Neighborhood Matsuri

It's 9:00 on a Saturday.

Ok, more like 10. Sleeping in is awesome. It wasn't always that way... when I was a little kid I remember getting up at 5am to catch some obscure Saturday morning cartoons. Weekends and Christmas were times to get up _early_ rather than sleep in. I wonder when that transition came, and if the opposite transition will happen again later in life.

Anyway, as pretty much everyone in Japan knows, this weekend is the Gion Matsuri, which some consider the most famous festival in all Japan. It is also the weekend of Typhoon #4 (back home they give hurricanes cute names, but here they just stick with numbers). My plan up until a few days ago was to go to the matsuri on Sunday with some friends in yukata (pictures will be coming sooner or later) but now that doesn't seem likely.

Gion is not the only place having a matsuri this weekend, though. As I slide open the door and step out onto the veranda for a breath of morning air, I hear the familiar cacophonous, yet compellingly rhythmic, clacking and clanging of a danjiri matsuri floating up to me from the neighborhood below.

A danjiri is a kind of portable shrine with wheels that people push through neighborhoods during festivals. Not to be confused with a mikoshi, which has no wheels and has to be hoisted on the shoulders, danjiri are pulled by ropes. The most famous danjiri matsuri I know of is held in Kishiwada, in southern Osaka, in early September, and every once in a while people get injured or killed as these enormous multi-ton wooden structures barrel out of control through narrow streets clogged with onlookers. They even sell a special kind of home insurance there that covers you in the event that a chunk of your house is gouged out by a danjiri cutting a corner. Not all danjiri matsuri resemble insane chariot races with garbage trucks, however. Most are a bit more relaxed and civilized, like the one in my neighborhood.

I step back inside, wipe the sleep from my eyes, grab my camera, and go back out to try to spot the source of the clattering and shouting. These festivals usually have teams of 40-50 people hauling the danjiri, standing on it, or walking alongside and playing some sort of rhythm instrument, preferably a loud one.

Interestingly, from my 23rd floor vantage point, I can't spot a festival at all.

"DANG di-ga dong DON DON di-ga dong doom DANG di-ga dong DON DON di-ga dong..."

At last, they emerge briefly at a street corner far below.

Can you find them? (Click for larger image)



Haha... kinda like "Where's Waldo" (which, by the way, is called "Where's Wally" in Japanese)

Anyway, the answer is here. You can just barely make out some people dressed completely in white emerging from the street to the left.

The procession moves on slowly, and after they turn the corner by the school, you can get a better view of the arrangement. Two long ropes extend far out in front of the danjiri, and it looks like 20-30 people are pulling it.



They come closer, and as they turn the corner you can get a better view of the danjiri itself, with its rain hood on to protect the fine wood carvings. Remember, it's a portable shrine and a fine piece of artwork.



Here you can see in the side of the danjiri. It looks like there's somebody sitting inside, probably playing taiko drums or something. I've never hauled a danjiri, but I've carried two mikoshi. The first one had little kids inside (actually, not so "little" when their weight is crushing your spine for 4 hours straight) playing taiko, and the second one didn't... I guess it depends on local tradition.



Finally, they arrive at the shrine. These festivals have their roots in Shinto tradition, and thus center around the neighborhood shrines. There is generally an element of testosterone involved as well, and the mikoshi matsuri I've been to have generally involved hoisting the massive mikoshi overhead and spinning it around until you are about to collapse and be crushed to death. This matsuri didn't seem to be quite so extreme, but here you can see them lining up on one side, preparing to pop a danjiri wheelie.



...and it's in the air. Note that the shrine grounds are the only green to be found in the whole neighborhood. To me, that's one of the best things about the preservation of traditional religion here. Everywhere else they seem to have no qualms about not only tearing down forests, but decapitating entire mountains to make space for housing developments, shopping malls, and pachinko parlors. Only on the holy ground is nature really held sacred.



So, it's taken me so long to write this up that the danjiri-pullers have finished their lunch break and are now back out on the streets. I guess it's time to go experience some more of life rather than just blogging about it.