim is cremated in it when he or she dies.

Karma credits are available even for those not doing the pilgrimage. One of the theories is that if you don’t visit the temples yourself, you can still accrue plus points by providing ossetai - gifts of food or money or services - to those who do. I liked this idea a lot – that someone could buy me a drink, for example, and I’d be doing them a favour by accepting it. Time and again, complete strangers would stop me and hand me fruit, host me in their homes, or even press money into my hand.

At each temple, a well-worn ritual is followed: the washing of hands and mouth to cleanse yourself; ringing a bell to announce your presence to the gods; writing an osame fuda or nameslip to leave behind; lighting incense; making a modest donation; then, reciting a sutra to the many effigies to Kobo Daishi and any associated deities also represented there.

Overwhelmingly, my companions on the pilgrimage were doing it once, usually in short chunks of annual leave over many years, but some do multiple circuits. A few become perpetual henro, going around and around the circuit until they die or become too infirm to continue. There are different osame fuda according to how often you have done the circuit, and the brocade version that I saw at least once a day signified a pilgrim who had completed the circuit more than 100 times.

Each day, I would join my fellow pilgrims to find an udon or sushi restaurant for lunch, and each night we would check into a ryokan or minshuku, a budget version of a traditional inn, and soak away the day’s travails in the communal baths. Clad in yukata (cotton robes) we would congregate for stunningly intricate and delicious meals in a communal dining area, sitting at low tables on tatami mats. The shared hardship was always enough to break down any social barriers. My Japanese improved at a glacial pace but I was constantly surprised by my companions’ capacity for English, trawling up impressive vocabulary from long-distant high school classes but always with a certain air of hesitation for fear of being seen to speak it badly.

Some five and a half weeks after beginning the pilgrimage, I reached the 88th temple and then walked back, as is tradition, to the first in order to complete the circle. I then shed my hakui cloak and took the overnight bus back to Tokyo. How different my time on the pilgrimage had been was brought home to me when I realised that I had suddenly become just another invisible foreigner. None of the Japanese would speak to me, or even openly acknowledge my existence, unless I broke the ice with some of my new-found pidgin Japanese.

Suddenly, standing in the midst of Tokyo’s crowded streets, I wanted to put the cloak back on and return to the world of the henro.


jhenzell@thenational.ae