Embracing Buddhism

---

Another night with Hell’s Angel - Gene, after keeping me awake swearing at Jess all night, finally went to sleep on the Japanese-style bathroom floor, which measured no bigger than 4x2 ft.

Hung-over on lack of sleep the following morning, we rushed to the post office to send home our most recently purchased souvenirs. Not in any mood to fight the language barrier, I let Gene handle all communications with the Japanese behind the counter while Jess went to handle the purchase of our train tickets. I had officially become the bag lady. Scrooge, who was on less than two hours of sleep, had zero patience for my left-handed, snail-paced writing and scolded me like a juvenile to speed things up. However, with my no-need-to-rush Lukowski attitude, I of course continued to take my time.

Before boarding the first of 3 trains for the day, Gene wisely purchased a bag full of pastries for breakfast for the following morning. We were headed for Koyasan, the epicenter of the Buddhist religious movement, where we would spend the night in a Buddhist monastery. With no idea as to what would be served for dinner the night of our stay and for breakfast the following morning, we were determined to smuggle in our own goods as a back-up plan. Skeptical of the Japanese goodies I found in Gene’s bag, I was quick to call shotgun on the pizza bread looking pastry and bear claw.

I realized before long that I had forgotten my camera battery and charger back in the hotel room in Kyoto. I was more frustrated than anything that I had to deal with calling the hotel to try to communicate that I left a battery charger in the wall outlet with the hardly-English-speaking Japanese. Loading change into the pay phone at the train station, I dreadfully waited for the phone to be answered in Japanese.

“Yes…hello. My...name...is…Gina...Sawyer. I…just…checked…out…of…room…313. I…forgot…my…battery…for…my…camera…in…the…room. Can…you…check…to…see…if…it…is…still…there?” I enunciated in my clearest English.

“Wan moment prease,” the voice answered.

Two seconds later, a difference voice greeted me on the telephone. “Kin I halp you?”

“Yes. My...name...is…Gina...Sawyer. I…just…checked…out…of…room…313. I…forgot…my…battery…for…my…camera…in…the…room. It…is…blue…
and…black. Can…you…check…to…see…if…you…have…it?” I again explained in my best English. A dead silence followed.

Moments later, yet another voice answered the phone. “Hello?”

By this time, I was ready to stab my eyes out with chopsticks. I spoke as loudly into the phone as I possibly could without yelling. “My...name...is…Gina...Sawyer. I…just…checked…out…of…room…313. I…forgot…my…battery…for…my…
camera…in…the…room. Do…you…have…it?!?”

After my persistent efforts, I was told to call back after 10 minutes. Knowing that our train would be arriving shortly and that it would take a few hours before we reached our final destination, I got my panties in a bunch at the mere thought of having to replay the same scenario all over again and boarded the train with a sour puss on my face.

I was quickly distracted by the beauty of our surroundings as we bulleted down the track through lush forests and mountainous topography on our way to Koyasan. Having finally reached our stop, we anxiously awaited the arrival of our venicular to the top of the mountain for our overnight stay. Jess, who is afraid of heights, counted down the minutes remaining as we trekked up the side of the terrain.

Two taxis, three trains and a venicular later, we finally arrived at the door step of Eko-in Monastery. The tiny mustard-colored slippers lining the staircase were our first indication that no shoes were to be worn inside the establishment. As we placed our shoes on the wooden shelves alongside the others, we were welcomed by a monk dressed in orange garb and received an introductory tour of the monastery grounds.

He first directed us to the location of the Japanese bathing areas and restrooms, which sported their own pairs of pink (for girls) and blue (for boys) “toilet” slippers at the door. I was thrilled over the notion of having to wear the same shoes as every other Sam, Sue and Sally who did their duty inside the shared stalls.

We were thereafter informed that dinner would be served at 6 o’clock and that all guests were due back to the monastery for supper no later than 5 p.m. The monk lastly advised that bathing was permitted between the hours of 3 and 10 p.m. only, and that the baths were closed to guests during the early morning hours.

As we entered our sleeping quarters, I was surprised to find a little square table located in the center of the room, with kneeling pillows occupying each side. Where in the hell are the beds, I thought. Eyeing the three kimonos neatly stacked in the corner, with three toothbrushes and what appeared to be hand towels, I concluded that we were to sleep on the hard, wooden tatami-covered floors. Checking the closet for blankets in vain, I carped over having to share the one blanket that rested underneath the glass of our midget table.

“It is freezing in this place,” I grumbled, wondering how the three of us were going to sleep through the night under one blanket, let alone in the same room with Jess’s snoring. The gods must have heard me because we were interrupted by a monk carrying in a floor heater almost immediately after I uttered the words.

We had only a few hours to tour the area before we had to be back for dinner. The main road leading through town consisted of the usual - various shops selling souvenirs, religious icons, and Japanese food and liquor. Jess recommended we duck into one of the liquor stores to purchase mealtime libations as we assumed that the monks would not be serving alcohol. Something to kill the taste of the vegan platters would almost certainly be necessary. Satisfied with a bottle of wine and a cheap bottle of Saki, we ventured in and out of the souvenir shops to kill the remaining time.

As we traipsed back through the monastery doors, liquor in hand, we were eyed by the head monk kneeling on the floor of the reception area. Lowering our heads in repentance, we tiptoed back to our room and concealed our stash in the closet, brainstorming as to how we were going to sneak our drinks and spice packets into the dining room.

Not wanting to stand out like sore thumbs against the crowd, we discussed what each considered appropriate attire for the affair. Jess guessed that the kimonos were provided for such an occasion. Gene and I, not wanting to be the only three to saunter into the dining room dressed in our pajamas, decided to consult the monks about proper attire.

There was an awkward silence as we walked into the reception area and interrupted the monks eating their meals. Gene and I stood there like two dummies as we were once again eyeballed by the head monk. The younger gentleman to whom we directed our question shot us a baffled look in return, advising us that our current apparel would more than suffice. Satisfied, we headed back to our room.

At approximately five minutes before 6 o’clock, we headed down the long hallway toward the tatami-floored banquet room. We felt like tardy school children upon noticing the 30+ pairs of shoes already lined up against the outside wall. Speeding up our pace, we were stopped in our trail by one of the monks who informed us that dinner would be served in our room. While we were relieved to be able to enjoy dinner over our own company as opposed to a group of non-English speaking Japanese, we felt excluded from the secret event taking place behind closed doors. Is this another instance wherein we are being sent to eat at the back of the bus?

We returned to our rooms and positioned ourselves properly in front of the table. Growing impatient, I wondered how long it would take for my kneecaps to pop off before the Buddhists showed up with our food. Before long, one of the monks knocked on the door and entered with a multi-tiered tray of food. We were directed to step aside as the monk pushed the table to the side of the room. I discretely analyzed my food as the monk arranged the tower of trays in an orderly fashion on the floor.

As soon as we were left to ourselves, I demanded Gene sample each serving and provide a full review before I exposed my taste buds to the mishmash in front of me. Even Jess, who demolishes dishes he claims to be vile, pushed several plates aside after taking a first bite.

Watching Gene consume a colorless slice of tofu, I asked, “How’s that?”

“It tastes like a wet sponge,” he countered.

Interpreting Gene’s review as neutral, I placed the entire piece of tofu in my mouth and began to chew. Within seconds, I spit apologies and the half-chewed sponge back into the bowl as I began to gag. Gene and Jess rolled in laughter as I nearly up-chucked the rest of my dinner. I imagined the monks hiding out in closets, secretly consuming beef and pork. They can’t possibly enjoy eating this shit.

After dinner, we headed back out to the one must-see in Koyasan - Okunoin Cemetery. According to the Lonely Planet, the cemetery is home to over 500,000 graves and is famous for its war memorials and outlandish company tombs, including that of Nissan, Toyota and Kirin (Japanese beer company). We, in particular, were interested in visiting the cemetery to see the fire lit display of thousands of candles in memory of the departed.

We entered the cemetery at dusk, ignorant of its sheer size, and began the 2+ kilometer walk through the enchanted forest before reaching the opposite end. To our disappointment, there was no candlelit display - just a bunch of animal chatter amid the racket of flying bats. I grew paranoid after Jess’s several attempts to frighten me and hung onto Gene’s t-shirt for dear life as we made our way through the moss-covered graves by twilight.

By the time we touched back at our hotel, we had limited time to bathe before retiring in for the night. Griping over having to bathe by myself with a bunch of naked Japanese women, I consulted the Lonely Planet for proper Japanese bathing etiquette and surrendered myself to the state of affairs. Apparently, the tiny wash towels provided in our room were to be used as modesty towels to conceal our most private of parts. Personally, I was in need of a much bigger towel if I was expected to cover anything larger than my big toe. Boy, are the Japanese in for a surprise!

Satisfied that we had scared everyone else out of the hot tub, we headed back to our room to play our own drinking game version of “in between the sheets.” Making up our own rules as we went along, we all drank until Gene rolled over green in the face.

“Are you okay?” I inquired, mostly out of concern that he might tarnish my bed sheets.

Rolling in laughter, Gene responded, “I think I’m going to puke.”

Remembering the bag of goodies that Gene had purchased for breakfast the following morning, I suggested that we have a few bites to soak up the alcohol. In no time at all, we had devoured the contents of the bag like a pack of savages and rolled over onto our backs like a bunch of gluttons.

Needless to say, neither Gene nor I had any difficulty sleeping through Jess’s drunken snores overnight in Koyasan. What was difficult was getting up to the 6 a.m. alarm for morning prayer service. However, having prayed to Buddha for a little help in the hangover department, we were certain to make it through the rest of the day like champs.

---

Photos

The Eternal Flame
Loved ones must hike a kilometer inside each night to light these candles.

Comments

[darby]

speaking of maps and tofu...
how about thinking we were going to get lost in the cemetery because it appeared to have multiple roads (turns out all paths led to the fluorescent lit temple)? and that gina ate the soup that, had it not been a veggie meal, i would have sworn had puffy, freeze dried jellyfish corpses in it.