This past Wednesday night, I was was smashed in the head with fire as I clung to a rope with all of
my might, I sang karaoke until the early hours of the morning with a group of
friends from around the world (while wearing a horrendous wig and shaking an
illuminated tambourine), and then snuck into an onsen before passing out in an
apartment filled with foreigners fast asleep on Japanese mats.
This is my Japanese life.
I convinced my boss to let me leave work a bit early so I
could rush to the train station. The last train I had to catch was twenty
minutes after my working day ended. If I didn't make this train, I couldn't
make the bus that would drop me off at the festival. Taking into consideration
my past luck with trains (I always end up on the wrong one, or miss the right
one), I hoped that leaving even twenty minutes early, giving myself almost an
hour head start, would be safe enough.
By the time I got to the station, after making a quick stop
at the convenie, the friend I was meeting was already there. She greeted me
with a giant smile, pulled the ipod headphones out of her ears, and we rushed
to buy our tickets. Miraculously, we worked through the confusion of using my
basic Japanese, and somehow ended up on the right train before it departed. We
both found open seats opposite one another, each squished up against Japanese
boys (mine, the fashionable type that could pass for a host boy, with his
teased, slightly lightened hair, ultra-metro outfit, and carefully manicured
eyebrows, and hers with a Nintendo DS inches from his face and unblinking eyes.)
As the train headed North, with each stop at countryside
stations, passengers filed out the electric doors, until there was enough room
to sit next to one another. She quickly grabbed the vacant seat next to me, we
opened our beers and split a Strong Zero (the equivalent of a Four Loko, but
with less sugar), and laughed about our day at the preschool and how the night
would unfold.
After a two-hour journey, we arrived in Nozawa, our bodies
warm from the train and from the buzz of several drinks. We transferred to a
bus, which then dropped us off in the village, where we were greeted with
crowded streets of visitors and residents, all making their way to the main
event, while stopping to pick up paper cups of sake being dispensed by locals
businesses.
As we approached the field where the burning ritual, The
Dosojin Fire Festival, would take place, the density of the crowd quickly
thickened, and making our way to the front was like pushing through a sea of
bodies. Packed tightly side by side, were Japanese locals of all ages, and tourists
from all over the world who had come to see this amazing event. Also pushing
their way through the crowd were people carrying paper lanterns above their
heads, which signaled that they were the suppliers of even more free sake. With
an endless supply of, “Sumimasen, Gomene, and Excuses Me’s,” we made our way to
the very front, and as the fire warriors arrived, the sea was instantly parted,
leaving us up against a rope. The ropes were no thicker than my pinky finger,
and were tied in a way to create an isle that held back the pulsing crowd
behind me. One of my friends, an experienced veteran of the festival, warned me
not to let go of the rope, no matter what happened. “As soon as you let go, the
crowd will swallow you, and you’ll never see the front again,” she told me with
a dead serious look on her face. Sadly, I would discovered how true this was,
when my fingers could no longer bear the burn that was created from gripping it
so tightly.
The reason we had pushed our way to the front, was because
in the center of this icy snow covered field, stood a giant structure that was
some type of hybrid between a bird nest and a tree house. From here on, this structure
will be referred to as the Sacrifice. Around the base of the Sacrifice, were a
large group of twenty-five year old men who resided in the village, who all
carried weapons of defense against the fire warriors; lush green tree branches.
They wore fire protectant jump suits and danced around and looked a bit nervous
as they awaited the attack, this being their first year to defend the structure.
Above them, nested in the Sacrifice, were a group about half the size as the
men below, composed of villagers who were forty-two years old. Drunkenly, they
swayed from side to side, singing Japanese songs and making wide gestures as
they clapped their hands, some hanging around the drunken friend beside him for
support. It was obvious they’d done this before. The fear that glowed in the
eyes of the boys below was smothered, and was replaced by an incredibly boozed
up glaze. From what I gathered, it was the duty of the boys below to protect
the Sacrifice from the warriors, and to prevent it from catching fire, while
the elder men were on it. The whole event was some soft of coming of age, right
of passage act for the males of the village, as females have been excluded from
participating in the firefight.
Naturally, the Sacrifice had been constructed of only the
most flammable materials, which put the victory of the battle instantly on the
side of the warriors. It stood about twenty feet tall, and was built of layers
of wooden posts, and bundles of dried sticks tied together with ropes. The
objective was for the warriors to attack it repeatedly, beating it with fire,
until the whole structure ignited, and the protectors would be forced to
abandon it. The ambush would last about two and a half hours, until there was
nothing left of the Sacrifice, just a glowing disaster of purple, white and
orange flames.
The attack began with lighting a dried tree on fire, at the
opposite end of the crowd from the Sacrifice. The isle that had been created
led from the Sacrifice to the source of fire, with the crowd spilt on both
sides. The ambush began with child warriors, and I mean, like, really young
child warriors. Some of the children, holding sticks of fire, were the same
size as those in my preschool class, and their parents, who most likely, had
had a fair amount of the free sake, were carrying them. I tried not to question
what type of person allows their tiny kid to attack others with fire, and
rather gripped the rope and enjoyed the ceremony. As the first wave of warriors
surged through the isle, they approached the Sacrifice and beat it repeatedly
while the protectors swatted out their flames. None of them did much damage,
and after twenty minutes or so the next wave of warriors approached.
The next group was quite a bit older, and they repeated the
process with a little more luck than the babies had found. When they finished
their attack, they were replaced by an even older group of men, who were the
most experienced of the warriors. With massive bundles of sticks burning at one
end, they rushed the Sacrifice, attacking it and those around it. These men had
no mercy as they violently attacked the protectors and the Sacrifice, and as
they ran down the isle they also swung at the crowd, singeing peoples’ hair and
leaving burning holes in their clothing. I pulled my beanie down over my hair
just in time, as a flaming stick was swung in my direction, grazing my head and
pushing my beanie off. Had I not had my hat on, I might not be so fortunate to
have hair on my head.
The entire festival became complete insanity, and the crowd
was becoming as wild as the participants. The safetymen and fire fighters
screamed Japanese warnings and directions back at the sea of people, my only
understanding of what they were shouting being, “stand back!” Their warnings
were lost on a good portion of the crowd, as many of those attending were belligerent
foreigners, who ignored the sounds that the men made, just adding to the noise
of the night. As the people in the crowd pushed forward I couldn’t help being
reminded of punk shows I attended as a teenager, and the energy and force of a
wild mosh pit. The attacks continued, and I couldn't believe my eyes. Japan is
a society notorious for rules, and especially those that enforce safety, yet
here were incredibly drunk men, with zero regard for lighting others on fire,
running around like mad men. It was a dizzying adrenaline rush, and I can only
imagine how those actually participating felt.
As the crowd pushed and pushed, I tried to keep my grip on
the rope, but eventually it was enough and I was forced to release my stiff
frozen white fingers. In an instant I was eaten alive and pulled to the back as
people pushed to fill my spot. I found myself shoved up against a group of
Australians who I was forced to become instant friends with, as one of them and
myself found ourselves pressed chest to chest together, unable to separate. It
was the most intimate introduction I’ve ever had with a complete stranger.
When the sacrifice did finally ignite, the men at the bottom
scattered, and the men above rushed down a ladder on the backside. It was only
minutes until the entire structure had been swallowed in smoke and flames, as
it came crashing down into the biggest bonfire I have ever witnessed. It was at
this point I found relief in being farther away, as the heat seared my skin in
the frozen night, and fire balls came crashing down on our heads from above.
After the festival, the streets were filled with Japanese
men with burn marks on their faces, and skin covered in ash and dirt. Some had
burned hair and others had blisters on their skin. The festival was all people
could talk about for the rest of the night and the following day, as they
continued to fill their bodies with beer, and I kept coming back to the same
questions. Dear Japan, where do you get the idea to create events such as this?
Are the Japanese people out of their fucking minds? For how normal and tame and
orderly society functions during daily life, how do you end up with a festival that
is based on drinking as much as you possibly can, and they attacking others
with fire?
Only here. Only in Japan.
When we were finally able to part with the mesmerizing glow
of the bon fire, we headed to a bar called Heaven, where the night became even more
ridiculous. We had about two hours of beer consumption before our private
karaoke room opened at midnight. We began with a group size of about ten, and
somehow managed to have at least half the bar in the room with us at one point
in the night. With the help of props such as a Viking helmet, bunny ears, tambourines,
bow ties, and hideous dreaded wigs, we sang our way into the night with ballads
like, “The Thong Song.”
Sometime in the night, somewhere along the hours of where
you no longer can keep track of time, everyone departed from the karaoke bar,
and I ventured into the snowy night with a Japanese friend. As we stepped out
from the warm protection of Heaven, giant chunks of snow fell from the dark
world above, and we laid on our backs in the street, catching snow flakes in
our open mouths. To warm our frozen bodies, we snuck into an onsen and sat
beside boiling water that was too hot to even sink into. In our broken English
and Japanese we shared stories and used ridiculous gestures to explain what we
wanted to communicate, not caring how much was lost in our basic translations.
Before the sun rose, I made it back to my final a
destination, where I was greeted by a warm house, with a floor covered in the
bodies of sleeping friends. I carefully stepped over the ambiguous lumps
underneath layers of covers, and found an empty bed that someone had been
considerate enough to prepare for me. I buried under the blankets and didn't
leave bed until after lunch the following day.
This is my life in Japan, and I love it.
(All photo credit goes to Kim Bah Lee, who provided the beautiful photographs of the festival)
