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Published: February 23rd 2010
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The Processional
Most people were part of a larger team, representing their hometown and so forth. A year ago, I declined an invitation to attend a festival that despite the fact that this was no ordinary festival, I could not be convinced to leave my apartment to venture out into a cold winter’s night…wearing next to nothing. My friends that ended up going that night came home raving about it. They said it was one of the most bizarre experiences one could have in Japan. They downplayed the nudity and instead told me of the camaraderie they felt with their fellow man while getting cheered on by a crowd of thousands. The whole thing sounded a bit surreal to me. So fast-forward twelve months, and suddenly I found myself pretty much naked, bruised and cut, at a festival. I’ll tell you how I got there.
While there are many “hadaka matsuri” (literally ‘naked festival’) held every year in Japan, the one I went to at Saidaiji is the originator and therefore the biggest and most famous. Despite the catchy title to this blog entry, there is no full-frontal nudity, just thousands of adult men wearing traditional Japanese undergarments called “fundoshi”. The main purpose of the festival is to obtain one of a few holy sticks that
Cold Purfying Bath
Like we weren't cold enough! are tossed into the crowd of thousands by the priests in the main temple. If you can make it out of the temple grounds with a stick, you are deemed “Lucky Man” by the priest as well as given a hefty cash prize (rumored to be about $5000).
A few of my foreigner friends and I made the trip up to Okayama Prefecture and hooked up with a large group of Okayama JETs, who hired a bus to take us up to the festival. Once we got there, a typical Japanese festival was in full swing: tons of food-stalls selling okonomiyaki (kind of like a Japanese pancake), takoyaki (fried octopus), people packing the streets, and overall revelry. We had a few hours before the throwing of the sticks, so we walked around, drank beer, and met people.
Eventually it was time to make our way to the changing tent, where we purchased our “fundoshi” and “tabi” (the spit-toe socks). Like a men’s locker room, everyone stripped down, and then over to the official “fundoshi”-wrapping area. Here is where a man and woman, in all their expertise, properly turn you into an adult baby-in-a-diaper. Let’s just say that they
So Many People
Not for the claustrophobic made it impossible under any circumstances to have any kind of wardrobe malfunction. That thing wasn’t budging.
Right as I was about to emerge from the tent into the street leading up to the temple, a man was there to throw a handful of salt on me. This is a symbol of purification and also a protector from injuries. In fact, this is one of the most recognizable rituals of sumo wrestling.
I emerged from the tent to the cheers of thousands of people lining the street. What a rush! I felt like I was running in the Boston Marathon--minus the agony! As we ran into the temple grounds, we plunged into an ice-cold pool of water, again as a symbol of purification before entering the temple itself. We ran around the temple once before heading to the altar in anticipation for the sticks to be thrown.
Now here is where all the happy-go-lucky part ends and things get serious. What happens when 9000 men try to stand on a platform the size of your average driveway? They pack in like sardines, pushing and pulling each other, trying to keep their footing to keep from falling down
the ten stairs leading to the altar. As I looked out on to the mob from the outskirts, it literally seemed like each person was a tiny grain of rice amongst a full cooked pot. And the sticks hadn’t even dropped yet. Throwing caution to the wind, I began pushing my way through the crowd—absorbing some errant, and not-so-errant elbows—eventually getting to the foot of the steps to the altar. At this point, people were falling down the steps in groups of dozens every 30 seconds, so my strategy was to get up to the top and push my way further into the crowd to stay away from the dangerous steps’ edge.
Timing my ascent, I reached a vacancy at the top of the stairs left by a group of men who kept falling down. However, my luck would turn when the priests threw the sticks right when I got to the top, and swell of people reacting to the goldmines was enough to topple me down the stairs, leaving me to be the cushioning blow for what felt like the 20 men who landed on top of me.
To be honest, I was actually in a very
Three Warriors
Me, Morgan, and Derry dangerous situation. I felt feet pushing against my face and neck, which cut off my air supply. The weight on my chest made it even harder to breathe. As much as I was trying to stay calm, my focused shifted to trying to stay alive. I could feel the weight lifting as bodies were being pulled from the pile-up, but it just didn’t seem fast enough. On what felt like could have been my penultimate breath, I was finally freed from the heap, and was able to gasp some vitality back into me.
Bloody, bruised, and nearly crushed to death, a normal person would walk away from such an event. But your fearless author is no ordinary man! He is a warrior who rises to his feet, pats off the dirt, and joins the foray once more!
I resolved to stay away from the stairs, but the stick had at that point moved off the stairs, bringing the mosh pit to flat ground and toward the temple ground gates. I continued to take a beating; getting knocked down a few more times, but ultimately emerged without serious injury. When I finally decided enough was enough, I proudly marched
Battle Scars
No pictured: bruised ribs, torn-up elbow, back and shoulders looking like I was mauled by a tiger back through the lined streets of adoring fans, high on the renewal of life, and cognizant that I will probably never, ever, ever, ever, experience something like that again as long as I live.
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Paul Perry
non-member comment
Awesome
Great story, David. My Japanese friends never mentioned this event to me. Probably because they never had the guts to do it. Bravo for you.