Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan (Japan Anthropology Workshop Series)

Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan This book examines journeys of self discovery in Japan and what they provide for those who embark on them. From spiritual quests to established pilgrimages, it considers a wide range of historical and contemporary examples, all of which help to build a picture of how such quests form part of individual and collective efforts to find a meaningful, grounded existence, physical health and emotional balance. It goes on to consider notions of physical and metaphysical space and journeys towards altered states, and of the past and present search for the liminal as well as for fulfilment. It also explores new forms of pilgrimage as well as highly contemporary topics such as theme park tourism, journeys for artistic inspiration, and travel experience as a learning process, all of which have often been compared to pilgrimage. The book brings to attention the need for a detailed, diverse, anthropological understanding of quests, showing how they serve to reward, change lives and provide for individual and collective well-being. In the variety of ways in which such quests meet the needs of those who undertake them, it concludes that spiritual journey in Japan may need to be reconsidered outside a framework of notions Western tradition usually associates with the term ‘religion’. Maria Rodríguez del Alisal is President of the Fundación Instituto de Japonología and Head of the Japanese Language Department in the Official School of Languages in Madrid, Spain. Her research interests include the transmission of socio-cultural values through religious festivals, advertising and mono-zukuri (the manufacture of objects). Peter Ackermann is Professor of Japanese Studies, University of Erlangen-Nürnberg, Germany. His research interests include Japanese language, education and schooling, communication processes and the development and transmission of cultural values and assumptions. Dolores P.Martinez is Senior Lecturer in Anthropology with reference to Japan at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London, UK. Her research interests have included maritime anthropology, religion, gender, tourism and the mass media in Japan.

Japan Anthropology Workshop Series Series editor: Joy Hendry, Oxford Brookes University

Editorial Board: Pamela Asquith, University of Alberta Eyal Ben Ari, Hebrew University of Jerusalem Hirochika Nakamaki, National Museum of Ethnology, Osaka Kirsten Refsing, University of Copenhagen Wendy Smith, Monash University Founder Member of the Editorial Board: Jan van Bremen, University of Leiden A Japanese View of Nature The world of living things Kinji Imanishi Translated by Pamela J Asquith, Heita Kawakatsu, Shusuke Yagi and Hiroyuki Takasaki Edited and introduced by Pamela J.Asquith Japan’s Changing Generations Are young people creating a new society? Edited by Gordon Mathews and Bruce White The Care of the Elderly in Japan Yongmei Wu Community Volunteers in Japan Everyday stories of social change Lynne Y.Nakano

Nature, Ritual and Society in Japan’s Ryukyu Islands Arne Røkkum Psychotherapy and Religion in Japan The Japanese introspection practice of Naikan Chikako Ozawa-de Silva Dismantling the East-West Dichotomy Essays in Honour of Jan van Bremen Edited by Joy Hendry and Heung Wah Wong Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan Edited by Maria Rodríguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann and Dolores P.Martinez

Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan Edited by

Maria Rodríguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann and Dolores P.Martinez

LONDON AND NEW YORK

First published 2007 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX 14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2007 Editorial selection and matter, Maria Rodríguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann and Dolores P.Martinez; individual chapters, the contributors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Pilgrimages and spiritual quests in Japan/edited by Maria Rodríguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann and Dolores P.Martinez. p. cm.—(Japan anthropology workshop series) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-415-32318-5 (hardback: alk. paper) 1. Pilgrims and pilgrimages—Japan. 2. Japan—Religious life and customs. 3. Self-perception. 4. Self-knowledge, Theory of. I. Rodríguez del Alisal, Ma. Dolores (María Dolores). II. Ackermann, Peter, 1947-III. Martinez, D.P. (Dolores P.), 1957– BL2211.P5P55 2007 203′.50952–dc22 2006028070 ISBN 0-203-31850-1 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN10: 0-415-32318-5 (hbk) ISBN10: 0-203-31850-1 (ebk) ISBN13: 978-0-415-32318-5 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-203-31850-8 (ebk)

Contents List of contributors

viii

Acknowledgements

ix

Preface

x

Introduction MARIA RODRÍGUEZ DEL ALISAL AND PETER ACKERMANN

xi

PART I Pilgrimages, paths and places 1 Travel as spiritual quest in Japan PETER ACKERMANN 2 Pilgrimage roads in Spain and Japan JESUS GONZÁLEZ VALLES 3 Pilgrimage, space and identity: Ise (Japan) and Santiago de Compostela (Spain) SYLVIE GUICHARD-ANGUIS 4 The concept of pilgrimage in Japan SACHIKO USUI 5 The daily life of the henro on the island of Shikoku during the Edo Period: A mirror of Tokugawa society NATHALIE KOUAMÉ 6 Strangers and pilgrimage in village Japan TEIGO YOSHIDA PART II Reconstructing the quest 7 Current increase in walking pilgrims EIKI HOSHINO 8 New forms of pilgrimage in Japanese society MARIA RODRÍGUEZ DEL ALISAL 9 Old gods, new pilgrimages? A whistle stop tour of Japanese international theme parks JOY HENDRY

1

3 10 15

25 37

47 61

63 71 80

PART III The quest for the magic, liminal or non-ordinary 10 Pilgrimages in Japan: How far are they determined by deep-lying assumptions? PETER ACKERMANN 11 Agari-umāi, or the Eastern Tour: A Ryūkyūan royal ritual and its transformations PATRICK BEILLEVAIRE 12 Takiguchi Shūzō and Joan Miró PILAR CABAÑAS 13 Hiroshima, mon amour: An inner pilgrimage to catharsis ANTONIO SANTOS PART IV The quest for vocational fulfilment 14 The ‘initiation rites’ and ‘pilgrimages’ of local civil servants in the age of internationalization HIROCHIKA NAKAMAKI 15 Travel ethnography in Japan JAN VAN BREMEN 16 A Japanese painter’s quest: Suda Kunitarō's journey to Spain ROSALIA MEDINA BERMEJO Pilgrimage and experience: An afterword DOLORES P.MARTINEZ Index

90

92

104

117 126 135

137

146 160 166

172

Contributors Peter Ackermann is Professor of Japanese Studies, University of Erlangen-Nürnberg, Germany. Maria Rodríguez del Alisal is President of the Fundación Instituto de Japonología and head of the Japanese Language Department in the Official School of Languages in Madrid, Spain. Patrick Beillevaire is Director of the Japan Research Center, École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Centre de la Recherche Scientifique, Paris. Rosalia Medina Bermejo is Profesora Interina de Japones de la Escuela Oficial de Idiomas in Barcelona, Spain. Jan van Bremen (†) was Anthropologist in the Department of Japanese and Korean Studies at Leiden University, Netherlands. Pilar Cabañas is Professor at the Faculty of Geography and History of Madrid Complutense University, Spain. Sylvie Guichard-Anguis is Researcher at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique and a member of the research group ‘Space and Culture’ in the Department of Geography, Paris-Sorbonne Paris 4, France. Joy Hendry is Professor of Social Anthropology and Director of the Europe Japan Research Centre at Oxford Brookes University, UK. Eiki Hoshino is Professor in the Faculty of Humanities and currently Director of Taishō University, Tokyo, Japan. Nathalie Kouamé is Maître de Conferences, Institut Nationale des Langues et Civilisations Orientales, Paris. Dolores P.Martinez is Senior Lecturer in Anthropology with Reference to Japan at the School of African and Oriental Studies (SOAS), University of London, UK. Hirochika Nakamaki is Professor at the National Museum of Ethnology in Osaka, Japan. Antonio Santos is Librarian in the Library of Universidad de Santander and Profesor Contratado de la Cátedra de Cine at the University of Valladolid, Spain. Sachiko Usui was, until retirement, Research Co-ordinator and Advisor at the International Research Center for Japanese Studies (Nichibunken) in Kyoto; then Professor at Hakuhō University, Japan. Jesus Gonzáles Valles lived as a missionary in Japan from 1955 to 1976. Since 1977 he teaches Oriental Phenomenology at the Institute of Philosophy and Theology ‘Santo Tomas’ in Madrid, Spain. Teigo Yoshida is Professor Emeritus of Tokyo University, Japan, and Hon. Japanese Representative of the Japan Anthropology Workshop.

Acknowledgements The editors wish to thank Joy Hendry for her help and strong encouragement at every step in the creation of this book. They also thank Ted Bestor for his invaluable input at the start of the project.

Note from the editor

Japanese and Chinese names in this book are given in Japanese style, with surnames first. When a Japanese author is publishing in English, as is the case in this volume, the given name appears first.

Preface This book brings a second collection of papers into the Japan Anthropology Workshop Series, this time addressing an old favourite of both anthropology and Japanese Studies, namely the nature and variety of pilgrimage and other spiritual quests. It was initiated again with a successful and productive Japan Anthropology Workshop meeting, held in the popular goal of European pilgrimage at Santiago de Compostela, where the surroundings added a special atmosphere to our deliberations. An immediate theme became one of comparison between Japan and Spain, reflected in several of the papers, and offering a chance to exercise some good, old-fashioned anthropological methodology. It also caused a few editorial problems that have taken time to overcome, but the finished result represents a minor triumph of international collaboration and Japanese-style persistence, and all the editors—including Ted Bestor, who gracefully withdrew when Europe became again too much for the New World—should be commended for their resilience! Another theme that gets an immediate and appropriate mention from the start of the book is the extent to which pilgrimage in Japan can be regarded as a ‘religious’ activity. This can be a thorny issue, as it raises the broader question of what exactly is meant by the term ‘religion’, and much ink has been spilled by anthropologists and others in examining Japanese practice within the semantic range of a word that grew out of quite different traditions. The editors have wisely moved gently away from that question by inviting the reader instead to start their own journey by considering the polysemous nature of the other title term of ‘quest’. They go on to discuss some of the historical factors that have influenced ideas of the transcendental that may be sought in its spiritual manifestation. The extent to which suffering is a necessary part of pilgrimage is also raised here, and interesting ideas thrown out about how newer theories of tourism may in fact reflect a practice much older in Japan. The papers themselves take these and other issues and examine them in a range of contexts that may seem surprisingly wide on first examination. Can art, film, theme parks and the initiation of new civil servants all really find a place in the examination of this subject? So it would seem, and the deeper understandings that an anthropological approach can bring have produced some new and exciting insights into this widely studied field. In the now established tradition of the Japan Anthropology Workshop Series, we offer papers that dig beneath the surface, peel off and examine layers of cultural and historical wrapping, and ultimately open the eyes of our readers to new ways of thinking. In this case, the papers even offer contributions to a deeper understanding of European traditions as well as the usual Japanese ones, and they also bring new insights to the broader study of pilgrimage and spiritual quest in whatever discipline it may be addressed. Joy Hendry

Introduction Maria Rodríguez del Alisal and Peter Ackermann

Spiritual quests for physical health and material well-being

In his discussion of the rapid social changes that have been experienced by contemporary Japanese youths, Nishiyama Akira (2000) points to a shift in religious attitudes and in the function of religious organizations in Japan. The old pattern, says Nishiyama, can be described as the quest for gense riyaku (this-worldly favours) granted by transcendental (something beyond, holy or sacred) powers. The favours asked consisted of the very qualities fundamental for securing well-being, essentially, good health and material gain. In particular, this would often include protection from natural disasters, successful marriage and childbirth, but also could involve hopes for a higher income, or academic achievement. Well-being in the old sense that Nishiyama is thinking of, we may note, was not a responsibility of the state, nor linked to what insurance companies cover. To seek gense riyaku in shrines and temples (the latter being institutions thought of as transmitting distinctly Buddhist teachings), and to invest time and energy to reach these institutions, was a natural part of organization of everyday life. If we asked people, however, in what way they considered visits to shrines or temples and the quest for gense riyaku to be ‘religious’ acts, their answers would often include puzzled comments like, ‘No, we are not Christian’ (implying that religion meant Christianity); or, ‘We believe in Shintō and Buddhism at the same time and enjoy Christian marriage ceremonies too’ (implying that religion was a rather abstract term standing for any institution or ceremony promising to fulfil a wish or provide happiness). In other words, the quest for gense riyaku in Japan, although essentially involving an approach to transcendental powers, should not frivolously be associated with standard Judeo-Christian definitions of religion. This book will follow the borderline along what might or might not be called ‘religious’,1 its focus, however, is on the more neutral concept of ‘quest’ with all its implications of ‘seeking’. For reasons discussed below, one very distinct type of quest, namely pilgrimage, will form the starting point for the contributions in this volume. To return to Nishiyama: as mentioned above, he opens our eyes to a shift in the function of what he calls religious attitudes and organizations in Japan. This shift he sees as first revealing itself in the early 1970s. Whereas the old pattern he described was that of the quest for gense riyaku, the new pattern he defines as gense ridatsu (escape from this-worldly affairs). Indeed, many more sober persons in present-day Japan will shudder at the thought of religion, which, since the attacks on the underground by the new

religion Aum, they associate with dangerous, even criminal, ways of escaping from social and political responsibility and following charismatic founders or leaders.2 The beginning of the twenty-first century is perhaps a good point in time to step back and reflect upon how both individuals and groups in Japanese society set out on quests, which involve sacrifice in the form of time and energy (and money) spent. Are quests becoming increasingly gense ridatsu? How is the older, more established concept of gense riyaku reflected in the quests undertaken in modern Japan? What do historical patterns for Japanese quests suggest if we compare them with more recent trends in spending time, energy and money in search of something ‘liminal’, something outside normal, everyday life? Have quests in Japan really changed if we look at their most fundamental components? And does the aspect of gense riyaku, central as it certainly has been for hundreds of years, really fully explain what quests in Japan are all about; does it suffice to define them as the search for inner harmony with the world and attempts to fathom and embrace reality so as to bring emotions in line with the unalterable facts of life? This also is a good point in time to reflect upon the assumptions about what it means to be religious by taking a closer look at the specific Japanese relationship to what in Western intellectual discourse has been—for hundreds of years—labelled as the contrast between sacred on the one hand and profane on the other. Is such a contrast meaningful in Japan? If it is not, then how can quests that pursue visions and desires with great concentration and dedication, and which are the very opposite of the quotidian, be more adequately understood? Where does a quest for obtaining this-worldly benefits such as health and riches link up with a more psychological level, namely the quest for inner change and becoming a new self? How far and in what way is the transcendental a separate sacred realm that is felt to necessarily exist in order to support the desire for a change of circumstances? Finally, this is also a good point in time to draw attention to the polysemous nature of any type of quest that follows a recognizable organizational pattern. Western concepts of Japanese culture are, as a rule, still strongly shaped by conclusions drawn from the observation of seemingly quite fixed patterns of behaviour, including rituals defined as religious. It is therefore a very welcome fact that this volume is able to include several contributions discussing how quests (and specifically pilgrimages) also form individual experiences through which those involved are able to construct their own sense of what they are doing. At a time when an increasing demand is being made for less simplistic accounts of and fewer sweeping comparisons between societies, the description of individuals’ construction of a sense of self is a very essential task which needs to be assumed by anthropologists who are involved in, and capable of, directly approaching individuals through what they say and what they have written.

Santiago de Compostela: The spiritual quest as pilgrimage

The idea for this volume was sparked at a venue at Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain. In 1996 the Japan Anthropology Workshop (JAWS) held its 9th Conference there,

arranged and hosted by Maria Rodríguez del Alisal and the Instituto de Japonología in Madrid. The location, very close to Santiago Cathedral and the Obradoiro Square, as well as the international atmosphere of the city and the warm welcome of both the authorities and the people of Santiago, left a deep impression and are very fondly recalled by those who attended the conference. In Santiago de Compostela, which has certainly been one of the most important destinations for pilgrimage in Christian Europe, it was only natural that the topic of quest would be strongly linked to that of pilgrimage. Accordingly, the ideas presented started out by considering pilgrimages in a narrow sense, and were then expanded to cover topics where the use of the concept of pilgrimage was either drawn into question or became more and more a metaphor for a quest that might—or might not—have its roots in a specifically organized search for a transcendental dimension. The present volume reflects this path of investigation from the concrete to a more abstract level. Santiago de Compostela, which has historically attracted people from all over Europe, is a place where we may hear innumerable different languages and encounter a maze of local cultures and historical traditions. It was thus befitting that a workshop held in this city came to reflect the diversity of quests for understanding Japan by the way it has grown and the way it presents itself today. In particular, Santiago de Compostela gave the Spanish approaches to Japan the possibility of becoming more widely heard. In many ways, the Spanish interests show us a unique, specific perspective: as this volume proves, it appears only natural that a country which has seen great architects, sculptors or painters pursue the most astounding quests for personal forms of expression should closely associate the idea of quest with that of art. Beyond reflecting Spanish ideas and approaches, this volume underlines the fact that in modern Europe quite different kinds of discourse are pursued, academic traditions followed, and fields of interest expanded, that should be encouraged to develop along their own characteristic lines. In spite of the use of English, the papers in this book reflect a variety of approaches which are linked to discourses carried on in many different languages that do not, and cannot, necessarily orientate themselves in any mainstream way, but which portray often very personal efforts at grasping the Japanese world. This ‘spirit of Santiago’ also holds for the contributions by Japanese authors, who not only represent different generations and perceptions about quests in Japan, but whose ideas also bear witness to a most stimulating variety of interpretations of what constitutes spiritual quests, and how these might be associated with concepts of the sacred and the transcendental. As befits a historical site like Santiago, the historical dimensions also have been explored with regard to Japan’s understanding of the transcendental and its view of what is beyond the ordinary. The reason for a certain emphasis on the historical dimensions can be spelt out as follows. Since the Meiji Restoration (1868) a considerable amount of energy has been invested in (re)defining the sphere of the transcendental with the intention of presenting Japan to the world as a nation-state with direct links to the realm of transcendence provided by both local gods (kami) and a divine emperor. In this process we must assume that both Japanese as well as foreign scholars might easily lose sight of the historical roots of the traditions and customs they describe; in the process, they may come to view Japan as having an archaic identity which draws its notions and values from a supposedly pristine, animistic past. However, Japanese quests for physical

and psychic well-being in fact strongly echo ideas and assumptions related to the waves of beliefs that arrived in the islands over many centuries; arguably, they are thus based far more on continental East-Asian conceptualizations of the order and laws of the universe than on any archaic, pure, culturally specific ties with local kami. Having outlined the important stimuli that the venue at Santiago de Compostela presented, both as a city and as a frame for the gathering of scholars from very diverse backgrounds, some further aspects of this unique geographical spot should be described. Santiago de Compostela is located in the remote region of Galicia at the very northwesterly tip of the Iberian Peninsula. It certainly did not go unnoticed that there were similarities between Galicia and Japan, both with regard to the closeness of the sea and to the green landscape, and to certain elements of a religious nature. After all, seen from the East-Asian continent, Japan is also a remote geographical region. Even now Galicians possess a strong belief in the forces of Nature, not unlike that found in Japanese Shintō. In Galicia, as well as in Japan, people are still very much attracted to the magic, power and sanctity of special locations such as waterfalls, trees or mountains. At the same time, both in Galicia and Japan there is a shared common fear of negative forces that cause misfortune. Santiago de Compostela is one of medieval Christian Europe’s three main destinations for pilgrims besides Rome and Jerusalem. All three places have a cosmopolitan character, and both visitors and pilgrims to these pilgrimage centres belong to different races, cultures, countries and religions. Besides that, every country in Europe had—and often still has—its own pilgrimages, both local and national. Pilgrimages in Europe, and among them quite especially the one to Santiago de Compostela, we may say, belong to a linear type that involve travelling to one main place of worship. Certainly, pilgrims also visit other sites along the way, but they are not obliged to, and there is no fixed order for them to do so. In contrast, in the case of Japan, although there are some linear pilgrimages (chokusenkei) like the one to Ise, the general pattern is that of a circuit (kyokusenkei). A circuit pilgrimage can be oriented to a single figure, for instance the bodhisattva Kannon, as in the pilgrimage to the 33 Holy Sites of Western Japan (Saikoku). However even in the case of a linear pilgrimage, pilgrims quite systematically also visit other sites, especially the main temple or shrine of the school to which they are affiliated (honzan mōde). The circuit pilgrimage is very common in Buddhism, and, as mentioned, it is the most popular form in Japan as well as East and South-East Asia. Incidentally, we may note that these circular pilgrimages are in fact often of a ‘lollipop’ shape: straight there and back, with the circuit occurring as part of the journey; thus we might say that they incorporate circular as well as linear characteristics. As for the circular part of the journey, to go to different sites in the direction of the clock has a special meaning in Buddhist thought because it is a way to show respect. The same thing can be seen, by the way, in Hinduism, where circuits are performed not only for pilgrimages, but also to visit graves, and they may have their origin in emulation of the daily solar circuit as a symbol of light and purity. If done in reverse, a circuit would thus be associated with darkness, impurity and misfortune. In the Christian world, pilgrimages can be said to have two different origins: the journey to worship in the Holy Land (Jerusalem), and visits to sites where the relics of

saints can be worshiped. From the fifth century onwards, pilgrimages to Jerusalem gained popularity, especially after the remains of the Holy Cross and the Holy Nails were said to have been found. In the eleventh century, however, pilgrimages to the Holy Land decreased in number, while at the same time the Crusaders went on their missions to defend the Holy Places. As pilgrimages to Jerusalem became increasingly dangerous, they were re-oriented to worship the relics and tombs of the martyrs and the saints. In particular, Rome and the sepulcher of Saint Peter, and, later, Santiago de Compostela became important centres for pilgrimage. Travel and pilgrimage meant effort and hardship, but also enjoyment and satisfaction, especially after completion of the pilgrimage. In Europe, the English term travel is said to originate from the Latin trepalium (later becoming French travail and Spanish trabajo), meaning pain and hardship. Thus, a pilgrimage, as travel to worship, was taken to involve a great amount of hardship; this was certainly true for the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela—and still is so if done on foot all the way! Nowadays, though, pilgrimages in any society may be somewhat more enjoyable. Better roads and good transport systems have relieved the pilgrims of former hardships and inconveniences. Besides, a pilgrim is today more than half a tourist, having plenty of opportunities to buy all sorts of attractive objects. And yet, we should not overlook the fact that, at least in Japan, trips to temples may have for a long time already resembled something like tourism. In this context we may think particularly of the practice of kaichō (the opening of the curtain of the sanctuary), i.e. the exhibition of a Buddhist image or treasure usually hidden from sight. Kaichō, which still today are extremely popular, were means for the temples to raise funds and attract visitors from all over the country. Whether as hardship or more as an enjoyable trip, the participants who gathered at the JAWS meeting at Santiago de Compostela resembled pilgrims who start a long journey to a common place; they all had very different departing points and brought with them different sets of experiences. However, precisely at Santiago de Compostela it was painfully felt how small the number of Spanish participants seriously working on Japan was in comparison to other countries. It is to be hoped that if ever a meeting about Japan is held again at this stimulating location, many more Spanish scholars will by then be ready to present their research.

The structure of this book

Following the ideas put forth at Santiago de Compostela, this book sets out in Part I (Pilgrimages, paths and places) to present aspects of spiritual quests as they take on—or have taken on—shape in the form of pilgrimages. First, Peter Ackermann (Travel as spiritual quest in Japan) gives a brief introduction to establish a historical perspective on the traditional link between travel and spiritual quest in Japan. Jesus Gonzáles Valles (Pilgrimage roads in Spain and Japan) then draws a comparison between the road to Santiago de Compostela and Japanese pilgrimage roads, outlining a large number of facts that point to the similarities as well as fundamental

differences between the two. For readers who wish to pursue their own quest for a deeper understanding of Japanese pilgrimage the details and perspectives presented form an invaluable point of departure. Sylvie Guichard-Anguis (Pilgrimage, space and identity: Ise (Japan) and Santiago de Compostela (Spain)) picks up the topic of comparison of pilgrimages and focuses in particular on Santiago de Compostela in Europe and the Ise Shrines in Japan. By marking the differences not only in the structure, but also of the general atmosphere between these two pilgrimages, Guichard-Anguis enables us to note some fundamental characteristics of Christian pilgrimage and its reflection of universalistic principles on the one hand, and of the local deity-oriented Japanese context with its emphasis on gense riyaku, on the other. Sachiko Usui (The concept of pilgrimage in Japan) then takes us on to discover the essential connections between pilgrimage as a concept in Japan and the flow and travel of ideas throughout the whole of East Asia. Usui makes it abundantly clear that in Japan, travel in general and pilgrimage in particular are marked by a pattern of movement through space and along a chain of encounters that is not just attributable to some local custom, but also firmly rooted in concrete models described in the fundamental scriptures of Buddhism translated first into Chinese around the middle of the first millennium CE. Nathalie Kouamé (The daily life of the henro on the island of Shikoku during the Edo period: A mirror of Tokugawa society) presents us with a picture of the actual experience of being a pilgrim in Japan in early modern history (seventeenth to nineteenth centuries). An analysis of travel diaries of henro (pilgrims on the circuit covering the so-called 88 Holy Places on the Island of Shikoku) shows how the spiritual and worldly concerns of the pilgrims went hand in hand. At the same time the dimension of the sacred comes into play in two very distinct ways: on the one hand, the sacred, in the form of specific locations and experiences, is sought by the pilgrims during their journey. On the other hand, the pilgrims themselves are interpreted by the villagers along the way as being sacred and representing a transcendental realm. This dual perspective is an important aspect of quest in Japan, which not only consists of a traveller going out to seek the transcendental, but also of the traveller representing the transcendental when coming to visit those who cannot travel themselves. Teigo Yoshida (Strangers and pilgrimage in village Japan) pursues the topic of sacred visits by travellers to those who are not travelling themselves. In Yoshida’s descriptions too the pilgrim is at the same time one who goes out on a quest of another dimension, and one who comes and is interpreted as representing this other dimension. Yoshida’s ethnographic accounts give us a vivid picture especially of the status of the pilgrim and other persons dedicated to a quest as reflected in the eyes of those whom they visited. Part II (Reconstructing the quest) expands on the presentation of basic facts and accounts about pilgrimage in Japan (including comparisons with the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela) and focuses more narrowly on the present. What do people nowadays make of the concept of quest they have inherited? How far are elements of the sacred retained in present-day quests in Japan? How should we nowadays assess the delineation between sacred and profane? Does such delineation altogether make sense? Eiki Hoshino (Current increase in walking pilgrims) traces the motivation and experiences of modern pilgrims and gives us insights through interviews into what is subjectively interpreted to be religious by those who undertake the still considerable hardships of walking to all or some of the holy sites on the Island of Shikoku.

Maria Rodríguez del Alisal (New forms of pilgrimage in Japanese society) leads us to ask whether the spiritual quest lying at the root of the concept of pilgrimage has in many instances not been completely transformed into a quest for a joyful day out, i.e. into an activity that should be categorized as tourism. While older references to pilgrimage certainly prove that enjoyment of the landscape and the chance to visit all kinds of interesting and entertaining spots along the way have always constituted at least one aspect of pilgrimage in Japan, today the transport facilities available, and formerly unknown concepts of leisure or weekend outings, have indeed changed the character of many, if not most, trips to temples or shrines. At the same time del Alisal shows us how in Japan new places for ‘enjoying a happy day out’ are created precisely by setting up statues of religious figures, thus apparently merging the sacred with the fun aspect in a very pronounced way. In this context, del Alisal also traces the transformation of one of the most famous old pilgrimages in Japan—that of Kumano—into a modern-style cultural tourist event. Joy Hendry (Old gods, new pilgrimages? A whistle stop tour of Japanese international theme parks) looks at the relationship between tourism and pilgrimage and asks the critical question of whether visits to theme parks, which are commercial ventures offering experiences of the non-ordinary, should still be associated with the notion of a spiritual quest and thus considered a type of pilgrimage. This question imposes itself quite particularly where ‘religious’ elements have been consciously integrated into the park. Hendry concedes that there may be parallels between a pilgrim and a tourist in presentday Japan, but at the same time warns that there are also critical differences. Part III (The quest for the magic, liminal or non-ordinary) takes us one step further away from the topic of pilgrimage and presents wider aspects of the quest for some kind of transcendental realm in Japan. Peter Ackermann (Pilgrimages in Japan: How far are they determined by deep-lying assumptions?) looks for dimensions that might underlie what we today know as concrete pilgrimages. By drawing on examples of classical Japanese song texts and poetry Ackermann shows that leaving the everyday, this-worldly life behind and moving into a realm where the magic of nature enables mystical experience, has been one deep-lying impulse for moving through space and time, which we can probably take to be of Taoist origin. However, this movement does not appear as an escape into another world, but carries a person along to a point where this-worldly physical health and vital energy are recaptured and regenerated. Patrick Beillevaire (Agari-umāi, or the Eastern Tour: A Ryūkyūan royal ritual and its transformations) takes us to Okinawa Island and describes the decline and rebirth of a ceremony in which the king and the chief priestess sought the assistance of the transcendental, not in the first place to secure their own physical health and vital energy, but for the periodic renewal of fecundity and prosperity of the whole Ryūkyū Kingdom. Pilar Cabañas (Takiguchi Shūzō and Joan Miró) highlights the notion of spiritual quest—and at the same time a quest pursued by covering great geographical and cultural distances—of a Japanese and a Catalan (Spanish) artist. The paper describes the attraction felt by each side for the artistic potential of the other, and the processes by which each side undertook the utmost effort to step outside its own traditions and approach the other. The esteem of each side for the other, and the mechanisms through

which this esteem helped each side rediscover and reinterpret itself, are among the most remarkable examples for a spiritual quest that has taken shape through the medium of art. Antonio Santos (Hiroshima, mon amour: An inner pilgrimage to catharsis) discusses what he calls an inner pilgrimage by focusing on Hiroshima and what this city stands for. In the case of the film Hiroshima, mon amour the inner pilgrimage is undertaken by a French woman, but is unconsciously guided and structured by a Japanese man, who symbolizes release from the past and acknowledgement of the present. Release from the past and acknowledgement of the present, we should note, is not unconnected to Buddhist concepts and the power they have exerted on the formation of the Japanese understanding of life. The last part of the book, Part IV (The quest for vocational fulfilment), traces quests aimed at acquiring understanding, knowledge and skills. We are given insight into Japanese worlds—the worlds of local civil servants, of travelling ethnographers, and of the artist—and led to reflect upon the question of how far the spiritual quests pursued in them are, in the end, religious, i.e. shaped by deep-lying assumptions about the path to spiritual fulfilment. Hirochika Nakamaki (The ‘initiation rites’ and ‘pilgrimages’ of local civil servants in the age of internationalization) interprets the training of local administrative officials at the Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities to acquire a more cosmopolitan outlook as a secularized form of initiation and pilgrimage. Nakamaki’s contribution is a very vivid illustration for the degree to which learning processes in Japan can be understood to belong to the spiritual sphere and take place, as it were, in a sacred context and as a kind of religious activity. The important question is thus again thrown up of how far the dichotomy sacred (or religious) versus secular is meaningful for dealing with Japan. Jan van Bremen (Travel ethnography in Japan) gives us an elaborate insight into the lives of, and methods used by, Japanese anthropologists devoted to travelling to spend repeated but relatively brief periods of time in the field. In contrast to Europe and America, travel ethnography in Japan has always stood in high regard and thus been able to develop in many directions as an ethnographic method. In an historical perspective, the degree to which Japanese travelling ethnographers were driven by a pioneering spirit and forward-looking visions in their quest for understanding quite particularly the lives of ordinary people in the villages and towns they visited, has laid the groundwork for us to be able to tap into enormous quantities of information on distinct individuals leading their ordinary lives. In the last chapter of the book, Rosalia Medina Bermejo (A Japanese painter’s quest: Suda Kunitarō's journey to Spain) takes us back to the Iberian Peninsula and observes from there the Japanese painter Suda Kunitaro, the stimuli he was given by the Spanish artistic traditions, life and culture, and his quest for discovering and developing a way of joining the worlds of Japanese- and Western-style painting.

Notes 1 The struggle to define religion has a long history in anthropology itself (cf. Reader 1991). This difficulty is compounded in the case of Japan where the term religion (shūkyō) is actually a term coined specifically to translate a Western concept. The most important terms that existed in Japan previously to denote something approximating religion were hō (Buddhist truth, Buddhist law, usually including reference to the institutions propagating it and the objects used in the associated practices) and dō (the path a practitioner should pursue). In the earliest days of the Meiji period, around 1870, the Western concept of religion found various translations, among others shūshi (the essence of a basic truth), shūmon (the gate/the place that gives access to a basic truth), kyōhō (the teaching of the law), or kyōmon (the gate/the place that gives access to persons teaching). Shūkyō (shū—a basic truth, a teaching+kyō— instructing someone, i.e. instructing someone in a basic truth) in the sense of religion was a word used especially by the administration around 1870 to denote spiritual teachings in a very general sense and to argue what would lead people onto a good way and prevent them from being disruptive. A strong impulse to use a general term specifically for religion (at first often, but not exclusively shūkyō) came in the early 1870s and was supported by two strands of argument. One strand saw religion as a support for bunmei (enlightened civilization, Western civilization) and therefore deemed it to be necessary for the development of the new nation-state. For some influential thinkers at the time Christianity was the epitome of religion as it appeared to go hand in hand with all the basic requirements for establishing a civilized nation. The other strand of argument took up the idea of mankind having universal characteristics, the most important of which was that man stood at the zenith of evolution. It was a distinction of man, therefore, to have a religion, i.e. an inner principle that would guide him in his efforts to construct a civilized nation-state. It should be noted here that the term bukkyō (Buddhism, Buddhist religion) could only be coined after the general concept of religion (shūkyō) had become established (Susumu and Yoshio 2004). 2 9/11 for many Japanese, just confirmed this notion of the problems with religion.

References

Nishiyama Akira (2000) Shōnen sabaibaru nōto, kazoku no naka de ‘ikinuku’ tame ni [Survival notes of juveniles; how to ‘survive’ inside the family]. Tokyo: Shūeisha. Reader, Ian (1991) Religion in Contemporary Japan, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: MacMillan Press. Shimazono Susumu and Tsuruoka Yoshio (2004) ‘Shūkyō' saikō [Rethinking the term ‘religion’], Tokyo: Pelikan-sha.

Recommended further reading on the Santiago Pilgrimage

Coffrey, Thomas (ed.) (1996) The Miracles of St. James: Translations from the Liber Sancti Jacobi. Trans. by Linda K.Davidson and Maryjane Dunn. New York: Italica Press. Frey, Nancy Louise (1998) Pilgrim Stories: On and Off the Road to Santiago, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Herbers, Klaus (2006) Jakobsweg. Geschichte und Kultur einer Pilgerfahrt. München: Beck. Melczer, William (1993) The Pilgrim’s Guide to Santiago De Compostela, New York: Italica Press. Van Herwaarden, Jan (2003) Between Saint James and Erasmus: Studies in Late-Medieval Religious Life: Devotions and Pilgrimages in the Netherlands (Studies in Medieval and Reformation Traditions), Leiden and Boston: Brill. Villanueva, Francisco Márquez (2004) Santiago, Trayectoria de un mito, Barcelona: Serie General Universitaria 33.

Part I Pilgrimages, paths and places

1 Travel as spiritual quest in Japan Peter Ackermann

Introduction This chapter wishes to introduce the important terms related to pilgrimage in Japan. At the same time the concepts of pilgrimage, travel and quest as they materialize within Japanese culture need to be contextualized within the framework of Buddhist thinking, arguably the foundation upon which Japanese identity and life design has been shaped. Buddhism is not always recognized or given credit for its fundamental role in Japanese society. This is partly because some insist that Shintō should be considered as separate from and at the same time older than Buddhism and therefore more basic. Buddhism indeed amalgamated elements—some of them very old—from a vast array of East-Asian traditions of thought, becoming extremely complex and difficult to define in the process. Moreover, Buddhism has not been an official religion in Japan like Christianity was in the West.1 Yet the fact that Japan has not had an official religious doctrine may be considered the very reason why Buddhist thought, on the level of everyday common sense and outside conceptual problems created by the acceptance or rejection of doctrine and belief, has more precisely and more decisively shaped Japanese patterns of thinking throughout the ages than anything else. Buddhism, in other words, I take to be the major and at the same time unquestioned source for day-to-day solutions to the problems of life, and as a guiding principle for the structure of life’s quests. How, then, can the structures of life’s quests, pilgrimage and the concept of travel be linked together?

Travel in context Travel in Japanese history falls broadly into two categories. On the one hand it was a means of getting from one place to another. Examples are the transport of goods (in early times often tribute), the voyage to a place of assignment, or the way of life of a travelling merchant or salesman. On the other hand, however, what I would like to call ‘spiritual journeys’ play an important role in East-Asian culture quite generally. Thus, for many hundreds of years, the people of Japan have undertaken journeys for spiritual gain, and these can be seen to possess characteristic structural patterns. A first decisive point to understand is that nature (that includes villages and towns together with the life and housing styles of the people) is believed to contain the energies of the universe in a concrete way. Therefore nature always ‘speaks’, that is, it gives the careful observer clear indications of its principles. If we explain the energies of the universe as the flow of yin and yang and the continuous process of transformation (minutely dealt with in the context of divination), or if we think of the many kinds of

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charts produced by Buddhist institutions, which always must be interpreted with reference to concrete points in nature, i.e. in time and space (calendars, geomantic charts or charts for ancient Asian medical treatment, etc.), then I think we can grasp in what sense nature is conceived of as a context in which such energies are at work. To understand the relationship between nature and Buddhist teaching we need to reflect upon the fact that nature mirrors the law of cause and effect. This law can be seen to take shape in and through nature in a myriad of different ways: for instance it can be embodied in a warbler, being aroused as a cause of the increasing warmth (i.e. yang energy) of the second month; or in the vivid red colour of the maple leaves, thought of as being caused by the increasing cold (i.e. the increase of yin energy). To intuitively grasp the law of the universe and with it Buddhist teaching, it is necessary to travel to specific spots in nature traditionally known to be helpful for achieving a deeper understanding of it. These spots, in other words, can be said to aid human beings in their efforts to cope with the law of cause and effect (the law of the universe) in order to survive. As we know, journeys for seeking pleasure (from the healing at hot springs to the release of sexual pleasure) have always been a prominent feature of Japanese culture. The laws of the universe being, by definition, present in everything, it is a matter of interpretation how far these places of pleasure are defined as Buddhist, and how far the comfort experienced there is taken to be an act of ordering the flow of energies within one’s body, and overcoming the state of suffering caused by disruption of the flow. However, even if Buddhist teaching defines places which arouse your emotion as places of illusion, or even as bad places, they are still understood to contain the seeds of salvation. They may be bad, but coming to understand this is the first step to enlightenment and will cultivate detachment. Bad places thus become good places. The path to enlightenment, in other words, is a path of transformation, a sequence of stations in which seeds of Buddhist truth cause the onward journey. Basically, all human beings start out on their path full of bonnō (earthly passions and desires), which cause spiritual and physical suffering and impede the quest for enlightenment. According to the expression bonnō sunawachi bodai (desire is nothing else than enlightenment), one can indeed attain enlightenment, not by extinguishing, but by gradually transforming illusions and desires into enlightened wisdom. Throughout the ages, journeys have been undertaken, either physically or mentally (i.e. in pictures, stories, poetry or songs), that follow this pattern of transformation, adding up, one by one, the things understood at each specific station. Put another way, movement from place to place always implies spiritual process, whereby the careful observer comes to understand the essence of, and the reasons for, suffering. A good example may be the poet Bashō (1644–1694), who—emulating Japan’s most famous traveller, Saigyō (1118–1190)—passes places where nature shows the changing constellations of its energies against the background of the cycle of growth and decay In the process the poet is continuously confronted with the concept of time, the past, the present, and the future. Precisely the experience of time, both in its positive sense (enjoying the moment) and its negative sense (the frantic wish to cling to the moment or even return to the past), brings about the understanding that one is caught in the karmic cycle, blinded by physical and emotional attachment (shūnen, shūchaku). Only through detachment, however, are spiritual growth, enlightenment and achievement of Buddhahood possible. This understanding, to repeat, can in traditional Japanese common

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sense only be gained by ‘wide awake’ movement through time and space, that is, by means of a journey, even if this journey is only imagined. Saigyō, whose reflections on this law and the intuitive grasp of its principles are documented in his poems, ‘left his house and home’ (shukke) in 1140 CE. On a superficial level, this shukke took him to Tōhoku, Mt. Kōya, Shikoku, Ise, and again to Tōhoku. On a deeper level, however, shukke took him on a journey that opened his eyes to the reality of growth and decay, and brought him to realize the fundamental importance of detachment. Shukke implies entering Buddha’s way by making the decision to leave all one loves and hates behind and setting out to seek enlightenment through ascetic exercises and training (shugyō). Certainly, this concept of setting out must not only be interpreted in terms of coping with growth and decay in this life, it must also be understood against the background of the notion of rinne (the transmigration of the soul and the repeated cycles of life, death and rebirth). Setting out on a journey marked by exercises and efforts is thus an act whose relevance, in theory at least, transcends a person’s own this-worldly physical identity. As pointed out above, setting out on a journey is not detachment, it is a path to detachment, and this in turn is a process of transformation through training, a process characterized by steps and stations that each in their own way force the traveller to deal with the question of how to detach himself.

Traditions of leaving house and home Japan once knew—and to a limited degree still knows—a large variety of persons who set out from home and ‘went into the wilderness’. Many of these people led a life as wandering priests, often selling certain products as well as knowledge—mainly related to curing sickness and bringing relief from all imaginable kinds of suffering—in order to earn a livelihood. Japanese art traditions (theatre, music, painting, etc.), for instance, can only be understood by reference to the teachings of these detached persons, wandering or cloistered priests and monks, holy men, but also persons with magic powers, healing men, medicine priests, exorcists and many others known as hijiri (persons with magic powers, sages, masters), shami (young persons doing shugyō, also: married monks), inja (literally persons in hiding, usually in the mountains) or gyōja (persons who are achieving, or have achieved, powers by doing shugyō, persons being led—often in the mountains—from hardship to hardship). The expression sen (or sennin), referring more specifically to the Taoist recluse, also should be mentioned here. In contrast to monks in the strict sense of the word, whose duties required them always to be part of a cloistered community, the numerous forms of wandering monks or priests referred to as yugyō hijiri (hijiri who move around freely) can, I maintain, be seen as the real source of popular culture, culture to which the common people had access and that formed their most basic values and patterns of thinking. Some yugyō hijiri regarded themselves as embodiments of Amida Buddha, adopted the element ‘-ami’ in their names, were granted protection by specific temples or feudal lords and became wellknown masters of traditions such as Nō theatre, which was the creation mainly of Kan’ami (1333–1384) and his son Zeami (approx. 1363–approx. 1443).

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Naturally there is a relationship between wandering ‘spiritual men’ (women also are known to have wandered, e.g. the bikuni of Kumano, or the original Kabuki dancers) and the spread of knowledge about sacred places. These sacred places were believed to grant good health, provide cures for diseases and, as an extension of this, wealth and happiness. On a deeper level, they would (or at least theoretically should) help in understanding the ephemeral nature of all things (mujō), thus bringing about detachment from the karmic cycle of growth and decay.

Movement as a sequence of spiritual steps It is no coincidence that Japanese descriptions of journeys and travel place great emphasis on the stations leading a traveller somewhere. This focus on, and interest in, stations is so strong that we are often under the impression of dealing with the pure accumulation of pictures, texts or data that have little or no coherence—a criticism that is, for instance, often levelled at Japanese literature. However, to set out on a journey means to discover the infinite and unexpected ways in which the energies of the universe become form, and the opportunity to practise detachment and be healed—or feel better— as one goes along. Often, an individual step towards detachment need not be more than just the vague sense of having discovered something, and (as poetry and discovery are closely related in Japanese culture) perhaps capturing this something in a haiku. The notion of steps and stations (towards detachment and thus enlightenment), to repeat, is a very basic one in Japanese culture. Accordingly, steps form the framework for all learning—traditional musical pieces contain a dan (step-for-step) structure, as do the martial arts, travel literature, collections of poetry, or the famous 53 Stations of the Tōkaidō by the woodcut print master Hiroshige (1797–1858). The pattern of expression is always the same: it is the description of a path, on which insight after insight is added by making careful observations and appropriate efforts. Against this background it is possible to fathom the deeper implications of pilgrimage, which can at the same time be understood as a path to enlightenment and a path to good health and good fortune. Historically, a particularly important type of pilgrimage was the journey into the Kumano Mountains. These mountains were associated with concepts of paradise (at the goal, Kumano Hongū) and the help of numerous ōji (princes) along the way, important landmarks being the waterfall at Nachi or the Healing Buddha (Yakushi Nyorai) at Shingū Hayatama Jinja. Local yamabushi (mountain priests, mountain ascetics, also known as Buddhist masters of exorcism) and bikuni (Buddhist nuns) would lead the pilgrims—including emperors—along the paths that helped to grasp the meaning of imprisonment in the karmic cycle (i.e. the inability to understand the illusionary nature of the concrete world), and thus to attain the true meaning of detachment. The Kumano pilgrimages were most popular during the Kamakura period (1192– 1333). In the early nineteenth century there were still around 14,000 pilgrims to the Kumano Mountains per year. One of the final steps of the Kumano pilgrimage, namely Nachi with its waterfall, is also the first station of one of the best known pilgrim routes in Japan, that covering the 33 temples of Kannon in Western Japan (Saigoku or Saikoku) in the present-day prefectures of Wakayama, Osaka, Nara, Kyōto city, Kyōto prefecture, Shiga, Hyōgo and Gifu. This pilgrimage of temples dedicated to the bodhisattva

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Kannon,2 who takes 33 forms in order to help mankind, is a typical junrei, a pilgrimage following a precise sequence of steps. Junrei Moving through time and space and the step-for-step process of seeking relief and enlightenment by following Buddhist teaching and/or the teachings of wise men of old (who in turn had followed Buddhist teachings) is, I maintain, the basic idea of spiritual journey in Japanese culture. Accordingly, I see junrei, i.e. moving through time and space from station to station, as the basic form of travel for spiritual gain. We may note here that the concept of junrei was so fundamental that all sorts of devices were sought to enable people to undertake junrei even if they could not visit the famous sites themselves. One device was utsushi, the transfer of the power of the original sites to corresponding sites more easily accessible. The best known utsushi are those of the 33 Kannon sanctuaries of Western Japan to Bandō and to Chichibu in eastern Japan, or of the 88 stations of the Shikoku pilgrimage to the small island of Shōdoshima. Another common device was the transfer of soil from the original site to a neighbourhood temple, enabling the junrei to be performed in miniature. Main As a rule, junrei consist of a series of visits (mairi) to places possessing the power to heal, to help, to guide, to bring something to awareness and to free from frustration, which is a state of mind that quite particularly hinders detachment. With time, numerous mairi themselves, i.e. the visit to just one specific place of ‘power’, became the object of making a journey. Mairi (or the honorific expression o-mairi), can also be spoken of as sankei (visit to a sanctuary) or sanpai (paying respects to a sanctuary). Examples for well-known mairi in Japanese history are those to Narita, Zenkōji (Nagano), Atsuta, Tateyama, Hikosan, Sumiyoshi, Kiso Ontake, Daisen, Konpira, and above all Ise. Mairi to Ise, originally a place where the ancestors of the emperor were worshipped, became popular towards the end of the Heian period (794–1192 CE) when special guides (known as o-shi) were sent out to attract supporters for the Ise sanctuary where the sun goddess Amaterasu (or Shinmei-sama) was venerated. As early as the Muromachi period (1336–1573) a visit to Ise was seen to have the highest priority in a person’s life. During the Kyōho era (1716–1735) of the Edo period (1603–1867) it is assumed that about 500,000 to 600,000 people travelled there. Moreover, Ise can easily be termed old Japan’s most ‘intra-national’ centre, as it was here that people from all parts of the country met and exchanged not only knowledge of local histories and news but also of all sorts of arts and crafts. It also should be mentioned here that those who journeyed throughout Japan to advertise Ise brought miyage (today the common expression for a little present brought back from a trip or a visit) with them, consisting of a wide variety of amulets, charms, books and products made or collected in Ise. The term miyage is also used for local products and the amulets, charms and talismans (o-fuda, o-mamori) brought home from Ise (and other sanctuaries) by persons sent there on behalf of whole communities.

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Pilgrimages, especially to Ise, appear also to have been the way for a considerable percentage of the population to obtain permission to travel. And, last but not least, the connection between Ise and nuke-mairi (secret visit to a sanctuary) shows that in the Edo period the journey to Ise was a way for couples to elope without committing a punishable offence. Kō At least a short reference should also be made to the term kō, denoting a group of people with a common aim—an association. Kō were organizations that planned and prepared pilgrimages, the best known ones being the Ise-kō (or Shinmei-kō: kō for the visit of Shinmei-sama, i.e. the sun goddess Amaterasu). Ise-kō came into existence in large numbers in the early Muromachi period and were organizations, usually centred upon a particular o-shi (guide) from Ise, which organized and financed journeys to Ise either for groups of villagers, or for a representative of a village. The importance of kō cannot be stressed enough, as they have constituted the focal point of a community where funds were raised, help was distributed, and a large variety of undertakings were organized and paid for. To what extent the kō—indeed until very recently—retained their primary function as an organizational framework specifically for visits to a religious site, however, can be seen, for instance, by studying the stone tablets set up by all sorts of different kō along the path to the sanctuary on the peak of Mt. Mitake near Tokyo.

Conclusion As an afterthought, I believe we should be only moderately optimistic with regard to grasping more than just a few fundamental notions about spiritual journeys in Japan. For one thing, the Buddhist concept of journey has been quite considerably modified by many different schools of teaching. Furthermore, on the level of interpretation, ideas rooted in Buddhism have become obscured by the decades of State Shintō's systematic efforts at establishing mystical Japaneseness in the late nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries. Few Japanese realize today that even Ise, where the idea of Shintō and the primacy of indigenous over foreign deities was propagated as early as the Muromachi period, cannot be understood without reference to that immense framework of Buddhism that served to transmit systematic concepts of the structure of the universe. Moreover, our task is made particularly difficult, since in order to grasp the ideas underlying the concept of journey in Japan it may indeed be necessary to look back mainly at the centuries prior to the Edo period, i.e. prior to 1603. The more recent centuries quite clearly make use of, play with, and reinterpret the given Buddhist substratum, which in the process certainly changed its surface structure—a point we can fathom if we, for instance, juxtapose the older Nō and the younger Kabuki forms of Japanese theatre. However, if we keep our eyes open there are still plenty of objects we can find and buy today that inform us of the Buddhist view of the structure of time and space—we need just to study the materials sold at a temple shop. Moreover, the fundamental

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concepts of journey are still there, and remain more or less intact. We need only to think of how deeply ingrained feelings are about the importance and even training of detachment (especially emotional detachment) in everyday Japanese life, or of the idea of step-by-step transformation that always observes, reflects upon and accepts lower, ‘bad’ stations as containing the seeds for improvement and enlightenment. This, I maintain, is what physical or imagined journeys in Japan are really all about.

Notes 1 If we want to speak of an ‘official doctrine’ in Japan then it has been, for almost a millennium, Nee-Confucianism, i.e. the teaching of Shushi/Zhu Xi (1130–1200 CE), which left its imprint mainly in concepts of social order. 2 A bodhisattva is one who aspires to Buddhahood, i.e. to enlightenment, and carries out altruistic practices, but postpones their own entry into nirvana in order to save others; compassion is the bodhisattva’s greatest characteristic.

2 Pilgrimage roads in Spain and Japan Jesus González Valles

Introduction: The road to Santiago The phenomenon of pilgrimage has existed for centuries in both the East and West, and the subject of pilgrimage can be a point of reference when talking about intercultural and inter-religious dialogue. In this chapter I wish to offer a comparative analysis of the cultural and religious expressions that structure the paths of pilgrimage in Spain and Japan. According to Christian tradition, Saint James was one of the disciples chosen by Christ to be an apostle and spread his message. There is also a legend that the apostle James preached the doctrine of Jesus in Spain. The story is that once James returned to Jerusalem, he was decapitated by the King Herod, around the year 42 CE, and his remains were transferred to the northwest of the Roman colony Hispania, now Galicia, where they were buried in a simple and discrete way by Christians. When the sepulchre was discovered by Teodomiro, the Bishop of Iria Flavia around the year 813 CE, King Alfonso II ordered the construction of a little basilica over the tomb. Later, between the ninth and eleventh centuries, the basilica was replaced with a much larger one. Around this church the city of Santiago de Compostela was to take shape. When the news of the location of the tomb of the apostle Saint James spread, pilgrims from all of Christian Europe started to visit it, thus initiating a pilgrimage route that had, as its final destination, the end of the West’s known lands—as its Roman name, Finis terrae (lit. land’s end) so well demonstrates. Thus began the pilgrimage route to the tomb of the apostle Santiago, which has been witness to ten centuries of religiosity and cultural tradition. Visited by millions of travellers, it has a deep historic meaning and a cultural dimension that are worth considering.

Historical meaning Encouraged by the monks of Cluny and sponsored by various Popes and protected by the kings of various Spanish Kingdoms, the pilgrimage to Compostela has attracted millions of people. Soon groups of pilgrims formed, such as the one run by the French Bishop Gotescaldo in the year 950 CE, and the one organized by Cesáreo, Abbot of Montserrat, in 959 CE. In the eleventh century, the route of Saint James acquired a special prominence due to the massive participation of pilgrims from the areas of Europe now known as France, Germany and Italy, as well as continuing to attract Christian pilgrims from the kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula. Among the pilgrims there were people from different social strata: bishops, magnates, kings, nobles, peasants, priests, saints, criminals—women as well as men. In the twelfth century, the arrival of pilgrims in

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Compostela was so overwhelming that the priest Aymeric Picuad found it necessary to write a guide in 1139 CE. Along with a number of other documents, this guide is known as Codex Calixtinus, in honour of Pope Calixto II, promoter of the route of Saint James. Among the pilgrims, who—as mentioned—might include repentant criminals, there could be found, travelling in disguise, others not driven by religious motifs and perhaps intent on robbery and other actions that had nothing to do with devotion to the apostle. So it was not unusual to encounter thieves or highwaymen who took advantage of lonely places or defenceless inns in order to practise their profession. This is the reason why various rulers were obliged to create severe laws and to provide armed watchmen along specific dangerous routes in order to guarantee the pilgrims’ security. In the popular tradition there are historical stories or legends about some of the characters who caused the authorities a lot of concern. In order to defend themselves from these highwaymen, the pilgrims used to walk in groups. When they left their hometowns, they were seen off by all their neighbours, blessed by the priest and provided with the emblems or garments of pilgrimage: a hat, a bangle, a gourd to carry water and a long walking stick for support and defence against vermin, dogs and wild animals. The journey to Santiago de Compostela could start from Arles, Le Puy, Vézelay, Orleans or other French localities. All these roads converged in Roncesvalles, where the actual pilgrim’s route, explained in detail in the five books of the Codex Calixtinus, began. In this text the author gives information on the areas that the road to Santiago went through; hospitals, hostels and other places for accommodation and protection are named, and information is given on the flow of rivers, the location of bridges, typical food, the character of locals, geographical distances and an endless number of topographic, ethnological and historical curiosities. The itinerary offers a whole range of charming landscapes in which man, driven by religious feeling and artistic inspiration, had built the most diverse monumental works: churches, monasteries, hermitages, hospitals, inns, transepts, tombstones, sculptures as well as a series of amazing engineering feats which included the roadways and bridges themselves. Over the centuries, the original road has suffered changes and even diversions, but the pilgrim who today follows the route of the Codex Calixtinus does so in the footsteps of earlier visitors to Santiago. Thus, a modern traveller has the chance to take the primitive paths, asphalted roads or modern ways designed for the exclusive use of walking travellers or bicyclists. On the classic Spanish route, the traveller has to walk through seven provinces in order to reach Santiago de Compostela. Pilgrims who have not only a religious purpose, but who also harbour touristic intentions or are fond of art, can take time to contemplate the works of art that are found along the borders and in the surroundings of the route throughout the whole journey. There are an endless number of important milestones for the traveller to take note of along the more than 800-kilometre long journey: in Navarra there are the monasteries of Leire and Estella; in La Rioja, Logroño, Nájera, Santo Domingo de la Calzada; in Burgos, the cathedral, the monastery of Huelgas, the King’s Hospital; in Palencia, Frómista, Villasirga, Carrión de los Condes; in León: the cathedral, Astorga and Ponferrada; and once in Galician lands: Portomarín, or Melide y Santiago de Compostela.

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Cultural encounters The road to Santiago is not only a simple geographic route that runs from Roncesvalles to Compostela, but it has also always been a locus for the encounter of cultures. Along the paths to Santiago, there always reigned a sense of openness to universality because so many travellers from different societies made the journey. Europe found in this Compostelan road a vista of human communication, cultural exchange and, in short, fraternity and solidarity. The groups of pilgrims interacted and shared their suffering— exhaustion, natural disasters—as well as the material goods that each of them carried in their packs and the spiritual insights that they harboured in their souls. This intercultural meeting created a specific cultural environment, since everyone contributed their experiences or knowledge as well as literary and poetic inspirations to enhance the dynamism of the encounters during the long and arid journey. Romanesque art, for example, was developed along the road to Santiago thanks to these cultural exchanges. Both religious and civil architecture knew ages of splendour with the cathedrals, hospitals, monuments, roadways and bridges, all built along the way. Sculpture reached unsurpassable heights in Silos, Burgos, and in León, not to mention the cathedral in Compostela itself. Painting was enriched by influences that emerged in diverse nuanced and stylistic analogies. Literature flourished with the formation of the chanson de geste and the Galician and Castilian lyric. To sum up, the road to Santiago gave rise to a cultural inheritance of inestimable value. The paths of Saint James also had a social, as well as a pacifying and unifying dimension, because they made possible the repopulation of many places and environments in the areas surrounding the Compostelan roads. Centuries before anyone had thought of a European Community, for instance, there existed roads of different origins: some roads ran through what is modern France, or Portugal, and some through modern-day Spain. All of these merged into one that brought together all the religious and cultural essences coming from the most diverse European points, constituting an appropriate framework for peace and dialogue among peoples. Unfortunately history shows outrageous examples of disunion, conflicts, wars among European peoples, but there was the road to Santiago which was something like a simple and popular ‘European Parliament’. Even though the cultural and social elements are important, one cannot ignore the religious foundations of the paths to Santiago, embedded as they are within Christian faith and its beliefs. In essence, the St. James’s road is not a ludic route nor a tourist pilgrimage, although there is a lot of that as well. It is eminently a religious pilgrimage, in which pilgrims do not go to Santiago de Compostela to see museums, but to testify to their religious faith. The pilgrimage style, found for ten centuries on the Compostelan road, was rooted in this Christian tradition and gave rise to a fertile spiritual and cultural exchange among European peoples. In fact, Christian European peoples: Celts, Latins, Germanic peoples, Slavs, Anglo Saxons, to name some of the larger ethnic distinctions made at that time, all met along the pilgrimage road to Santiago de Compostela.

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Pilgrimage roads in Japan In Japan there exists a rich religious and cultural heritage created along the pilgrimage roads that are testament to Buddhist fervour. As with the road to Santiago, we can trace a historical and a cultural perspective. Of all these Japanese pilgrimages, the one to Shikoku, described below, is the most familiar to me because I have observed many times the spectacle of travellers reaching the Ishite temple from Matsuyama, which is number 51 of the stages comprising the whole journey of the 88 Buddhist temples located along the 1,374-kilometre trail. Sometimes they were pilgrims in modern style, who had travelled by train, bus or car, but in general, they were pilgrims in the old style, orthodox and, as it seemed, convinced of the efficacy of the sacred pilgrimage. The o-henro in their white clothes, with their sacred staffs, Buddhist rosaries, bells, badges, official cards and rucksacks, were amazing to behold, as was the display of a sincere, sacrificial and joyful piety. The participants in these long walks were usually elderly people whose dream had been to visit, at least once in their life, the 88 temples of the island, as their ancestors had done since the Kamakura period (thirteenth/fourteenth century), during which the number of stages along the route was fixed. The fact that the pilgrims walked to the rhythm of sutras being chanted or prayers recited gave the journey an air of happiness and deep-felt emotion.

The historical dimension From the Nara period (710–794 CE) the pilgrimages to shrines and Buddhist temples spread out along the Japanese islands are well documented. Especially famous were the already mentioned Shikoku route, the 33 sacred sites of western Japan (Saigoku) and Chichibu, the 21 temples of Nichiren, the 25 temples of Honen, the 24 of Shinran, and the 100 of Kyoto, among others. The words junrei [circular pilgrimage], o-henro [pilgrim to the 88 temples of Shikoku] or tera-meguri [going round to visit temples] evoke a sensation of long and difficult walks while searching for sacred places, and they have a deep spiritual meaning, standing for the encounter with cultural forms that transcend everyday life. Of course these journeys have, throughout the history of Japan, a wider dimension than just the religious one. The notion of road, the Japanese michi, also includes the notion of dynamism and vitality as well as lived experiences. Japanese history is full of examples of travellers searching for enlightenment while walking along simple, silent, peaceful roads. The pilgrimage route of Shikoku island flourished mainly during the Edo period (seventeenth to mid-nineteenth century) and followed the footsteps of the great patriarch of the Japanese Buddhism, Kōbō-daishi (774–835 CE), who actually was born on the island. Even today, along the itinerary one can discover steep inclines and sharp descents, smooth paths and narrow lanes, rice fields and leafy woods, all leading to the 88 temples that form this spectacular Buddhist pilgrimage. From the first temple, the Reisan-ji, to the last one, the Ōkubo-ji, devout Buddhists go singing laudatory sutras and prayers that vary, depending on the powers attributed to each shrine. As a matter of fact, each shrine has its assigned attributes related to granting favours, such as abundant catches of fish, good harvests, health, or happy childbirth, etc.

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At the same time, as one walks it is possible to contemplate a number of religious art masterpieces, part of the inheritance from the past which forms a rich artistic treasury. So not only do the Japanese pilgrims venerate the Buddha, but at the same time, they pay homage to their cultural legacy while enjoying the beauty of the landscape that shapes the road. This religious road was inaugurated centuries ago by the spiritually restless who were searching for liberation and salvation. In fact, the historical trajectory of the different Japanese pilgrimages is directly related to the search for enlightenment and for help from Buddhist saints.

Cultural dimensions In the same way that a variety of cultural works in the environs of the road to Santiago can be found, so are cultural manifestations of an artistic and literary type numerous along the Japanese pilgrims’ routes. Kōbō-daishi himself is an example of cultural creativity. While still young, he undertook a pilgrimage in the provinces of the island of Shikoku (giving rise to the pilgrimage route of the 88 temples). After that he went to China, and on returning to Japan, he created a version of esoteric Buddhism that would crystallize in the sect called Shingon. His artistic talent is apparent in his texts; Kōbōdaishi’s writing style places him among the ranks of Japan’s three greatest calligraphers. As a writer, he left behind profound texts in which the doctrinal foundations of the Buddhist sect that he formed are outlined. Another example is that of the poet Bashō (1644–1694 CE), the lonely pilgrim of nature and author of many immortal haiku verses. This traveller-poet was inspired by the Chinese classics, in the main by Chuang-tsu (Sōshi), but he also was strongly influenced by Zen Buddhism. Bashō walked through the rough byways of the plains and mountains and he captured both wide landscapes and tiny scenes in the concise metric spaces of haiku. In his poor yet free pilgrim’s spirit there shone more than a concern with making literature—it was an attempt to show a way of life. In this sense, Bashō raised the ‘way’ of poetry from the mundane to the level of an ascetic and spiritual path. Bashō was searching both for Buddhas to venerate and also for ways to find ‘oneself’. To sum up, there are many similarities between the road to Santiago and the Buddhist pilgrimage roads. As religious paths, all of them are an oasis of peace and asceticism, of religious reflection and cultural inspiration, of dialogue and interpersonal encounter. All of them provide propitious loci for immersion in meditative silence; for providing a sense of being in harmony with nature; for devotional prayers; for the blooming of literary creativity; for concord and solidarity. However, there are also considerable differences: Buddha taught the ‘way’; while Christ is assumed to be the ‘way’. Buddhist pilgrimage in Japan is, in principle, circular; Christian pilgrimage is linear. Buddhist pilgrimage should include a visit to all or many temples along the route; Christians have to visit only the last temple (the tomb of Santiago). However, despite these differences, pilgrimage is always a road to an encounter with one’s self and with others, a route of asceticism and enlightenment.

3 Pilgrimage, space and identity Ise (Japan) and Santiago de Compostela (Spain) Sylvie Guichard-Anguis

Introduction In this study I follow the definition of pilgrimage given by Chélini and Branthomme (1982), according to whom pilgrimage is marked by three components: the existence of a sacred place/a place understood as sacred and a particular way to reach this place; a distance to be covered and a road to go along and a certain number of religious acts, collective or individual, before the trip, during the trip, upon arrival at the sacred place and after return to the departure point. In the light of this definition I will take a closer look at pilgrimage in two different cultural contexts: Ise in Japan, and Santiago de Compostela in Spain. I will begin with a brief history of the development of these two pilgrimages, then follow the pilgrims on their way to their destinations, and finally examine these destinations and their surroundings.

The two pilgrimages in general perspective When Buddhism was introduced to Japan, it exerted its influence in several ways upon the cults of indigenous deities (kami) and gave impetus to their organization. As Buddhism already possessed a tradition of pilgrimage, it laid the ground for further developments. Syncretism between Shintō (the cult of the kami) and Buddhism give birth to the first types of Japanese pilgrimage, mōde (going to pray at a temple or shrine) or mairi (humble approach to a palace or temple). Both terms imply a journey to a sacred place, and a visit to a shrine or a temple. Ise Jingū (the Shrine of Ise) is composed of two main edifices, the Naikū (Inner Shrine) and the Gekū (Outer Shrine) as well as 125 auxiliary or branch shrines, thus forming a big religious complex. According to the Nihon Shoki,1 Amaterasu Ōmikami, the sun goddess and ancestress of the imperial family, was enshrined along the river Isuzu during the reign of the Emperor Suinin (29 BCE–70 CE). The Gekū was founded much later, in 478 CE, when the shrine which provided sacred food for the sun goddess, Toyouke Ōmikami, was transferred to Ise from the Tamba province. During the Nara period (710–794 CE) the Ise Shrine became the Dai-jingū (Grand Shrine). By the end of the Heian period (794–1192) the income from the domains of the Shrine of Ise dwindled, so the monies obtained from pilgrims grew in importance. During the Edo period (1603–1867) the popularity of the Shrine of Ise increased enormously, and the Meiji period (1868–1912) saw the creation of the Jingū shichō (the Government office for the administration of the Shrine of Ise), devoted to the restoration of imperial power and to the unity of the nation around the worship of the sun goddess Amaterasu, thought of as an imperial ancestor.

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After the Second World War and with the separation of state and religious ceremony in 1946, the evolution of Shintō from State Shintō to Shrine Shintō gave the Shrine of Ise a totally different political, religious and social environment. However, as we can see from articles such as one in Asahi Shimbun published on 3 December 1995, entitled ‘(Official) New Year’s visit to the shrine—what about the separation between politics and religion?’2—there is a constant stream of criticism aimed at government officials whose visits to Ise are not strictly private. The city of Santiago de Compostela was founded in Galicia which was later to become a part of Spain. Pilgrimages or religious travel (in Latin perigrinatio religiosa)—not including the pilgrimage to Jerusalem—to the relics of saints reached a peak of popularity during the eleventh to thirteenth centuries. However, during this era, the popularity of pilgrimages to Rome, the only place in the Christian West where the relics of an apostle could be found, dwindled. A new centre where the relics of another apostle had been found was emerging: Santiago de Compostela. Not much is known of the origins of the cult of relics at Santiago (Chélini and Branthomme 1982). While the Moors, who had invaded Spain in 711 CE, rapidly reached the north of the country and sent raiding parties into France, in northwest Spain a small Christian kingdom (in Asturias and present-day Galicia) remained, and it was here, at Santiago de Compostela, that the tomb of the apostle St James (Santiago) is said to have been discovered around the year 830 CE. Apparently, a strange light appeared to the hermit Pelayo (who later became a saint) above his field and to the followers of the nearby church of San Felix de Lobio, indicating the place which later took the name of campus stellae (starry field), from which the name ‘Compostela’ may be derived. A few pilgrims to Santiago are recorded in the tenth century. In 950 CE Godescalc, the bishop of Le Puy in France, may have been the first foreign pilgrim to Santiago. However, in 997 CE the destruction by the Muslims of the city showed how fragile this Christian kingdom remained. The beginning of the Reconquest in the early twelfth century helped to secure the roads to Santiago, while already from the ninth century onwards St James, mounted on his horse, was said to appear among soldiers in order to encourage the Christians as they did battle. In the early twelfth century Santiago became one of the great destinations of medieval pilgrimage, along with Rome and Jerusalem. The first cathedral was built over the site of the tomb, and Benedictine houses were established along the developing pilgrimage route. Later, the Synod of Rent (1545–1563) laid the foundation of the Catholic reform and gave new impetus to the pilgrimage by legitimizing it. However, in the late eighteenth century the pilgrimage was criticized and hospices were no longer kept in repair. The revival of the pilgrimage to Santiago is partly due to archaeological excavations in 1879, during which three corpses were found in a tomb. In 1884 Pope Leon XIII recognized the relics as authentic. More excavations were carried out between 1956 and 1960, at which time the tomb of bishop Theodomir, the discoverer of the relics of Santiago at the beginning of the ninth century, was found. After the Second World War, the popularity of the pilgrimage to Santiago grew, attracting more and more visitors from beyond the frontiers of Spain. The two visits of Pope John Paul II in 1982 and in 1989 enhanced the importance of this pilgrimage even further.

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Ritual and pilgrimage Turning to the Shrine of Ise, the rites observed there can be divided into three categories: regular ones, extraordinary ones performed on occasions representing a threat to the nation, and rites linked to the periodic rebuilding of the shrine. Other rites have been added since the Meiji (1868–1912) period, such as for example, the regular service kōreishiki (services sponsored by individual worshipers). For the Great Festival (ōmatsuri or kannamesai), at which the first harvest is offered to the sun goddess, furnishing and ritual implements are renewed. The rites of removing and rebuilding the shrine edifices (sengūsai) are of particular interest. The first regular shrine rebuild was supposedly undertaken for the Naikū in 690 CE, and for the Gekū in 692 CE. The sixty-first rebuild took place in 1993 and involved both edifices at the same time, all the auxiliary and branch shrines, and even the Uji Bridge and the torii (gateway). The history of these rebuilds shows a constant adaptation to the specific conditions of a given period (Guichard-Anguis 1993). In times of political insecurity, the rites may not be performed, but in times of political stability and centralized power, when also the financial collaboration of the people can be relied on, as a rule they are. The last rebuilds have taken place at regular intervals: 1953, 1973 and 1993. Perhaps the greatest threat to upholding the rites of removing and rebuilding the shrine is the necessity to supply materials (especially building timber) and to maintain the know-how, considering that over 2,445 craftsmen were needed in very different fields for the last operation. It goes without saying that through reconstruction, the visible effects of the passing of time vanish and the Shrine of Ise always appears new, though its architectural style dates back more than a thousand years.3 In the case of Santiago, rites are part of the calendar of the Catholic Church. The night of July 24th sees fireworks, and, in the past, a Moorish-like construction put on the façade of the Obradoiro would be burnt. The following day, July 25th, is designated as the feast of the patron saint of the city and the celebration of Galician identity. However, the notion of complete renewal, which is fundamental to the rites of the Shrine of Ise, is totally alien to Santiago.

Pilgrims on their way One of the main differences between Santiago and Ise lies in the national nature of the Ise pilgrimage, and the international character of the Santiago pilgrimage. Another substantial difference is the fact that the pilgrimage to Ise opened itself to the wide spectrum of society only gradually, whereas Santiago has always attracted people from all levels of the Christian population. Until the end of the Heian period, access to the Ise Shrine was forbidden to anyone but the Imperial family. Later it was granted to warriors and Buddhist monks, and then little by little, to the other members from the various strata of Japanese society. Nevertheless, even today, access to the inner shrine is still limited to the Imperial family members and the highest ranking priests of the Grand Shrine. The Muromachi period (1333–1573) saw the popularization of pilgrimages, which were organized by special guides (oshi or onshi) and the Ise-kō, a network (kō)

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established by local communities to support one or several of its members to undertake the pilgrimage to Ise. During the Edo period (1603–1867) Ise-kō developed nearly everywhere, and the pilgrimage to Ise became a general custom. This pilgrimage was enhanced by the fact that the deity of Ise was believed to combine the nature of the local tutelary deity with that of a deity who protected the whole country. The pilgrimage to Ise was, in a sense, also synonymous with the idea of ‘getting away’,4 and ludic aspects cannot be denied. Pilgrimage involved sightseeing along the way and temporary freedom through distance from the social and moral constraints of everyday life. Consuming local fare5 and buying the products of local craftsmen contributed to the value of the trip and satisfied curiosity. Between Uji and Yamada,6 entertainment areas thrived and fostered the development of the Furuichi quarter, one of the five most important government-regulated centres of prostitution during the Edo period. The diary of the Buddhist priest Saka, written in 1342, sheds some light on early forms of pilgrimage to Ise (Sadler 1940). From the very beginning the sightseeing aspect of the pilgrimage becomes obvious. The journey begins at Anonotsu, the present city of Tsu on the seashore of the Ise Bay. Saka never forgets to describe the landscapes he sees and especially the appearance of the sea and the sky. After visiting the shrines he continues his travels, which he still understands as pilgrimage, and visits Futami no Ura,7 several temples, and the seaside. Saka’s sensitive descriptions often end with a poem. The first one was written during his stay in Anonotsu, and nineteen follow. In a sense, Saka writes his poems as if using a camera, intent on catching and keeping the feelings of the moment. In the case of Santiago, access to the saint’s relics was open to anyone from the very beginning. Now the relics lie in a silver reliquary in a crypt under the high altar of the church dating from the ninth century. According to Chélini and Branthomme (1982), during the Middle Ages pilgrims used to travel in three kinds of groups: lords with their escorts, ordinary people in neighbourhood groups, and groups of people who met by chance on the road. Pilgrimage could be undertaken also as penitence ordered by a civil court, so the sight of pilgrims in chains was not unknown. Rich people could entice someone to undertake the pilgrimage in their place. The diversity among those groups reflected the whole spectrum of Christian society. Among the millions of pilgrims who went to Santiago from every part of Christian Europe between the tenth and eighteenth centuries, only around fifteen left records (Barret and Gurgand 1978). According to these records the pilgrims usually walked between thirty and forty kilometres a day, and it goes without saying that shoes and feet were their main concern. Bleeding and pain could mean not keeping pace with the other members of the group and also could result in being left alone in an unknown environment. Due to the hazards and perils of travel, many pilgrims never returned. Therefore preparations for the pilgrimage were undertaken with the greatest care. The atmosphere of the pilgrimage to Santiago appears to be vastly different to that seen in the records of Ise mairi, in which less attention is paid to looming dangers, though in both cases pilgrims were heavily dependent on the compassion of others. Protection for the Santiago pilgrims did exist, in the form of certificates they carried, but solitude, fear, physical exhaustion, dirt and the everyday quest for some sort of shelter for the night, food and drink explain why the death toll was high. To distinguish real from false

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pilgrims and to secure help, a kind of international law slowly took form, supported by churches, abbeys, principalities and kingdoms. The Liber Sancti Jacobi (cf. Viellard 1984), also called the Codex Calixtinus, includes a guide for the pilgrims, written around 1139, and lists the dangers which might be encountered on the road. However, it does not mention any landscapes or other things pleasing to the eye. Turning now to the actual roads the pilgrims took, the ‘Special Road to Ise’ (Ise betsukaidō) begins in the town of Seki.8 On the east side of the small city a torii (gate) marks the point where the road to the Gekū and Naikū branches away from the old Tōkaidō road linking east and west Japan. For centuries Seki was a station town (shukuba machi) on the pilgrim’s way, and from here on the pilgrim is given the opportunity to worship the deities. The original town of Seki dates back to 1583–1591, when the road was modified and a new town centre (Naka-machi) was constructed by the local lord. It was integrated into the fief of Kameyama, and after 1601 became the fifty-third stop on the Tōkaidō. In the Naka-machi, inns for the feudal lords as well as for people of lesser ranks were constructed, giving rise to a very prosperous period for the town. During the Meiji (1868– 1912) era, and in spite of the abolition of the station-town system, the popularity of Seki increased thanks to the pilgrimage to Ise. However, the railway line between Nagoya and Osaka built in 1900 and passing far from Seki, and above all the construction of a socalled pilgrimage railway line to Ise, dealt mortal blows to the local economy. Created in 1955 by the merger of several villages, the new administrative town of Seki saw its population dwindle, but the quality of its historical urban landscape dating back mainly to the Edo period drew attention as early as 1930. An association for the protection of the town was set up in 1979, as research carried out by individual experts and the Japanese National Trust increased. In 1980 the municipality issued a decree on the protection of its urban landscape, which was completed by the designation in 1984 of Seki as a ‘protected area of a group of traditional constructions’. Five items of Seki’s cultural heritage are national treasures; four are prefectual treasures and 15 are municipal treasures. In 1995 the road through Seki was chosen by the Ministry of Construction as a ‘National Historical Road’, a designation which could be compared to the ‘Road to Santiago’ established in 1987. Seki has since found a new lease of life by developing tourism. The road to Santiago takes the pilgrim through a network of scattered constructions, which form the nucleus of a great part of present European cultural heritage (Bourdarias and Wasielewski 1996; Desclée de Brouwer 1993). In France we find four main roads, as all the overland travellers coming from other countries (except Portugal) had to go through France before reaching Spain. The first constructions dedicated to the pilgrims around the second part of the tenth century were hospitals, while monasteries had already split their function of hospitality in two: one to provide for travellers on horseback, and one for those on foot. Chapels, hospitals for lepers and military settlements, which were built later on, contributed to the vast and very complex network of facilities used by the pilgrims. Great hospices were built during the twelfth-thirteenth centuries, open to the poor and the sick, and giving shelter to the pilgrims. Several ecclesiastic orders, such as the order of Cluny, dedicated a part of their activities to the pilgrims. During the reconquest against the Muslims, pilgrims were encouraged to settle in the cities along the road of the Camino Frances in order to strengthen the newly conquered

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territories (Torres Luna et al. 1993). This had an impact on the structure of space on a scale that cannot be compared to that of the Ise pilgrimage. The sum of private (secular or religious) initiatives backing the pilgrimage to Santiago laid out a map of what later became some of the most renowned cultural properties in Europe, especially in France and in Spain. In 1987 the Council of Europe decided that the road to Santiago was the ‘first European Cultural Itinerary’. We can thus conclude that the concern for the protection of cultural properties at the end of the twentieth century has laid out a common future for both the Santiago and the Ise pilgrims’ roads, but with a tremendous difference of scale. The popularity of the Ise shrines remains high today,9 but as mairi (visit to a sacred place) can imply, a simple visit to a shrine and/or the first visit to it at the beginning of the new year (hatsu mōde), do not show the number of real pilgrims in the same sense as in Santiago. Moreover, statistics for visitors to the Shrine of Ise do not indicate sex, age and nationality. Perhaps one of the main differences in the attraction of and the motivations for visiting Santiago and Ise at the end of the twentieth century lies in the fact that in Japan trains, cars or buses are the favourite means to accomplish Ise mairi, involving no physical or spiritual challenge. However, covering one hundred kilometres on foot or on horseback, or two hundred kilometres cycling, are the distances necessary to complete in order to obtain the certificate (Xacobea) that one has been a pilgrim to Santiago. Not surprisingly, the pilgrimage to Santiago has gained popularity among young Europeans, who undertake it as a challenge. According to the Bureau of Pilgrimage in Santiago,10 the average pilgrim registered as having received the Xacobea in 1995 would be a young man aged 16–30, generally a student, travelling on foot, usually along the Camino Frances. In 1995 those pilgrims numbered 19,821 (including 5,737 foreigners). Motives given for the pilgrimage to Santiago are religious, religious and cultural, or purely cultural.11 Sixty per cent in 1995, or 68.5 per cent in 1993, constitute the ‘genuine’ core of the many visitors who came to Santiago. Among those ‘authentic’ pilgrims who ask for the Xacobea, 40 per cent also have other than purely religious motives. Another category—that of organized groups of pilgrims—shares characteristics with the visitors to Ise by coming by plane or other means of transport. Among them the constant flow of pilgrims of the silver age category speaks for the popularity of this kind of travel. In Santiago I spoke to Ferdinand Soler, an unemployed young Frenchman from Paris, aged 26. He had made a break with his job and set out for Santiago on 21 February 1995. Walking through France in the cold of winter was a difficult challenge due to the loneliness, the absence of social recognition (most of the time he was looked upon as a vagabond), and the lack of signs on the old pilgrim roads. He met the first pilgrims when he reached the Pyrenees, from where most of them begin their travel today. According to him, the Camino Frances is well marked in Spain, and the social environment appeared to be positive towards the pilgrims. As the motives of modern pilgrims varied a lot (he met young people merely enjoying sightseeing on their first European cultural tour), sometimes conflict would arise between the users of the different facilities. Being a Christian, his devotion grew as he walked, but he found the days following his arrival in Santiago, in the early morning of 5 May, spiritually and physically very difficult. However, back in Paris (travelling this time by bus and train), he felt a lot more confident about the future.

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As for the pilgrimage to Ise, an academic from Nara city gave his opinion in an interview to a daily newspaper.12 As a teacher of modern history, he found it instructive to walk with a group of students in mid-winter along the 140 kilometres from Nara to Ise and thus to recall the ordeals experienced by the pilgrims of the Edo period. A few articles in the same newspaper’s leisure section associate the contact with nature through similar kinds of physical activity as pilgrimage as nice opportunities to get into good physical and spiritual shape. It is mostly elderly persons, however, who still visit Ise as a spiritual centre, and are inclined to transfer large sums of money to the Shrine for its upkeep.

The destinations: Ise and Santiago Several elements play a major part in the natural environment of both places and probably lie at the origin of customs and rituals which have become part of the identity of both pilgrimages. First we should mention the nearby sea, with its huge wealth of fauna and flora. From the sea come the products linked to the religious rites, and part of the food for the pilgrims. In Ise, salt is produced in caldrons in Futami-chō, and dried abalone (noshi awabi) comes from Kuzaki. In Santiago, scallop shells gathered on the seashore are sold in front of the cathedral as tokens of the pilgrimage. Then there are the mountains, which constitute the natural limits of these sacred places. At Ise, a barrier is formed by the Suzuka Mountains, while to the south the Asama-dake (553 metres high) with its Kongōshō-ji temple protects the shrines. In Santiago, the small hill Monseor gives the pilgrim their first sight of the sacred place; often pilgrims used to express their feelings of joy there, and sometimes also of penitence, as they took off their shoes or got down from their horses. Rivers too form geographical limits and must be crossed in order to enter into contact with the sacred. On their banks purification takes place. In Ise water from the river Isuzu is used to purify the hands and body before approaching the shrine. Near Santiago the small stream called ‘Lava Mentula’ allowed pilgrims to rid themselves of the sins of flesh. Then there are the forests. A pamphlet issued by the Grand Shrine of Ise states: ‘The pure natural surroundings are transformed into a sacred park in which the grove (mori) is itself equivalent to the sacred shrine (yashiro)’. In a sense, we can compare these forests around the Shrine of Ise with the churches of Santiago. The old European diaries quoted above give clear indications of the perception of Santiago. The last chapter of the Liber Sancti Jacobi mentions seven doors and ten churches, and gives a detailed description of the basilica: its dimensions, its portals, the fountain, the square, etc. The dimension of time, however, is totally different in Ise and Santiago. While Santiago contains all the artistic styles which reached this part of Spain, the abundance of these riches contrasts with the simplicity of the architecture of the Ise Shrines. At Ise, a ‘brand new past’ can be encountered; the history of the shrine seems eternal, as it is continuously renewed and always part of the present. The city of Ise covers 179 hectares and had a population of 103,000 in 1995. Specific services associated with the visits of pilgrims were provided in several urban districts, now forming parts of Ise (Fujimoto 1968). Recent urban policies enhance their different

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characteristics in order to foster their tourist value and have visitors stay longer. A brief description of the Kawasaki (Fujimoto 1975; Inaishi 1981) and Oharai districts (Seike 1981; Sakurai 1991) underlines the presentday attitude towards the past and Japan’s policies of conservation and protection. Kawasaki, on the banks of the Seita River, was founded around the fourth century and might have been a self-administered town. During the Edo period its wholesalers handled all the materials for the reconstruction of the shrines, as well as rice, sea products, etc. for the supply of the pilgrims. Along the banks warehouses were lined up, with lodgings facing the street behind. Much effort has gone into the protection of Kawasaki after it was threatened by floods in 1974, and the river bed was enlarged mainly through the initiative of the Association to Nurture the History and Culture of Kawasaki. Oharai (in Uji) is a smaller district, where the guides (o-shi) used to live and own lodgings which they provided for the pilgrims. As Oharai stood in the sacred zone of the Inner Shrine (Naikū), it was ‘purified’ in 1891 by removing the shops providing food and souvenirs. The old urban landscape thus disappeared, but it has been reconstructed again bit by bit. Several centres of handicraft and traditional know-how can be found there today. In 1979 a committee for the protection of the area was created, and the year 1990 saw a municipal decree which allows repair or reconstruction in Edo period style—in a sense resulting in an ‘invention’ of an Edo period district. Santiago with its 115,000 inhabitants was included in the UNESCO World Heritage List in 1985. In conjunction with the Compostela-1993 project the inner city benefits from protection measures, while new housing zones were created around the city. Located in a remote region of Spain, far in the west of Europe, Santiago plays the part of a regional centre and university town famous for its religious studies. For both Ise and Santiago the development of tourism seems an economic necessity in a peripheral geographical location. The fourth ‘World Lead-off City’ Conference held in Ise on October 1995 brought the two cities of Ise and Santiago together. The motto was ‘Reviving the Roads’. From this meeting the idea of sister-city ties has developed. Pilgrimages to Ise and Santiago embody two opposing perspectives of time and relations to the past. In Ise the span of time lasts only 20 years before the shrines are renewed; past, present and future dissolve as they are associated with the never-ending process of reconstruction of the great shrine. In contrast, in Santiago periods of time pile up and blend into harmony.

Notes 1 The Nihon-shoki (completed in 720 CE) is the oldest chronicle of Japan, covering a period from its mythical origin to the reign of the Empress Jitō (686–697 CE). 2 ‘Hatsu mōde seikyō bunri wa?’ referring to the visit of the Prime Minister Murayama to the Ise Shrine on 4 January 1995. 3 In the twentieth century new solutions had to be found to cope with the scarcity of building materials. This suggests that a slight adaptation may have taken place (Kobayashi 1981). 4 Hence the concept of nuke mairi, i.e. pilgrimage undertaken clandestinely, ‘disappearing’ from one’s community secretly. 5 The making of the sweet Akafuku-mochi, for instance, goes back to 1707. 6 Today’s city of Ise grew out of the merger of Uji, Yamada and several villages in 1955.

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7 The Futami no Ura are two big rocks located 700 metres from the seashore and joined by ropes. Since the Heian period a Shintō cult has been dedicated to these rocks, seen as ‘husband and wife’. 8 Seki had 7,400 inhabitants in 1995. 9 According to the Ise municipal data book (1994), the total number of visitors was: 8,225,765 (5,684,215 for the Naikū and 2,541,550 for the Gekū). The figure for the first visit of the year (hatsu mōde) for both shrines was: 370,130 on January 1. 10 Details for every year can be found in the Revista de la Archicofradia Universal del Apostol Santiago, edited by la Archicofradia Universal del Apostol Santiago. 11 Shifts are visible in the distribution of these three categories in the course of time: 60%, 37%, 3% in 1995, against 68.5%, 28.5%, 2.5% in 1993. 12 ‘Waraji de tadoru ikai no tabi’ [travel to a strange world wearing straw sandals], Asahi Shinbun, 19 February 1997.

Bibliography Arís, C.M. (ed.) (1995) Santiago de Compostela: La ciudad histórica como presente, Santiago: Consorcio de Santiago. Barret, P. and Gurgand, J.N. (1978) Priez pour nous à Compostelle. La vie des pélerins sur les chemins de Saint Jacques, Paris: Hachette. Bernes (Abbot), G., Veron, G. and Laborde-Balen, L. (1989) Le chemin de Saint Jacques de Compostelle: Guide pratique du pèlerin en Espagne, Randonnées pyrénéennes. Bourdarias, J. and Wasielewski, M. (1996) Guide européen des chemins de Compostelle, Paris: Fayard. Chélini, J. and Branthomme, H. (eds) (1982) Les chemins de Dieu—Histoire des pélerinages chrétiens des origines a nos jours, Paris: Hachette. Chélini, J. and Branthomme H. (eds) (1995) Histoire des pélerinages non chrétiens: entre magique et sacré, le chemin des dieux, Paris: Hachette. Cortes Trasmonte, M.P. (1962) El urbanismo en Santiago de Compostela en el siglo XIX, Santiago de Compostela: Universidad. Costa Bujan, P. and Morenas Aydillo, J. (1989) Santiago de Compostela 1850–1950, Santiago de Compostela: Colexio de Arquitectos de Galicia. Fujimoto, T. (1968) Monzenmachi no keisei to shaji no kinō—Ise no kuni Yamada no bāi [Formation of a religious-town and function of a shrine—the case of Yamada in Ise province], Kyoto: Shūraku no rekishi chiri, Rekishi chirigaku kiyō. Fujimoto, T. (1975) ‘Kinsei minatomachi no hōkenteki ichi-danmen—Ise no kuni Kawasakichō o jirei toshite’ [Profile of a feudal port-town in the modern period—the case of Kawasaki in Ise province], Chiiki to Kōtsū, Tokyo: Taimeidō. Fujimoto, T. (1978) ‘Oshi to hanesho’ [Oshi and money], Rekishi chiri kenkyū to toshi kenkyū, (Jō), Fujioka Kenjirō sensei taishoku kinen jigyōkai. Garcia Iglesias, J.M. (1990) A catedral de Santiago e o barroco, Santiago de Compostela: Colexio de Arquitectos de Galicia. Gicquel, B. (ed.) (1991) Campus Stellae n°1—Les chemins de Saint Jacques et la culture européenne, Paris: Klincksiek. Guichard-Anguis, S. (1993) ‘Reconstruction périodique et prospérité d’une ville devant le sanctuaire “monzen machi” Ise’, Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Hagiwara, T. (1985) Ise shinkō—1 Kodai Chūsei [Ise belief-Antiquity and Middle Ages], Tokyo: Yūzankaku. Inaishi, K. (1981) Ise, Kawasaki no machinami chōsa [Ise, research on the historical landscapes of Kawasaki], Tokyo: Kankyō bunka kenkyūjo.

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Jingū shichō sōmubu (1992) Zuien, Ise: Jingū shichō. Jingū shintō seinenkai (1992) Sengū hando bukku [Guide of the reconstruction of the Great Shrines], Ise: Jingū shintō seinenkai. Kobayashi, B. (1981) ‘The case of the Ise Grand Shintō Temple in Japan’, Nessun Futuro Senza Passato IV. Assembla Generale, Congresso Internationale di Studi, Roma-Bari-Firenze-Verona, ICOMOS, pp. 25–31 (Maggio). Lois Gonzàlez, R. and Rodorigez Gonzàlez, R. (1997) ‘La estrategia de promoción urbana de Santiago de Compostela’, El Planeamiento urbano y estratégico—Il Jornadas de Estudio y Debate Urbanos, Universidad de Leon. Lopes Alsina, F. (1993) ‘Saint-Jacques: une ville pour l’apôtre’, Saint Jacques de Compostelle: mille ans de pélerinage en Europe, Paris: Desclée de Brouwer. Nishigaki, S. (1984) Ise shinkō—Kinsei [Ise belief—Early Modern Period] II, Tokyo: Yuzankaku. Public Relations Section for the Regular Removal of the Grand Shrine of Ise (Undated) Jingū— Japan’s Spiritual Home, Ise: Public Relations Section for the Regular Removal of the Grand Shrine of Ise. Sadler, A.L. (transl.) (1940) Saka’s Diary of a Pilgrim to Ise, Tokyo: The Meiji Japan Society. Sakurai, H. (1991) Naikū monzenmachi ni miru girei bunka [Culture of the ceremonies in the religious town of the Naikū], Ise: Girei bunka. Seike, K. (1981) Ise—Oharai machi no bāi [Ise, the case of Oharai] Kankyōbunka, Tokyo: Kankyō bunka kenkyūjo. Tamaru, N. and Reid, D. (eds) (1996) Religion in Japanese Culture, Tokyo: Kōdansha. Torres Luna, M.P. and Pazzo Labrador, A. (1994) Las parroquias de Galicia y su evolución, Santiago de Compostela: Grafisant. Torres Luna, M.P., Pérez Alberti, A. and Lois Gonzàlez, R.C. (eds) (1993) Los Caminos de Santiago y el territorio—Congreso International de Geografía, Santiago de Compostela: Grafisant. Tsuchida, H. (1982) ‘Jingū to Ise-ji’ [The Great shrines and the roads to Ise], Nihon no seiiki 4. Kōsei-Shuppansha. Viellard, J. (transl.) (1984) Le guide du pélerin de Saint Jacques de Compostelle: Texte latin du XIIè siècle, Paris: Librairie Philosophique J.Vrin.

4 The concept of pilgrimage in Japan Sachiko Usui

From India to Japan: A concept’s journey The principal type of pilgrimage in Japan is one based on the worship of the main image of a Buddhist temple. In many cases the main image is Kannon. A representative example for this kind of pilgrimage is the one to the 33 Holy Places of Kannon in the Western Provinces (Saigoku or Saikoku), in which a pilgrim makes a circuit of 33 temples, all enshrining an image of Kannon. The number 33 is derived from the 33 incarnations of Kannon mentioned in the Lotus Sutra. The second most important type of pilgrimage is to worship the founder or patriarch of a Buddhist sect, such as Kūkai (or Kōbō Daishi, 774–835 CE), the founder of the Shingon sect in Japan. A representative pilgrimage of this kind is the one to the 88 Temples in Shikoku, in which a pilgrim (in this case called henro) sets out on a circuit of 88 temples relating to Kūkai on Shikoku Island. The majority of pilgrimages in Japan are of the first type, where the pilgrim visits and worships a Buddhist image. There are 234 such courses (82 per cent of the total of Japanese pilgrim courses), comprising 4,423 temples. Among them, 26 per cent of the contemporary pilgrim courses are to worship Kannon images; we can thus say that in modern Japan pilgrimages are very frequently undertaken to worship Kannon. Such pilgrimages are referred to as junrei (circular tour to worship images). Why Kannon? According to the Nihon Shoki (Chronicles of Japan, 720 CE) the first Buddhist image brought to Japan was a statue of Sakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism. Why, then, was Kannon’s image popularly worshipped by pilgrims, and not Sakyamuni’s? Since 1890, when Basil Hall Chamberlain (1850–1935) described Kannon as the ‘Goddess of Mercy’ (Chamberlain 1979:370), most of his readers assumed Kannon to be a goddess, but this was only one of various forms of Kannon. Kannon (Avalokitesvara-bodhisattva) was originally a male bodhisattva1 who came to be known in ancient India around the first century CE. However, Kannon is believed to be able to change into 33 different forms in order to save all beings through great compassion, as described in the Lotus Sutra (Hokke-kyō; Saddharma-pundarika sutra), one of the Mahayana Buddhist scriptures compiled in India around the second century. In China, the Lotus Sutra was translated from Sanskrit into Chinese six times. Among the three extant translations, the most famous one goes back to Kumarajiva (344–413 CE), the son of an Indian monk, who arrived in China in 401 CE. Kumarajiva’s version of the Lotus Sutra was distributed widely in North-East Asia, including Japan. In China, the Daoist scriptures were modelled after this sutra, and in Japan, the Lotus Sutra became the primary scripture of the Tendai and, later, the Nichiren sect.

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The 33 avatars of Kannon mentioned in the Lotus Sutra include Buddhas; Hindu gods such as Indra, Mahabrahma or Siva; demi-gods such as Asura, Garuda or Mahoraga; other ‘beings looking like humans but not human’; as well as various types of Buddhist devotees (monks, nuns, laypeople, kings, prime ministers, wealthy men and their wives or daughters). The features of Kannon are described only in the Kan Muryoju-kyō Meditation Sutra (Nakamura et al. 1995), one of the three primary scriptures of Pure Land Buddhism compiled in India around the same period as the Lotus Sutra. In this sutra, a giant image of Kannon shining in purple and gold is described, with basic features of a human being. Among Buddhist scriptures, the chapter of the journey of the boy Sudhana2 (Japanese: Zenzai) in the Kegon Sutra (Flower Garland Sutra) is the only one in which Mt. Potalaka is mentioned as the place where Kannon was believed to live (Yamabe 1957). In this sutra, Zenzai, a layman, visited Kannon at Mt. Potalaka, supposedly in southern India. In short, the basic features of Kannon are humanlike, but Kannon can assume 33 different forms as described in the Lotus Sutra and is believed to live on Mt. Potalaka in India. The pilgrim courses that originated from the worship of Kannon images were established by the end of the twelfth century and are thus the oldest of their kind in Japan. In other words, the origin of pilgrimages in Japan is connected to the worship of Kannon, based on the account in the Kegon Sutra, in which the boy Sudhana (Zenzai or Zenzaidōji) makes a pilgrimage to 54 Buddhist saints, including Kannon. I will discuss Zenzai below. Here I shall look at characteristics of Japanese Buddhist pilgrim courses and relate these to the Kegon Sutra. One of the common elements among the prototype pilgrim courses is a visit to a series of temples in a set order, resulting in a circuit. What does this circuit imply? It is said that the pilgrim’s round-trip journey, having originated in India, is related to the Buddhist concept of rebirth in the ten realms of beings. In order, these realms include: hell; the domain of hungry ghosts; that of animals; the realm of the Asuras (fighting spirits); the realm of the humans; the realm of heavenly beings; the realm of Shōmon (Srâvakas, lit. ‘voice-hearers’, persons who listen to Buddha’s preaching); Engaku (Pratykabuddhas, being in a state of realization and striving to free oneself); Bodhisattvas and finally the realm of Buddhas. It was believed that the souls of deceased people would circulate among the first six of these realms before having a chance to enter heaven. Thus pilgrimages of the junrei (circular) type were designed to create the effect of attaining a new life, just like newborn babies on earth. This idea of souls circulating among the ten realms can be traced back to the Upanishad in ancient India, and it was adopted as a basic concept of Buddhism, where pilgrim courses also took the shape of a circuit. In ancient India, the term ‘pilgrimage’ appears in connection with the duties of the people of the upper three of four castes in the caste system in the Brahman’s normative law book, Manusmrti (Tanabe 1953:171–2), completed between the second century BC and the second century CE. Along with the popularization of Hindu pilgrimages, the Buddhist adoption of the concept appeared in the early Buddhist scripture Mahaparinibbana-suttanta around the first century CE (Nakamura 1984). The origin of the features of Buddhist pilgrimages lay in an ancient Indian Hindu pilgrimage described in the Mahabbarata (Epic of the Bharata Dynasty), completed in the fifth to the second century BC. This Hindu pilgrimage includes

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descriptions of the memorial places of Sakyamuni. Thus both Hindu and Buddhist pilgrimage courses take the form of a circuit. As time went on, the concept of the Hindu pilgrimage spread to neighbouring countries. For example, Mt. Kailasa in the north-east of the Himalayas has been one of the most sacred places where the Hindu god Siva was believed to live (Tamamura 1995). Consequently, this mountain attracted a great number of Hindu pilgrims who reached it by walking along the foot of the snow-covered range. Later, Mt. Kailasa came to be included in Tibetan territory, becoming one of the sacred places of Tibetan Buddhist and Lamaist pilgrimages. From the mid-seventeenth century onwards, the Dalai Lama, who was thought to be one of the incarnations of Kannon, became the ruler of the state of Tibet, and his palace was called Potala—a term derived from the name of Kannon’s abode, Mt. Potalaka, described in the Kegon Sutra. Consequently, Tibetan people also made pilgrimages to his palace as one of the sacred places of Kannon. Since Siva was thought to be one of the 33 incarnations of Kannon, Mt. Kailasa became one of the most popular places both for Tibetan Buddhist pilgrimages for the worship of Kannon, as well as for Hindu pilgrimages. This oldest of all known pilgrim routes, developed by ancient Indians, takes the shape of a circuit encompassing Mt. Kailasa. In Tang China, the term pilgrimage could refer to a Buddhist monk’s journey to India to obtain original Sanskrit texts of Buddhist scriptures and to visit memorial sites devoted to Sakyamuni. Xuan Zhuang (600–664 CE), for example, travelled to India during the period from 629 to 645 CE and brought back a great number of Buddhist statues and original Buddhist texts in Sanskrit (Mizutani 1999). In the records of his travels, Xuan Zhuang often mentions Zenzai, Kannon, Monju and others who played important roles in the chapter of the Kegon Sutra that describes Zenzai’s pilgrim journey. This fact reveals that Xuan Zhuang probably walked Zenzai’s pilgrim course as described in the Kegon Sutra. Xuan Zhuang’s travel route in India was in fact almost the same as a Hindu pilgrim course and included sacred places associated with Sakyamuni. It is well-known that the Buddhist concept of pilgrimage—embodied in the last chapter of the Kegon Sutra—was introduced to Japan in the eighth century through China. It is likely that this scripture, describing the journey of Zenzai (Sudhana), promoted the establishment of pilgrim courses to Kannon temples in Japan. As Chamberlain noted: Japan may be said to owe everything to India; for from India came Buddhism, and Buddhism brought civilization—Chinese civilization; but then China had been far more deeply tinged with the Indian dye than is generally admitted even by the Chinese themselves. (1979:246) In the case of pilgrimages in Japan, he was probably right. As he pointed out, all of the basic elements of Japanese pilgrimages were derived from India. These elements include the Indian concept of Buddhist pilgrimage as practised on Mt. Wutaishan in Tang China, where Indian monks, following the Kegon Sutra, developed the holy place of Monju

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(Manjusri bodhisattva), which was brought back by Ennin (794–864 CE), who possibly used the term junrei for the first time in Japan. Ennin also brought back soil from Mt. Wutaishan, which he placed on the top of Mt. Hiei with the intention of creating a Buddhist paradise there. The specific characteristics of Japanese pilgrimages reflect Zenzai’s journey, as recounted in the Kegon Sutra. This is the only scripture describing Mt. Potalaka as Kannon’s abode, where Zenzai could meet Kannon in this world. While the circuitshaped pilgrim route is based on the Buddhist concept of transmigration of souls among the 10 realms of rebirth, which originated from the Upanishad in ancient India, this concept was adopted by Buddhism and embodied in the pilgrim journey of Zenzai. In the case of the 33 Holy Places of Kannon in the Western Provinces, the number represents the 33 incarnations of Kannon described in the Lotus Sutra. This idea of incarnations, in turn, was based on the Indian concept of avatar, i.e. various possible forms taken by a supernatural being in order to manifest itself in the human world. Even today, Japanese go-eika (pilgrim songs) are dedicated individually to each temple on a pilgrim circuit. This practice is modelled on Zenzai’s gatha, dedicated to each of the 54 saints and teachers he met on his pilgrim journey described in the Kegon Sutra. The origin of goeika can thus be traced back to the Indian hymns for Hindu gods in the style of gatha as described in the Sama-veda. Finally, the founders of the 33 Holy Places of Kannon included Indian monks, who sailed to Japan prior to the official introduction of Buddhism. Even though a great number of Indian monks came and promoted Buddhism in ancient Japan, most of them were ignored by the China-Korea oriented Japanese governments as time went on. We may thus say that the origin of pilgrim courses in Japan lies in the Indian concept of pilgrimages as created by Indian monks at Mt. Wutaishan. It is noteworthy that in China and Korea there is no Buddhist pilgrim course similar to that of the 33 Holy Places of Kannon in the Western Provinces of Japan. Japanese Buddhist pilgrimages, in other words, seem to be directly influenced by Indian concepts of pilgrimage. In addition, Christianity from Europe can also be said to have influenced Buddhist pilgrimages in early modern Japan, as we can see in the Kumano Kanshin Jikkaizu Mandala painting, depicting the adoption of Christian attitudes toward their ‘idolos’. Since Kumano bikuni (wandering female Buddhist novices or ‘nuns’ in the Kumano region) used this type of mandala for the promotion of pilgrimages, the Christian elements concealed in them were disseminated all over Japan in the course of diversification of Japanese pilgrimages from the eighteenth century onwards. Also, feminine images of Kannon, namely Kishimojin (Hariti), and those of the bodhisattva Jizō holding a baby and resembling the image of the Holy Mother, began to be produced after the Shōgun’s prohibition of Christianity in the early seventeenth century Incidentally, it can be asked how many of the early Japanese Christians understood what Christianity was. In 1552, Cosme de Torres, the successor of Francisco Xavier, asked Lord Ōuchi Yoshinaga for permission to erect a building for Christians in the Sūō Province (present-day Yamaguchi Prefecture). On the scroll granting permission, mention was made of the establishment of a ‘temple for monks from Saiiki (India) who had come to promote Buddhism in Japan’ (Nei 1988:93); in fact, Torres had actually come to Japan via India.

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Also, there might have been some problems of translation. Since Jesuit missionaries used the term ‘Tenshu-kyō' (The Teachings of the Lord of Heaven) as the translation for Catholic teachings in Japanese, it was probably natural that the Japanese people thought Tenshu-kyō to be a new sect of Buddhism. In fact, Tenshu was an alias of Indra who was a guardian of the Buddhist Law in esoteric Buddhism and well-known in Japan as Taishakuten, one of the 33 manifestations of Kannon. Consequently, it is quite possible that a number of early Christians mistakenly thought that Christianity—known as Tenshu-kyō—was a new sect of Buddhism focusing on worship of the image of Tenshu or Taishakuten, brought by ‘Indian monks’. It should also be mentioned that Jesus Christ himself was considered one of ten or more incarnations of Visnu when Christianity was introduced to India. As a result, Hinduism assimilated much of Indian Christianity. Since the Sakyamuni Buddha was thought to be the ninth manifestation of Visnu, Indian Buddhists were drawn to Hinduism when esoteric Buddhism became popular. Since Hindu deities were incorporated into esoteric Buddhism as manifestations of Buddhist deities, people came to think the original deities were Hindu gods that had existed in India before Buddhism was established. Presumably a similar phenomenon presented itself in early modern Japan. As a result, many Christians embraced a new type of Buddhism in which the images of Kannon and Kishimojin resembled the Holy Mother. This phenomenon certainly also reflects the Indian concept of avatar. The evolution of Japanese Buddhist pilgrimages, in which the worship of images of Kannon has been predominant, is one of the phenomena showing the process of the Japanese domestication of foreign religions such as Hinduism, Buddhism, and Christianity, which were successively brought to Japan from ancient times to the present. Thus foreign elements lie at the root of Japanese ‘traditional’ pilgrimages and influenced their development over the centuries.

The journey of Zenzai (Sudhana) in the Kegon Sutra and the establishment of pilgrimages in Japan As mentioned above, the journey of Zenzai, described in a chapter of the Kegon Sutra, played an important role in establishing and popularizing the concept of pilgrimage in Japan. After the death of Sakyamuni (the historical founder of Buddhism) in the fifth century BC, his teachings were first handed down by his disciples. They began to be compiled around four or five centuries later. At first, the concept of the salvation of one’s own self (hinayana, smaller vehicle) was popular. When Hinayana Buddhism was predominant, the term ‘Buddhist’ referred to a person who had left home to become a monk or nun. At this time a number of kingdoms flourished in India, and along with them, commerce and industry developed through the accumulation of capital from overseas trade. The rise of a wealthy merchant class caused a change in the traditional Hindu caste system. The new merchant class strongly supported Buddhism, and, being opposed to the traditional Hindu caste system, it sympathized with the Buddha’s more ‘egalitarian’ thoughts. However, it was equally important that the children of the wealthy families

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should be able to inherit and continue their family traditions, which would not be possible if they left home to become monks or nuns. As a result, the contradictory desire to be a Buddhist but not to leave home led to the creation of the concept of a bodhisattva as a being who stays in this world and, instead of leading a secluded life, practises Buddhism to help others attain enlightenment. Wealthy merchants actively supported Buddhist institutions by donating food, money, land and buildings. Laypeople came to play important roles in the Buddhism of ancient India, and their activities are depicted in a number of scriptures, of which a representative example is the Kegon Sutra. Compiled in north-western India around the first to second century CE, the Kegon Sutra reflected the trends of the above-mentioned society in India. The sutra was brought to Eastern Jin China around the fifth century and translated from Sanskrit into Chinese by a north-Indian monk, Buddhabhadra, from 418 to 420 CE. Zetian Wu-hou (624–705 CE), the third Emperor of the Tang Dynasty (and the only Empress in 5,000 years of Chinese history) commissioned the second translation of the Kegon Sutra, carried out by Siksananda between 695 and 699 CE; Zetian Wu-hou herself wrote the preface. In a third translation of the Kegon Sutra in 798 CE, a certain Pajna translated the final chapter (Gandavyuha, Journey of the Boy Sudhana) into Chinese, an indication of its popularity in Tang China. According to the Mikkyō Daijiten (1968), while in Tang China, Kūkai received some Buddhist scriptures in Sanskrit from Pajna. It is possible that these scriptures included the original text of the chapter on Zenzai’s journey in the Kegon Sutra, which might have stimulated Kūkai to establish the pilgrim course connecting the 88 temples in Shikoku. In fact, the Kegon Sutra, and especially the chapter describing the pilgrim journey of Zenzai, had spread throughout northern China as well as other East and South-East Asian countries, as we can see from the wall paintings of the Mugaoku cave of Dunhuang (c. seventh century CE) or the stone reliefs of Zenzai and Kannon at Borobudur in Indonesia (c. eighth century CE), all of which depicts scenes related to Zenzai. According to the Nihon Shoki (Chronicles of Japan; 720 CE), Buddhism was introduced into Japan from Paekche, one of the ancient kingdoms on the Korean Peninsula, in 552 CE. After some conflict with Japanese native beliefs, Buddhism became the official state religion in the eighth century, strongly supported by the Emperor. The Kegon Sutra (Flower Garland Sutra; Avatamsaka-sutra) contains the first discourse of Sakyamuni and describes the characteristics of his great enlightenment. In essence, this enlightenment revealed that all beings have Buddha-nature; each phenomenon bears a relation to all others; and each experience contains all experiences within it in an interdependent, mutually complementary relationship. This sutra became the primary scripture of the Kegon sect of Buddhism. The Kegon doctrine was introduced to Japan by the monk Daoxuan from Tang China in 736 CE, while the monk Shenxiang from Silla on the Korean Peninsula founded the Kegon sect in Japan in 740 CE. By order of the Emperor Shōmu (701–756 CE), the Kegon Sutra became the basic doctrine of Buddhist temples in Japan from 749 CE onwards. At that time Buddhist temples and nunneries were constructed in each province as state institutions modelled on the Tang Chinese system. To serve as their headquarters the Tōdai Temple (ji) was erected in the capital city of Nara in the mid-eighth century; it

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contained the statue of Birushana-butsu (Vairocana), popularly known as the Great Buddha (16.19 m high). Vairocana, who was originally the sun god in Hinduism, became the king of the universe in the Kegon Sutra and was incarnated in esoteric Buddhism as Dainichi-nyorai, an idealization of the truth of the universe. At the dedication ceremony of the statue of Vairocana at the Tōdai-ji in 752 CE, Bodaisenna (Bodhisena, 704–760), an Indian monk of the Brahman caste, acted as the leader of the 10,000 priests gathered there, and Buttetsu (Foche), a Vietnamese monk, performed ceremonial dance and music, from which Gagaku and Gigaku (Japanese court music and dance) are derived. However, after the capital moved to Kyoto in 794 CE, the Kegon sect declined as a result of the rise of the newly imported Tendai and Shingon teachings from China. Tōdaiji was revived as the headquarters of the Kegon sect in Japan only after the Meiji Restoration (1868). In 984 CE, the Sanbō E-kotoba (Buddhist Tales of India, China and Japan), compiled by the courtier Fujiwara Tamenori, recorded that the nuns of Hokkeji in Nara had created a group of dolls representing scenes of Zenzai asking questions of the saints in his quest for enlightenment (Izumoji 1990). This is the oldest record in Japan of the visualization of Zenzai’s pilgrim journey based on the Kegon Sutra. The Kegon Gojūgosho Emaki (Picture Scroll of the 55 Sacred Places of the Kegon Sutra) was produced in Japan in the second half of the twelfth century as a visualization of the chapter on Zenzai, stimulating Japanese interest in pilgrimages. Certainly, the visual version of Zenzai’s journey played an important role in popularizing his pilgrimage and especially his visit to Kannon at Mt. Potalaka. The title ‘Gojūgosho’ (55 places), however, is not really correct. The Kegon Sutra states that Zenzai visited 54 places, meeting two young Buddhist devotees, Tokushodōji (Daraka) and Utoku-donyo (Darika), together at the fifty-first place. It is said that the Japanese government mistakenly gave the title Kegon Gojūgosho Emaki (Picture Scroll of the 55 Sacred Places of the Kegon Sutra) to the scroll when it was registered as a National Treasure in the early Meiji period. A late twelfth-century copy of the scroll depicting Zenzai’s journey (ink and light colour on paper, in typical Japanese painting style) has been preserved at Tōdai-ji. Some sections of this scroll were later separated. Since Tōdai-ji has been destroyed twice by fire, in 1180 and 1567, the temple’s art treasures are mostly lost and extant works of the Kegon sect are few in number. The name Zenzai, or Zenzai-dōji (Sudhana in Sanskrit) means ‘child of many good treasures’ and perhaps refers to the countless jewels that appeared around him when he was born. Zenzai was the son of a wealthy man, and he wanted to find supreme knowledge and attain Buddhahood. One day he attended a sermon by the bodhisattva Monju (Manjusri), who instructed him to travel south in order to find enlightenment. Going from one place to another, Zenzai thus visited a series of 54 places, where he met 53 saints (Monju he met twice).3 The number 53, based as it is on the pilgrim journey of Zenzai, became a symbol of travel in Japan. Examples of this include the woodblock prints Fifty-three Stations of the Tōkaidō (the main route linking east and west Japan) by Andō Hiroshige (1797–1856), and the work of Jippensha Ikku (1765–1831), who wrote a very popular humorous story about the travellers at the fifty-three stations of the Tōkaidō.

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The 54 saints/teachers Zenzai met included bodhisattvas (Kannon, Monju, Miroku and Fugen), Buddhist monks and nuns, wealthy men, an incense dealer, an artisan, medical doctors, sages, Sakyamuni’s mother, Sakyamuni’s wife, laypeople, young boys and girls, a beautiful courtesan who could adapt herself even to a demon in order to heal it of a wound, an angry Brahman, a grumbling king, as well as various Hindu deities. These people represent the various types of Buddhist devotees who had attained enlightenment, and by meeting them the young boy Zenzai was able to make a broad study of life. At the end of his long journey Zenzai visited the bodhisattva Miroku (no. 53, Maitreya), who urged him to seek out the bodhisattva Monju (no. 1 and no. 54 Manjusri) again. At the request of Zenzai, Miroku opened the door to the Diamond Realm, where Zenzai saw the world of Vairocana, accompanied by Monju and Fugen and surrounded by a great number of buddhas, bodhisattvas, demi-gods and celestial beings. Here, Zenzai realized that during his pilgrimage he had completed the Buddhist training equal to that of a bodhisattva. The final scene, in which Vairocana appears, can be understood as existing in this world, as Zenzai could get there on foot. In the Kegon doctrine, the earthly world was highly valued, suggesting the possibility of the creation of paradise on earth. Thus Kannon’s paradise was located on the top of Mt. Potalaka in southern India, a concrete place Zenzai could actually visit. Accordingly, the specific places to worship Kannon in Japan are this-worldly places, all reachable on foot. One opinion says that Monju was a wise man of the Brahman caste, who really existed in ancient India. According to the Kegon Sutra, Monju’s abode was located somewhere in the north-east. Seen from India, Mt. Wutaishan is situated in that direction. Moreover, Monju’s abode is explicitly said to be at Mt. Wutaishan in the Monjushiri Hōhōzō Darani Sutra, translated into Chinese by Bodhiruci (572–727 CE), an Indian monk of the Brahman class. As a result, a great number of Indian monks went to Mt. Wutaishan in search of Monju whom they believed to reside there. Thus Mt. Wutaishan came to be viewed as the paradise of Monju on earth, and the headquarters of Kegon Buddhism was established there. Fugen (Samantabhadra) was also a bodhisattva who encouraged Zenzai by telling his own experience of seeking enlightenment on earth. Fugen’s abode was thought to be Mt. Emeishan, which became one of the three sacred places of Buddhist pilgrimage in China, together with Mt. Wutaishan and Mt. Putuoshan, the latter being Kannon’s Mt. Potalaka. All of these sacred places were developed by Indian monks who came to China in order to find the bodhisattvas described in the Kegon Sutra. As a result, these places came to be regarded as Buddhist paradises, and they were visited by a great number of pilgrims from China, India, Korea and Japan. In Japan the oldest record of the term junrei (pilgrimage circuit) is found in the title of the diary of the Tendai priest Ennin (794–864 CE), Nittō Guhō Junrei Kōki (Ennin’s Diary: The Record of a Pilgrimage to China in Search of the Law; cf. Reischauer 1955). As a successor of Priest Saichō (or Dengyō Daishi, 767–822 CE), the founder of the Tendai sect of Buddhism in Japan, it was the aim of Ennin to make a trip to China to obtain the latest information on the advanced Buddhist studies there and to bring back Buddhist scriptures and items to Japan. In that sense Ennin’s trip to China was equivalent to Xuan Zhuang’s travel to India. Ennin’s travel route in China likewise took the shape of a circuit.

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As already mentioned, during his stay in Tang China from 838 to 847 CE, Ennin visited a number of Buddhist holy places, including the headquarters of the Kegon sect of Buddhism at Mt. Wutaishan in Shanxi Province. At that time a great number of Indian monks actively promoted Buddhism in China, and they particularly stressed the teachings of the Kegon Sutra, which spoke of the importance of this world in which people could find Buddhist paradise. In 845 CE, however, the Chinese government proscribed Buddhism, together with Christianity, Zoroastrianism and other religions of foreign origin, and demanded the exile of foreign devotees. Ennin was forced to leave, and while waiting for a chance to return to Japan at Qinglong Temple together with Indian monks, he completed his book Shittanki (The Book of Siddham Style of Sanskrit). When Ennin returned to Japan, he was appointed Chief Abbot of Enryakuji Temple, the headquarters of the Tendai sect located on the top of Mt. Hiei, and established many new Buddhist rituals based on his study at Mt. Wutaishan. Ennin, who had studied Sanskrit under Ratnacandra, an Indian monk, brought back more than 800 volumes of Buddhist scriptures, including a great number of Sanskrit texts. In the list of what he brought back we can also find small items such as Sakyamuni’s relics (sarira) and ‘20 balls made of Wutaishan’s soil’ (Fukaya 1990:690). This fact reveals that Ennin probably planned to establish a branch of Monju’s abode on Mt. Hiei. One of Ennin’s disciples, Sō-ō (831–916 CE),4 continued his practice of worshipping three Buddhist pagodas in the precincts of Enryakuji temple, and expanded this practice into the Sennichi Kaihō-gyō (a 1,000-day pilgrimage to a series of holy places), which was a Buddhist exercise aimed at getting closer to the final goal of enlightenment as described in the chapter on Zenzai’s journey in the Kegon Sutra. It is possible that the Tendai monks’ Sennichi Kaihō-gyō—still performed today—was the origin of junrei in Japan, and that it led to the establishment of the 33 Holy Places of Kannon in the Western Provinces. Based on the ancient Hindu view of the world, the authentic direction to reach the Buddhist heaven or the place to attain enlightenment was described in the Kegon Sutra (Nyūhokkai-bon Chapter, vol. 34–1) as follows: one should walk from east to south, then west and north, finally reaching the ‘upper world’. The origin of this concept of pilgrimage is found in Hindu mythology, Mahabharata, in which King Yudhisthira finally reaches the Himalayas in the north at the end of his long pilgrim journey in a clockwise direction and was welcomed to the heaven there by Indra, who became one of the 33 forms of Kannon when adopted into Buddhism. In a similar fashion, Zenzai in the Kegon Sutra attained enlightenment after walking from east to south (where he met Kannon on earth) and then to the west and the north, were he finally reached the world of Vairocana. In Japan, the pilgrim route to the 33 Holy Places of Kannon in the Western Provinces also starts in the east and then goes to the south, the west and finally to the north. It is likely, therefore, that the pilgrim circuit for the 33 Holy Places of Kannon was established by adopting the principles laid out in the Kegon Sutra. To conclude, pilgrimages have been popular in Japan since the ninth century, when the term junrei was first used by the Tendai monk Ennin. Today, there are many pilgrim courses still attracting large numbers of people who visit a series of temples enshrining a statue of Kannon or other Buddhist image, or a series of temples related to the founder of

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one of the Japanese Buddhist sects. The history of these pilgrim courses tells us about the rise and fall of Buddhism in Japan and the trends of the society in which the pilgrims lived.

Notes 1 Bodhisattva: one who seeks enlightenment and aspires to Buddhahood. A bodhisattva is a being in the ninth of ten ‘worlds’ (the tenth is the world in which one has attained enlightenment); the state of a bodhisattva is characterized by compassion and the search for enlightenment by devoting oneself to saving others. 2 Sudhana was also one of Sakyamuni’s names in one of his previous lives. In that sense, Zenzai in the Kegon Sutra can be thought of as one of Sakyamuni’s incarnations. 3 There are various opinions about the number of places Zenzai visited. As Zenzai is said to have met Monju twice, Monju’s place should be counted as one. Another opinion says that Visvamitra (no. 44) did not give any advice to Zenzai, but recommended that he meet Silpabhijna (no. 45); consequently, no. 44 should not be counted. As a result, many people believe that the number of places at which Zenzai actually met an ‘important being’ is 53. 4 Konryū Daishi, Ennin’s disciple who established the Sennichi Kaihō-gyō. Cf. Mitsunaga 1996:73.

Bibliography Asano, Kiyoshi (ed.) (1990) Saigoku 33sho reijo jiin no sōgōteki kenkyū [Comprehensive studies on the 33 Holy Places in the Western provinces], Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Bijutsu Shuppan. Chamberlain, Basil Hall (1979) [1890] Things Japanese, Being Notes on Various Subjects Connected with Japan, for the Use of Travelers and Others, Tokyo: Tuttle. Daihōrinkaku (ed.) (1993) Zusetsu 33 Kannon Bosatsu [The 33 images of Kannon], Tokyo: Daihōrinkaku. Fujita, Shōichi (ed.) (1997) Reijo no Jiten [Directory of Holy Places in Japan], Tokyo: Gakushū Kenkyūsha. Fukaya, Ken’ichi (transl.) (1990) Nittō Guhō Junrei Kōki [Ennin’s journey to and pilgrimage through Tang China in search of the Buddhist teachings], Tokyo: Chuo Koronsha. Hayami, Tsuku (1977) Kannon shinkō [The worship of Kannon], Kyoto: Sōgeisha. Inagaki, Hisao and Harold Stewart (2000) The Three Pure Land Sutras: A Study and Translation from Chinese, 3rd edn, Kyoto, Nagata Bunshodō. Iwamoto, Yutaka (1994) Ramayana, Vol. I, Tokyo: Heibonsha (Tōyō Bunko no. 376). Iwamoto, Yutaka (1995) Ramayana, Vol. II, Tokyo: Heibonsha (Tōyō Bunko no. 441). Izumoji, Osamu (ed.) (1990) Sanbō-e [Paintings of Three Jewels], Tokyo: Heibonsha (Tōyō Bunko no. 513). Jimon Kōsōki Gyōson-den [The Biographies of High-ranking Buddhist Monks]: pp. 1225–1233. Available online at: http://www.nichibun.ac.jp/graphicversion/dbase/reikenki/saigoku/top.html Kaitokudō, Tomonokai (ed.) (1993) Michi to junrei [Roads and Pilgrimages], Osaka: Izumi Shoin. Kimura, Kiyotaka (1986) Kegon-kyō [Flower Garland Sutra], Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō. Kishi, Shōzō (transl.) (1986) ‘Kumano gongen no koto’ [Divinity Manifested in Kumano], Shinto-shu, Tokyo: Heibonsha (Tōyō Bunko no. 94:3–22). Kubo, Noritada (1996) Dōkyō no kamigami [The deities of Daoism], Tokyo: Kodansha. Kubota, Nobuhiro (1991) Indo seichi junrei [Pilgrimages to holy places in India], Tokyo: Shinchosha.

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Kubota, Nobuhiro (1994) Sangaku reijō junrei [Pilgrimages to sacred mountains], Tokyo: Shinchosha. Mano, Toshikazu (1985) ‘Junrei’ [Pilgrimages], Dai Hyakkajiten Encyclopedia, Vol. 7:318, Tokyo: Heibonsha. Mano, Toshikazu (1996) Honzon Junrei [Pilgrimages to [worship] Buddhist images], Vol. 1, Tokyo: Yūzankaku. Mikkyō Daijiten [Dictionary of Esoteric Buddhism] (1968) Tokyo: Hōzōkan. Mitsunaga, Kakudō (1996) Sennichi Kaihō-gyō [The Buddhist practice of visiting a series of Buddhist holy places for 1000 days], Tokyo: Shunjūsha. Mizutani, Shinjō (transl.) (1999) Genjō: Daitō Seiiki-ki [Xuan Zhuang’s travels in India, 629–645], Tokyo: Heibonsha (Tōyō Bunko no. 653, 655, 657). Murakami, Shigeyoshi (1995) Nihon Shūkyō Jiten [Directory of Japanese Religions], Tokyo: Kōdansha. Murayama, Shūchi (1995) Honji suijaku [Buddhist and Shintō Syncretism], Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Nagasawa, Kazutoshi (1992) Hokken Den, Sōun Kōki [Fa Xian and Song Yun, Buddhist Pilgrims from China to India], Tokyo: Heibonsha (Tōyō Bunko no. 194). Nakajō, Chū and Tanigawa Ken’ichi (1999) Kakure Kirishitan no seiga [Sacred paintings of the hidden Christians in Japan], Tokyo: Shōgakkan. Nakamura, Hajime (1984) Buddha Saigo no Tabi (Mahaparinibbana-suttanta), Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Nakamura, Hajime (1990a) Anmu ryōju-kyō; Amida-kyō, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Nakamura, Hajime (1990b) Muryōju-kyō, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Nakamura, Hajime (1995) Kan Muryōju-kyō [Amitayur-dhyana sutra], Jōdo Sanbu-kyō [The Three Sutras of Pure Land Buddhism], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Nara: Nara National Museum (1985) Sangaku shinkō no ihō [The Art Treasures of the Sacred Mountain Worship], Exhibition Catalogue. Nara: Nara National Museum (1996) Higashi Asia no Hotoketachi [Buddhist images in East Asia], Exhibition Catalogue. Nei, Kiyoshi (1988) Shugendō to Kirishitan [Shugendō, Mountain Ascetics and Early Christians in Japan], Tokyo: Tōkyōdō Shuppan. Nishigami, Seiyo (1992) Kannon zuten [The illustrated dictionary of Kannon], Osaka: Toki Shobō. Okada, Akinori (1995) Zoroasuta no Shinpi Shisō [The Mystic Philosophy of Zoroastrianism], Tokyo: Kōdansha. Osaka City Museum (1999) En no Gyōja to shugendō no sekai [The world of En no Gyoja and the mountain ascetics], Osaka, Tōbu Museum and Mainichi Shinbun. Reischauer, Edwin (1955) Ennin’s Diary: the Record of a Pilgrimage to China in Search of the Law, New York: Ronald Press. Saeki, Arikiyo (1989) Ennin, Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Saito, Yuishin (1927) Kegon gokyōshō kyōwa [Lectures on the 5 chapters of the Flower Garland Sutra], Tokyo: Hineuma Shuppansha. Sakamoto, Yukio and Iwamoto, Yutaka (transl.) (1995) Hokke-kyō [The Lotus Sutra], Vol. 3, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Shioiri, Ryōzō (transl.) (1970) Ennin, Nittō guhō junrei kōki [Ennin’s journey to and pilgrimage through Tang China in search of the Buddhist teachings], Tokyo: Heibonsha. Tachikawa, Musashi, Ishiguro, Atsushi, Hishida Kunio and Shima Iwa (1995) Hindu no kamigami [Hindu deities], Tokyo: Serika Shobō. Tamamura, Kazuhiko (1995) Chibetto, Seizan, Junreisha [Tibet, the sacred mountain, and pilgrims], Tokyo: Shakai Shisōsha. Tanabe, Shigeko (transl.) (1953) ‘Manava-dharma-sastra’, Manu no Hōten: Chapter 6: Section 39, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Tokuda, Kazuo (1993) Egatari to monogatari [Tales and picture telling stories]. Tokyo: Heibonsha.

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Ujitani, Tsutomu (transl.) (1988) Nihon Shoki [Chronicles of Japan]: Vols. 1 and 2, Tokyo: Kōdansha. Yamabe, Shugaku (1957) Kegon-kyō no sekai -jinsei shugyō no tabi [The world of the Flower Garland Sutra—Life’s journey as an ascetic practice], Tokyo: Sekai Seiten Kankō Kyōkai. Yamamoto, Wakako (1995) Shikoku Henro no Minshūshi [People’s History of Henro Pilgrimage on Shikoku Island], Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōrai-sha. Yamazaki, Motoichi (1997) Kodai indo no bunmei to shakai [Ancient Indian civilization and society], Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha. Zenkoku Reijō Junpai Jiten [Directory of Holy Places for Pilgrimages in Japan] (1998) Tokyo: Daihōrinkaku.

5 The daily life of the henro on the island of Shikoku during the Edo period A mirror of Tokugawa society Nathalie Kouamé

Introduction The Edo period (1615–1867) can be seen as the heyday of pilgrimages. Every year hundreds of thousands, even millions, of Japanese would set off on the roads of the archipelago to worship at temples and shrines which local and national traditions had singled out from among countless other places of worship. In this period, some of the most popular and certainly the most famous religious circuits were Ise, Kumano, Saikoku (in the Western Provinces), Chichibu, Bandō and Konpira. The reputation of these places dates back to the middle ages and in some cases even to antiquity. Another important pilgrimage of the Tokugawa period was the Shikoku pilgrimage (Shikoku henro), also known as the Pilgrimage of the 88 Holy Places (Shikoku hachi-jū-hakka-sho). This pilgrimage seems to be of relatively recent origin: no precise mention of its form or its tradition can be found in reliable historical texts before the seventeenth century. Nevertheless, together with Ise, the Shikoku pilgrimage was the pilgrimage which drew the largest numbers during the Edo period. As with the other pilgrimages of the period, the increasing success of the Shikoku pilgrimage can be ascribed to a large number of socio-economic factors. First, the improved standard of living of commoners enabled them to plan for extra expenditure of travelling; second, the general raising of education standards made people want to get to know the world outside the village or town where, until then, they mostly had been forced to remain; third, the geopolitical situation was favourable, with improved transport and accommodation facilities and relatively safe conditions which prevailed in a country with strict controls of order. These factors explain why the Pilgrimage to the 88 Holy Places became feasible for many. Apart from these socio-economic factors, mention must be made of the popularity of the cult of Kōbō Daishi (Kūkai), who, according to some, was the founder of the Shikoku circuit. During its golden age at the beginning of the nineteenth century the Shikoku pilgrimage would attract between twenty and forty thousand henro.1 On an out-of-theway island like Shikoku, so many pilgrims could hardly escape notice. Material dealing with the Shikoku Pilgrimage of the 88 Holy Places is quite abundant. There exist intriguing arguments relating to its origins (cf. Kondō 1971; Shinjō 1988; Gorai 1996), accounts of its main stages (Maeda 1971; Shinjō 1988), as well as stimulating analyses of its imaginary elements (Shinno 1992, 1996). In the last few years, however, more systematic interest has been shown in the everyday lives of the henro of

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Shikoku (cf. Kiyoyoshi 1999). This interesting new perspective reveals some little known, and occasionally unknown, aspects of Tokugawa society in general and of the outer regions of the early modern archipelago in particular. This article, which aims to take a closer look at the everyday reality of the Shikoku pilgrimage as experienced by the henro, will pay special attention to a few original texts dealing with early modern Shikoku. Using primary materials such as henro diaries and administrative records, I wish to examine the daily life of the henro in their various capacities as devout Buddhists, as Bakufu subjects, as participants in the local economy, and as popular— presumed—saints. Indeed, throughout the Edo period, the material reality of a henro’s journey was dominated by three factors: first, various laws which regulated a commoner’s right to travel; second, the material conditions on the island and services provided by its inhabitants; and third, the special status enjoyed by henro in their traditional role as ‘fellow travellers of Kōbō Daishi’ (dōgyō ninin).2 It was the combination of these three aspects that gave the henro’s journey on Shikoku during the Edo period its unique flavour.

The social setting Even today the most common image held of Japan under Tokugawa domination is that of an extremely rigid society in which the authorities had almost absolute control over the movements of its subjects. Even though recent research has come to question this image, it still persists, even among professional historians. This is due in part to certain historical facts which cannot be ignored. First, there was the Tokugawa foreign policy known as sakoku (closed country), which put the strictest limits and controls on diplomatic, economic and political contacts with foreign countries. Second, there was the unique and extremely restrictive system known as sankin kōtai (alternate residence), which forced the majority of the daimyō (feudal lords) of the period to live in Edo (the former name of Tokyo)—where their families were kept hostage—one year out of two. Third, there was what historians have termed tochi-kinbaku, the tacit or explicit obligation of most commoners to remain ‘attached to the land’, in other words never to leave the limits of the village during the course of their lives. Bearing these facts in mind it comes as a surprise that the Japanese of the Edo period in fact enjoyed a great freedom of movement and were able to leave their towns and villages for pilgrimages and many other purposes. Furthermore, the relatively indulgent attitude of the Edo central government and the local han (the daimyō's domains and administrations) towards this freedom of movement is even more unexpected. This, at any rate, is one of the things that strike the scholar examining the administrative regulations as well as the practical details for clues to the travelling conditions experienced by henro in early modern Shikoku: we have every reason to believe that the state authorities made few demands on the henro, allowing them to circulate relatively freely Let us first examine the constraints imposed on henro wishing to visit the 88 Holy Places linked to the memory of Kōbō Daishi (Kūkai). We will consider the various constraints in the order in which the henro experienced them. At first sight they make a

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discouraging list, but a close analysis allows us to put them into perspective. First, the henro of early modern Japan had to request authorization for departure. They could, for example, apply to their shōya (village headman), who, in turn, would serve as intermediary between the applicant and the higher administrative echelons on whom the decision depended. The first thing that can be said here is that, despite the compulsory nature of this formality, the absence of the phenomenon known as nuke-mairi (clandestine pilgrimage, or stealing oneself away to go on a pilgrimage) in the tradition of the Shikoku pilgrimage would seem to indicate that such authorization could be obtained without difficulty.3 Another indispensable element was the need to obtain a ‘circulating ticket’ (ōral tegata) before going on the Shikoku pilgrimage (or any other journey). This was granted by the local temple or by the shōya of the village. Here too, we are bound to conclude, given the abundant documents that have come down to us, that such tickets were easily obtainable. Even when these formalities had been dealt with, ordinary Japanese wishing to go on the Pilgrimage to the 88 Holy Places could only leave at certain fixed periods. In this, the authorities seem to have been motivated by practical considerations: peasants should not leave when there was work to be done. Thus we are forced to conclude that the authorities were not so much concerned with interfering with pilgrims as much as with making sure that all agricultural work was properly carried out and that taxes were paid on time. The legislation concerning the Shikoku pilgrimage could also limit the length of time a pilgrimage could last. Occasionally, certain regions of Shikoku demanded that the length of stay on their territory was limited. For example, the Tosa province allowed pilgrims 30 days to visit its 16 fudasho.4 While this seems harsh, seen from another perspective, this measure appears perfectly reasonable: the henro had to travel 91 ri (364 kilometres) in all; this works out to a mere 12 kilometres per day, a trifle for pilgrims who were quite capable of covering up to 40 kilometres daily! En route, the henro had to show their ōrai tegata and, in some cases, other official documents at the gates (sekisho) and at checkpoints (bansho) on the borders of domains. Their documents could also be checked by minor officials in towns and villages. From the travel diaries of the period, we can see that this did not bother the henro much; in fact, there were few checkpoints and gates on Shikoku in the Edo period, and apart from Tosa province (present-day Kōchi prefecture), where the henro were required to have a travel document in which the dates and places where they spent the night were inscribed (irikitte), there does not seem to have been much checking. In listing the regulations concerning the henro, we must mention official pilgrimage routes some authorities defined in great detail, especially for the Tosa province and the region of the Kuma Mountains in Iyo province (present-day Ehime prefecture). When journeying on these routes, the henro were forbidden to take side roads. Such official routes were, however, found only in certain places, and they were always the shortest distance between two fudasho. Certainly the pilgrims’ freedom of movement was limited in so far as, for example, they were often not allowed to spend more than one night in the same locality. The rule, however, did not apply everywhere (e.g. in Tosa). Furthermore, sources from the Edo period concerning the movements of the henro contain interesting exceptions to this rule:

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at least one case is known where the local authorities actually invited henro to stay in the villages vacated by absent peasants. We can thus conclude that, in general, the severity of the administrative authorities of the feudal domains (han) did not prevent anyone from doing the Shikoku circuit.5 So let us now view the Shikoku pilgrimage from another angle, that of ‘legislation as a kind of travel insurance’. The idea of something like travel insurance for commoners (henro and others) can be traced back to the government of Tsunayoshi, the Shōgun who, in 1688, promulgated rules for the Tōkaidō route entitled ‘Circular concerning the treatment of travellers and oxen and horses’. In substance, the text guarantees every sick traveller the right to be treated or accompanied from inn to inn until he gets home. Also, a traveller who dies while on the journey has the right to a funeral. This certainly does not fit in with the image of an administration opposed to the movement of commoners! These measures were adopted in many parts of the archipelago including Shikoku and were in force during the rest of the Edo period. As time went on, certain details were modified. Further provisions were made concerning financial responsibility. On Shikoku and elsewhere, it was quite common for various medical expenses to be paid by the patients themselves when they could afford to, or, if not, by the host community. Numerous historical sources attest to the fact that the yukidaore-henro (henro who have collapsed while on the way) were taken care of in strict accordance with the prescriptions of Tsunayoshi. Of course, the Edo authorities and the local han were probably motivated by the desire to preserve order on their territories’ main roads. What may be more important, however, is that the authorities, faced with the mobility of their subjects, adapted to the situation by regulating their movements meticulously to such an extent that they set up a system of ‘social welfare’.

Types of henro When discussing the everyday life of the henro on the Shikoku pilgrimage we must make clear to what types of henro we are referring. Henro came from a great variety of social backgrounds. Simplifying somewhat, we can divide them into two distinct categories: those who fitted into the official socio-economic system, and those who, for whatever reason, were outside it. Researchers on the Shikoku pilgrimage have tended to emphasize the latter category, seeing them as pious individuals who were also rather poor social outcasts; they are thought of as often ill and, in order to escape from their lot, always ready to go on a pilgrimage, during which they would have to beg or receive gifts from the local people. Furthermore, since many henro were female, all pilgrims are seen as typically being of low social status. Careful reading of material available on the 88 Holy Places, however, leads one to doubt whether the henro, on a whole, were such pitiful figures. Many were, in fact, part of ‘normal’ society, such as hyakushō (peasants), chōnin (townsmen), minor samurai or minor officials from all parts of Japan. These individuals, as their travel diaries show, made the Shikoku pilgrimage under relatively favourable material conditions, though of course such a pilgrimage was arduous enough in the Edo period: visiting the 88 temples and shrines meant going right

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round the island, a distance, according to the calculations of the period, of 1,200 km, which had to be covered on foot. As the pilgrims often came from across the Inland Sea (Setonaikai), the distance required to reach Shikoku must be added to this. There were even some pilgrims who did the Shikoku pilgrimage after having completed another one elsewhere. Nevertheless, several documents show that, in the second half of the Edo period, henro completed the circuit of the island in between 30 and 60 days, which leads us to believe that they were undaunted by a distance of 1,200 km, and that the most determined could cover between 30 and 40 km per day, while those who were in less of a hurry could finish the circuit in comfort! Fairly good geophysical conditions partly explain the exploits of the henro who were able to complete the circuit in one month: despite certain nansho (difficult places [to cross]), like Tobiishi, the stony beach of Tosa province, or the steep paths leading to certain fudasho (e.g. the Yokomine temple, number 60), the henro did not encounter insurmountable obstacles on the road. Moreover, natural conditions were occasionally improved by human effort. This was the case, for example, in Tosa province where at the beginning of the Edo period many rivers had been difficult to cross because of the lack of ferries; in the golden age of the Shikoku pilgrimage this was no longer a problem— provided, of course, the henro could pay for their passage! In any case, in view of the importance of ascetic exercises in the Japanese religious tradition, these difficulties were unlikely to discourage the henro. In fact, they were probably seen as adding an extra dimension to the religious adventure and might even be felt as the necessary condition to obtain the supernatural protection of Kōbō Daishi. Given its position on the periphery of the archipelago, early modern Shikoku had never had enough travellers or enough economic and political importance to warrant the setting-up of infrastructures as developed as those of central Japan with its excellently organized five major roads (gokaidō). In other words, on the island of the 88 Holy Places, the pilgrims would not be able to find the same density, diversity and quality of accommodation they could find elsewhere in Japan. Nevertheless, the arrival of thousands of pilgrims on the island was bound to accustom the islanders to lodging henro: having been a rather haphazard affair in the beginning, finding accommodation became more and more predictable as time went on. The first historical record we have concerning accommodation of henro on early modern Shikoku is of the ekiroji (temples providing accommodation and facilities) of Awa province (present-day Tokushima prefecture). This refers to the eight temples Lord Hachisuka Iemasa (d. 1638) built in 1598 to provide lodgings for the night. None of these temples was a fudasho of the circuit at that time, but the henro were invited to sleep there. This indicates that already in this period they were designated and therefore perceived as a specific category of traveller. The ekiroji were situated on one of the five roads established by the Tokushima han. They were a day’s journey apart and provided the henro and other travellers with a network of inns which had not been available before. Safety considerations certainly played a part: travellers had to be protected from brigands who were still a danger at the time. To guarantee the success of its enterprise, the Tokushima domain granted financial compensation to each inn; in fact, each ekiroji was granted land with a certain production capacity known as kan’nin-bun (land [granted in return for] effort endured; cf. Kondō 1971:201–12).

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This official stopover system lasted some time. However, the original spirit of these establishments seems to have degenerated by the beginning of the seventeenth century. In his travel diary (1653), the henro-monk Chōzen complains that when he requested hospitality from the Enton temple in the village of Shishikui, he was rudely sent about his business (Iyoshi 1994). Ultimately the institution became a thing of the past: no travel diary from the nineteenth century mentions the ekiroji any longer, and the institution was also not imitated by other domains. From travel diaries we learn that, from the eighteenth century onwards, there were a wide variety of ways of spending the night in Shikoku. This variety bears witness to the local people’s ability to satisfy the increasing number of pilgrims. However, it is difficult to judge what form of accommodation was most commonly chosen. The possibilities were manifold and each pilgrim could combine several throughout the course of his journey. But we can list the different types of accommodation available. Among the cheapest were the zenkon’yado (inn provided as a good deed). This was free accommodation provided by local families for the henro who, as explained below, enjoyed a special status. The henro houses (henroya) owned by village and town communities were also free. However, unlike the zenkon’yado, these places were not well maintained and were thus avoided by henro rich enough to do so. The Shikoku temples, particularly the fudasho of the circuit of the 88 Holy Places, also provided the henro with a place to spend the night. Another type of institution, by which the henro seem to have been particularly attracted, was also not run by professionals and was called kichinyado (inn [in which one pays] the price of wood), also common in other parts of Japan. Such inns, which combined comfort and budgetary considerations, seem to have been extremely common from the nineteenth century onwards. They were provided by private individuals and had many advantages. First, a flexible minimum service: one did one’s own cooking, paying only the cost of the wood needed; second, relative comfort: guests rented a futon and were supplied with rice and the necessary foodstuffs (prices must have been low as there was no intermediary between henro and peasants); third, and one of the main advantages of this type of accommodation, was that each peasant household could provide this service, which brought extra income for the locals. From the travel diaries we learn that, besides accommodation, the henro found all the goods and services they needed en route. Pilgrims purchased food for the meals they had during the day at the kichinyado and at professional inns, tea houses (chaya) and other establishments on the island; bentō are often mentioned, as well as tea, udon, mochi and other sweetmeats that could be bought anywhere. Besides food, pilgrims could obtain everything they needed for walking, for body care, and for their religious activity; diaries mention the purchase of sandals, incense, paper, medicine, tobacco, etc. We also find henro spending money to have their hair cut, probably in order to maintain their shaven heads which signalled their retreat from the world of the profane and their temporary identification with the world of religious people. Moreover, at a time when the provinces used different currencies, it was necessary to change money to obtain the required currency. The henro did this in the tea or sake houses, in temples, with private people and, naturally, also through professional money changers. Besides the inevitable expenditures necessary for the pilgrimage itself, the henro of the Edo period also spent money for what we may call ‘touristic’ purposes. There can be

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no doubt that part of the budget and travelling time of the henro was devoted to activities which were not strictly speaking connected to the visit of the 88 Holy Places. It is very important to emphasize that, despite current views held by many scholars working on Japanese pilgrimage, the Shikoku circuit was not synonymous with asceticism, strain, disease or death, but also with entertainment and pleasure. In fact, early modern Shikoku abounded in opportunities for the henro to ‘play the tourist’, and by taking full advantage of these they benefited the locals. The henro, who invested time and money in their pilgrimage, would make a point of visiting all sorts of places which were not far from their route. These detours allowed them not only to satisfy their curiosity, but also to increase the religious effectiveness of their trip as they solicited the various gods for magical protection which would favourably complete that provided by Kōbō Daishi. For example, in the eighteenth century it was already common practice for the henro to visit the shrine of the Shintō-Buddhist god Konpira Daigongen in Sanuki province (presentday Kagawa prefecture). They also more or less systematically visited certain other holy places such as the monzenmachi6 of the Busshōzan temple and of the Shirotori shrine in Sanuki province, where there often were kaichō,7 theatrical performances, sumō and lotteries. The henro also made a detour to visit the Gongen shrine and its Kanze’on temple situated on the Sasa Mountain in Iyo province (present-day Ehime prefecture). Some henro were quite capable of crossing the Inland Sea to the island of Ōmishima (Matsuyama domain, Iyo province) to visit the ancient shrine of Mishima Daimyōjin there. Many ‘unnumbered’ temples and shrines (bangai-fudasho) along the circuit also attracted the curiosity of greater or lesser numbers of henro. An important element of a henro’s pilgrimage was the visit of the baths of Dōgo Spa (Dōgo Onsen) in Iyo province, about 2 km north-east of Matsuyama Castle. Here they could enjoy the pleasures of the baths offered free of charge by the locals for three consecutive days! Dōgo Onsen was not only a place for relaxation, but also provided the welcome opportunity to improve one’s health, as it included a ‘therapeutic’ bath visited by many invalids. Besides such attractions like Dōgo Onsen, henro also visited the feudal castle towns (jōkamachi) along their route, the most famous ones being Tokushima, Kōchi and Matsuyama. The diaries reveal how much the henro appreciated the shrines, teahouses and shops there. Finally, we must mention the henro’s interest in various local curiosities, particularly architecture, and in every kind of entertainment along the route. In short, it is clear that during the Edo period, on Shikoku as well as on other pilgrimages of central Japan, ‘tourism’ and pilgrimage went hand in hand.

Locals and henro The henro of the Edo period were subject to, and granted, special advantageous legislation, and their presence was particularly welcome on a less-than-prosperous island like Shikoku, where they enjoyed a special status. This status made their everyday life on Shikoku relatively easy. Actually, the local people did not think of the henro as ordinary travellers at all. Old legends dating back to at least the first third of the seventeenth century likened them to the legendary figure of Kōbō Daishi himself. At least from this period onwards it was

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common to believe that each henro really was the fellow traveller (dōgyō ninin) of Kōbō Daishi, and even Kōbō Daishi’s incarnation. This belief in turn was due, no doubt, to the fact that a religious tradition, probably spread by the holy men from Mount Kōya (Kōya hijiri), stated that Kōbō Daishi - understood as having been capable of performing miracles—was the founder of the Shikoku pilgrimage. Corresponding statements are found notably in the writings of the ascetic Shinnen (d. ca. 1690), who was probably the most active promoter of the Shikoku pilgrimage. For example, in his ‘Script on the Virtues of the Shikoku Pilgrimage’ (one of the earliest classics among the literature devoted to the Shikoku pilgrimage) Shinnen relates several stories well-known at the time about the island of the 88 Holy Places (Iyoshi 1994). These stories claim that to offer alms to a henro was the same as honouring and welcoming Kōbō Daishi himself and entitled the host to the protection of the saint (see also Chapter V). For example, offering a drink of water would lead to the promise of flowing streams in times of drought; a gift of chestnuts to a henro meant that chestnuts would grow in all seasons. On the other hand, the ungenerous could suffer unpleasant consequences: shellfish refused to a henro might lead to these same shellfish turning into stone, etc. Even though it is difficult to tell how such legends originated, sources prove that at least in the eighteenth century henro were considered ‘sacred’ by virtue of their alleged link to Kōbō Daishi. Thus local families often collected the fuda (a sort of visiting card) of henro as amulets. Hundreds, even thousands of fuda were accumulated. Henro who were given hospitality at zenkon’yado were asked to give such fuda in exchange, and these were hung up to protect the house and its inhabitants against various evils like disease, fire, etc. (for details see Kouamé 2001). Such beliefs concerning the sacred nature of the henro had a deep impact on their daily life on Shikoku, leading to the widespread practice of settai. Basically, settai means hospitality and is neutral in value, though nowadays it can sometimes refer to extravagant entertainment in order to obtain a favour from a person. During the Edo period, the word settai could be used to designate various offerings of goods, for example, tea, rice, coins, sandals and so on, offered to henro. Beyond that, settai could also designate more or less free hospitality (zenkon’yado), transport by litter, baths, or massages. Shinjō (1988) points out that in the case of settai offerings have not been begged for and are given spontaneously (sekkyokuteki), without being requested. Settai therefore can be seen as a religious act—a version of fuse (Buddhist almsgiving)—coupled to the belief that henro are the fellow travellers of Kōbō Daishi. Maybe the origin of settai can be found in the traditional Japanese hospitality towards those who are regarded as marebito (divine visitors), i.e. monks, ascetics, pilgrims and so on. One aspect that might explain the success of settai in Shikoku during the Edo period is that once collective settai was established in a village, people offered it on the basis of a consensus within a community from which its members could not escape. Actually, in some villages of early modern Shikoku, collective settai was extremely well organized by the local administration, which sometimes determined precisely the quantity of settai rice some villagers had to give in accordance with their personal income. Thanks to settai a henro’s journey was certainly made more agreeable. However, from some henro diaries containing precise accounts of gifts and services obtained in the form of settai we can see that gifts were modest: coins, a pair of sandals or a little rice. We also learn that the extent of the settai often depended on the season. For example, some of the

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islanders were generous around the twenty-first day of the third moon, the date of Kōbō Daishi’s death (nyūjō), and relatively less so at other times. Moreover, a statistical survey of several travel diaries shows a considerable difference between regions which were a source of large numbers of gifts and services (such as Iyo province, followed by Sanuki province), and regions where settai seems to have been practised less (Awa and Tosa provinces; settai were even banned in Tosa province from at least 1819 on, for obscure reasons). To sum up, a study of the everyday life of the henro of the Edo period can be extremely instructive and provide elements for a more general understanding of Japanese society of the time. It enables us to gauge both the mobility of the commoners of the time as well as the flexibility of the authorities concerned. It shows the arrival of large numbers of pilgrims who were also tourists, bringing economic benefits to a region which at the time was relatively under-developed. It also shows that an island like Shikoku, which is often looked down upon for its relative lack of culture, was capable of contributing to the brio of Edo period civilization by reactivating and renewing ancient traditions of hospitality in the shape of settai.

Notes 1 In Japanese, the term henro designates both the circuit of the 88 Holy Places as well as the pilgrims who do this circuit. 2 Literally: ‘the two of us together’. The characters for henro spell out ‘dōgyō ninin’ and were written on pilgrims’ hats, indicating that they are walking together with Kōbō Daishi. 3 The term nuke-mairi, frequently used during the Edo period, refers mostly to visits to the Ise shrines not authorized by one’s family or the administration. 4 A fudasho is a place—sho—where one leaves a sort of visiting card—fuda; because henro leave fuda in each of the 88 Holy Places visited, the temples and shrines of the circuit are named fudasho. 5 It must be mentioned, however, that on two occasions—during the crisis in the Tempō era (1830–1844) and the troubles at the end of the Edo period in the 1850s/1860s—extra constraints were placed upon the henro. 6 A monzenmachi refers to a town established ‘before the gates of a temple’, i.e. making a living mainly by providing services to the people who have come to visit a (famous) temple. 7 Kaichō refers to the exhibition of the treasures of temples and shrines which normally remained hidden. These exhibitions were quite lucrative for the religious establishments that organized them.

Bibliography Gorai, Shigeru (1996) Shikoku henro no tera (jō) [The temples of the Shikoku henro], Vol. 1, Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten. Iyoshi, Dankai (1994) Shikoku henro-ki shū [Collection of henro diaries], Matsuyama: Ehime-ken Kyōka Tosho. Kiyoyoshi, Eitoku (1985) Nakatsuka Mohei [1847–1922] to Shinnen Hōshi no henro hyōseki narabi ni Kinsōji Nakatsukasa monjo [Nakatsuka Mohei, the henro mark stones of Shinnen Hōshi and the Kinsōji Nakatsuka documents], Niihama: Kaiōsha. Kiyoyoshi, Eitoku (1991) Shikoku henro no henroishi to michi mamori [The Shikoku henro stones and the talismans protecting their journey], Niihama: Kaiōsha.

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Kiyoyoshi, Eitoku (1999) Henrobito retsuden [Biographies of henro], Niihama: Kaiōsha. Kondō, Yoshihiro (1971) Shikoku henro, Tokyo: Ōfūsha. Kouamé, Nathalie (1998) Le pèlerinage de Shikoku pendant l'époque d’Edo, pèlerins et sociétés locales, Paris: Institut nationale des Langues et Civilisations Orientales. Kouamé, Nathalie (2000) Initiation a la paléographie japonaise: a travers les manuscrits du pèlerinage de Shikoku, Paris: Langues & Mondes—L’Asiatheque, Collection ‘Connaître le Japon’. Kouamé, Nathalie (2001) Pèlerinage et société dans le Japon des Tokugawa: le pèlerinage de Shikoku entre 1598 et 1868, Paris: Ecole françhise d’Extreme-Orient, Monographies. Maeda, Takashi (1971) Junrei no shakaigaku [The sociology of pilgrimage], Kyoto: Minerva Shoten. Shinjō, Tsunezō (1988) Shaji sankei no shakai keizai shi-teki kenkyū [Pilgrimage to shrines and temples from the viewpoint of political economy], Tokyo: Hanawa Shoten. Shinno, Toshikazu (1992) Nihon yūkō shūkyō ron [Studies on pilgrimage and religious travel in Japan], Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Shinno, Toshikazu (1996) Kōza Nihon no junrei [Lectures on pilgrimage in Japan], Vols. I, II, III, Tokyo: Yūzankaku Shuppan.

6 Strangers and pilgrimage in village Japan Teigo Yoshida

Introduction The object of this paper is to examine changes in the Japanese concept of the stranger, especially the pilgrim. The ambiguous nature of the stranger has already been discussed by Van Gennep (1909:36), Pitt-Rivers (1968:20), Yamaguchi (1975) and others, however, the ambiguity, sacredness, and symbolism of the stranger/pilgrim will be discussed here specifically in relation to Japanese contexts. This will be done by focusing on legends, folktales and other oral traditions, along with beliefs and practices. First, I shall make some comments on changes in the traditional image of the stranger. Second, Japanese pilgrimage will be examined, with special attention to the imagery of the stranger and the responses of villagers to the visits of pilgrims. Oral traditions recounting misfortunes encountered by pilgrims, such as robbery and murder, will then be investigated, along with incidents of retribution, or curses (tatari), recounted in oral traditions, suffered by families whose ancestors are reported to have killed pilgrims. I will then return to the question of the pilgrim as a stranger, focusing on the ambivalent status of persons both welcomed and feared. Finally, the usefulness of Turner’s model of communitas for understanding pilgrimage in Japan will be assessed.

Images of the stranger In Yoshida (1981) I discussed the ambiguity of the Japanese imagery of ‘stranger’, who can be seen both as good and as evil. Above all, I stressed the positive image of the stranger in Japanese folk religion. It was Origuchi Shinobu who first focused on the expression marebito (stranger, lit. wandering person). Marebito encompassed the gods worshipped in the rituals of unjami (sea deities) in Okinawa, hokaibito or those who visit every household in the villages during New Year to wish good fortune and happiness for the family members, ancestors’ spirits at bon festivals, and all sorts of gods who visit villages from the outside. Origuchi called the ‘other world’, from which marebito come to visit this world, niraya, kanaya or tokoyo (the eternal world). He argues that while tokoyo refers to the island of death as the residing place for ancestral spirits, marebito does not refer simply to the ancestors, but includes ancestors and other divinities as well (cf. Origuchi 1955–1957, 1978). In opposition to Origuchi, Yanagita Kunio maintained that the deity of the mountain (yama no kami) is equivalent to that of the paddy field (ta no kami), that these and other deities are believed to be ancestors, and that the place for ancestors is the mountain. I do not aim here to debate these distinctions any further, but in so far as studies of the

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imagery of the stranger in Japan are concerned, I find Origuchi’s conceptions most useful (Yoshida 1967, 1981). Historical documents from the seventh through the eleventh centuries indicate that rural communities in ancient times customarily treated strangers as guests or marebito who were believed to bring abundance and happiness (Amino 1984:8). During the Edo period certain villages used official and public money to welcome mountain ascetics (yamabushi); blind, lute-playing (biwa) musician-priests (zatō) who prayed for the health of the family; blind women (goze) who brought good fortune by singing songs to the accompaniment of the three-stringed lute (shamisen); Buddhist priests (komusō) playing a bamboo flute (shakuhachi); or other travellers and visitors from outside the village. Miyamoto (1978) reports that in more recent periods there were villages where certain houses had been assigned for putting up travellers, and that certain rooms, futon and dishes were available for the goze when they visited. Thus the custom of providing hospitality for strangers practised in ancient times survives into the present although it has declined in frequency. It is also well-known that in many parts of Japan at New Year, youths and children wearing masks of deities (e.g. Shichifukujin—the Seven Gods of Good Fortune) visit the houses to greet people with flutes and drums. They are given food, cakes or sake from each house they visit (cf. Yoshida 1981). Even in Tokyo around 1930 I remember that at New Year a man, wearing a lion’s mask, who visited our house every year to dance, wishing the year to be a happy one for all of us. The concept of stranger as marebito became associated with the popular belief in Kūkai or Kōbō Daishi (774–835 CE), the founder of the Shingon sect of Buddhism.1 One of the legends associated with Kōbō Daishi is that when a poor, dirty priest asked for a cup of water, those who refused always suffered a shortage of water afterwards. However, those who offered him water, even though they had very little themselves, were later given a clean spring that never dried out. The villagers only learned afterwards that the priest whose virtue accomplished these miracles was Kōbō Daishi. This sort of legend has been transmitted from generation to generation up to now in many parts of Japan (Yanagita 1971[1950]: 233–5; Wakamori 1972). When I conducted field-work in a mountain village in Kōchi Prefecture in 1964 and 1965, I discovered that Kōbō Daishi was believed to be the god of wheat, having taught villagers about wheat by bringing them some grain. We can say that the concept of stranger as marebito, together with the widespread belief in Kōbō Daishi, who might appear in disguise, was a support for the practice of pilgrimage in Japan for centuries. However, historical studies by Amino and others indicate that the custom of receiving the stranger as a visiting god in Japanese rural communities was considerably transformed from the beginning of the Muromachi period (1338–1573) onwards (Amino 1984). During the age of civil wars, a historical document dating from 1556 noted that a village in Imahori, Ōmi, publicized a set of written codes stating that outsiders were not allowed to stay in the village (Amino 1984). Another document from 1606 shows that many of those who gathered in front of Daibutsu (large and famous statues of Buddha) were beggars, blind or dumb persons, untouchables, as it were. All were called irui igyō (strange creatures with strange forms; cf. Amino 1984). There must have been pilgrimage priests among them, but all were counted as irui igyō.

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Pilgrims and villagers Japanese pilgrims differ from traditional western pilgrims in that they visit Buddhist temples, Shintō shrines and other sacred places and travel from one holy place to another. The Japanese words junrei and henro correspond to the English word pilgrimage, the French pèlerinage, and the Spanish peregrinatión, but junrei and pilgrimage do not mean exactly the same thing. For example, visiting Santiago de Compostela from other parts of Europe for religious purposes is a pilgrimage, while in Japan visiting the Ise Shrine to worship, no matter how far the person has travelled, is not junrei but sankei (worship at a temple or shrine); also, junrei can refer to both a pilgrim and a pilgrimage. The essential difference is that while sankei means to go and worship gods or other sacred things at just one temple or shrine, junrei means to worship at several sacred places, visiting one place after another. The element jun means ‘to go around’, rei ‘to worship’. Moreover, henro, used when speaking of pilgrims and pilgrimage around the island of Shikoku, literally means to go around on the road. The word junrei is said to have first been used by Ennin (ninth century CE), a priest of the Tendai School, in his diary early in the Heian period (794–897 CE). Early pilgrims were members of the Imperial family and other aristocratic people. It was only at the beginning of the Edo period that ordinary people became most numerous as pilgrims (Hoshino 1981, 1986, 2001). Traditionally, shugyō (spiritual and ascetic self training) has been an important element in pilgrimage in Japan. I will now describe briefly recent junrei on Sado Island, Niigata Prefecture, as recounted in a classic ethnography of Kitakoura by Yanagita (1950). Pilgrimages on the island of Sado, which is 210 kilometres in circumference, started before the Genwa era (1615–1624) in the Edo period, though we do not know exactly when. One of the reasons why junrei became popular on Sado was that the worship of Kōbō Daishi flourished there. During leisure times between busy seasons of agriculture, villagers went around the island pursuing their beliefs and desiring to do penance. The pilgrims must have been well received by the villagers. They were expected to beg at some houses once or twice a day even if they had enough money, since begging on a pilgrimage is known as ‘imitating what Kōbō Daishi did’. According to their oral tradition, if villagers were hospitable to a pilgrim who looked very poor, they would afterwards never need mosquito nets in the summer. However, those who were not hospitable to the pilgrim would never have good drinking water in the future. Only after the pilgrim had left would they learn that he was Kōbō Daishi himself. Legend has it that Kōbō Daishi could be alive among contemporary pilgrims, so that people must be kind to them. On Sado hoito (lit. meaning ‘beggar’) used to visit houses to greet people at the New Year and on other happy occasions. Members of other groups, such as persons who could cure illness through prayer, shamans (kitōshi), diviners, or Buddhist nuns, would visit houses, regardless of the season. These groups mostly came from Echigo (present-day Niigata Prefecture) on the mainland and begged for food. People on Sado Island called some of them hoito, while most travellers were known as henro. Thus the inhabitants of Sado, as probably in most villages in Japan, evidently did not clearly distinguish between pilgrims and other kinds of visitors and travellers from outside (Yanagita 1950).

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Among those pilgrims or travellers there were a variety of people who were in various ways religious, such as the zatō (blind priests), or the rokubu (the word is derived from roku-jū-roku-bu, 66 volumes), the latter travelling with the 66 volumes of the Lotus Sutra and dedicating one volume to a temple in each of 66 provinces of Japan.

The misfortunes befalling rokubu and pilgrims According to a legend collected by Nomura Jun’ichi on the island of Sado, a rokubu was once received in a house in a village in Sotokaifu in the north-western part of Sado. He was invited by the head of the household, a fisherman, and was taken to a boat to be shown night fishing. The fisherman found out that the rokubu had a lot of money, so he killed him on the boat and stole his money. After that murder a strange fire appeared every night far out on the sea. Another man went out to see what it was, but found nothing. Villagers said that the deceased rokubu lit the light on the sea, and that this probably represented the rokubu’s grudge over being killed (Nomura 1984). Another legend Nomura collected on Sado says that once a man killed a rokubu to steal his money and buried him on a mountain he owned. He erected a small shrine there, which still exists today. However, the murderer became impoverished due to the retribution (tatari) exacted by the soul of the dead rokubu, and had to leave for Hokkaido after selling his mountain land. A third legend tells the story that a certain household welcomed a rokubu and made him stay. However, someone in the house killed him to steal his money. The family became wealthy afterwards, but, due to retribution of the murdered rokubu, all family members and all their descendants died young (Nomura 1984). One of the reasons why so many rokubu travelled around Japan was that when a man became too old to work he often left his home and went on pilgrimage as a rokubu. Particularly in the winter, however, many rokubu died on the way. Some people buried and held a Buddhist service for them, building tombs where they died, in the belief that this would bring them something good (Nomura 1984). In certain places, when a family member died, another member went off as a rokubu on the seventh day after the death in order to pray for the deceased. Stories of murdered rokubu’s and other pilgrims’ retributions on Sado Island are all quite similar and usually tell of a family head who welcomed a rokubu to the house, but when it was discovered that the rokubu had a lot of money, killed him and stole his money. With this money the family became wealthy, but in the long run it could not escape the rokubu’s retribution. All sorts of misfortunes therefore befell the family members, such as illness, quarrels, the births of mentally ill children, economic decline or the premature deaths of generations of family members. In Ikeda-machi (Nagano Prefecture) a legend tells of a rokubu who visited and entered a house in spite of the refusal of the family head who shouted, “Get out!” The rokubu was forced outside and was killed. After that, however, the family suffered misfortunes for generations. Therefore a mound, called kyōzuka (Mound of Buddhist Scripture), was erected in the place where the rokubu had been killed (Yanagita 1971). In this case the rokubu who entered the house against the will of the family head may have been himself

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to blame. Nevertheless, the family who killed him suffered misfortunes for generations because of the dead rokubu’s grudge. Beside the road between Shimotsugu-mura and Furikusa-mura in Aichi Prefecture there are seven tombstones called Tombs of Seven Zatō (blind priests). Near those tombs is a slope called zatō-zaka, where once seven zatō got lost and asked a man who was passing by to help them. However, instead of telling them the right way to go, this man mischievously told them the wrong way. Consequently, the zatō got lost again, fell into Lake Biwa and drowned. Due to the deceased zatō's retribution, the family members and all descendants of the mischievous man suffered eye diseases for generation upon generation (Yanagita 1971). According to Kikuchi Teruo, a family in Tōno-chō, Iwate Prefecture, had psychotic children generation after generation until the 1930s. The family asked an itako (shaman) to find the reason for this misfortune. They were told that one of their ancestors allowed a rokubu to stay in their house, but had robbed and killed them and then buried them under the floor. The misfortune was therefore due to the murdered rokubu’s retribution, and the house had to be destroyed in order to collect the bones, so that a Buddhist service (kuyō) for the dead could be performed to exorcize the power of the retribution (tatari). Several years after these suggestions by the itako, the family destroyed the house to rebuild it. To their surprise, they found three human skulls under the floor. In one of them there was a hole. They took the skulls to a nearby temple to be buried properly and held a service for the dead. After that kuyō, nothing bad occurred in the family any more (Nomura 1984). The unexpected misfortunes of rokubu or pilgrims narrated in the oral histories described above were certainly not all fictitious. According to a historical document cited by Shinno (1980), a man named Wada Hatajirō in Edo decided to go on pilgrimage as a rokubu and left his house after getting the necessary papers from Zōjōji (Zōjō-temple). Wada safely returned to Edo in 1801 after 13 years of pilgrimage. However, he told the authorities that the most fearful things on a pilgrimage were robbery (Wada was once completely robbed during his pilgrimage); not being able to eat anything for days; and having to take care of persons who were ill on the way. As it was required for a pilgrim to take care of sick people, he once had to do so for four or five days until another pilgrim came by and took over the job. However if nobody came, the pilgrim could not leave for a month or more. If the sick person eventually died, there was a rule that a pilgrim was expected to bury the dead there, but was allowed to take the dead person’s belongings. In Hisamatsu-chō, Takaoka-gun, Kōchi Prefecture, a small stone statue (ishi-jizō) stands by a road near the beach. A story is associated with this stone: once someone discovered a deceased woman pilgrim on the road, but without offering even incense sticks to the corpse, they put it in an empty barrel and let it float out to sea. However, it eventually returned to the shore, and a pine tree grew near the spot. After that, a will-o’the wisp (hinotoma) flew there every night. Also, anybody who passed by the pine tree fell ill. Since people thought that such illness was due to the dead pilgrim’s mystical retribution, they erected the stone statue (Katsurai 1948, 1954). Certain legends are similarly associated with tombs or mounds. In Sagamiko-chō, Kanagawa Prefecture, there is a mound (tsuka) called yamabushi-zuka that is associated with a yamabushi (an ascetic who trained himself in the mountains and often lived inside a cave to practise shugyō). Yamabushi travelled a lot from village to village visiting houses and curing sick people, using techniques based on teachings of esoteric

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Buddhism. Once a village headman named Suzuki refused to receive a yamabushi in his house. The yamabushi then said something bad about Suzuki, so Suzuki got angry with him and killed him with his sword. Since then the soul of the murdered yamabushi cursed Suzuki’s branch family. Therefore Suzuki erected a tomb to worship the soul of the dead, this tomb being the yamabushi-zuka (Yanagita 1971). There was also a yamabushi-zuka in Ikeda-machi, Nagano Prefecture. Long ago, a yamabushi lived there inside a shrine forest and molested women nearby. Villagers caught him, buried him alive and built a mound, the yamabushi-zuka. It is said that if a person touches the mound, they will become ill (Yanagita 1971). Occasionally yamabushi became victims themselves. A legend about a yamabushizuka in Itoigawa City, Niigata Prefecture, indicates that a yamabushi, whose possessions had all been stolen, died from deep despair. The thief, however, became so worried about the retribution that might follow, that he buried the corpse of the yamabushi and erected a mound where the yamabushi died (Yanagita 1971). The above descriptions suggest that the image of the stranger was ambiguous. While pilgrims and other strangers were believed to have the magical power to bring good luck to village inhabitants, at the same time they were also held to be dangerous. Villagers thought that strangers should be killed if they did something harmful or disturbing, yet at the same time they were afraid that the mounds they erected to placate the souls of the dead might curse the people and the families concerned. In other words, the villagers felt that strangers do not stop employing mystical power even after they are killed, and that when you kill strangers or do something bad to them, you had better anticipate the retribution that might befall you and your descendants. Katsurai (1977), a folklorist in Kōchi Prefecture, stated that in uncultivated lands far from villages and towns in Shikoku a great number of tombs for pilgrims (henro) and rokubu who died on the way can be found. Among those travellers there must have been a considerable number of people who were killed by poor villagers because they had much money.

Stigmatized families According to Katsurai (1977), a young man in Hata-gun, Kōchi Prefecture, wanted to marry a girl, but he was refused by her parents because his family was believed to have ancestors who had killed a pilgrim. Because of this crime the man’s family line apparently had been the target of a curse by the soul of the deceased pilgrim for generations.2 Thus villagers avoided any marriage relationship with this family. Katsurai (1977) cites one more example. In Sushitosa-mura, Hata-gun, Kōchi Prefecture, a certain family is known whose ancestors had received a pilgrim in their house. They realized that the pilgrim had a lot of money, so they murdered him in order to steal it. Thus they became wealthy. According to belief however, retribution by the murdered pilgrim befell the descendants of this family, who suffered various misfortunes and had handicapped children over the succeeding generations. In another similar case, a family never had a son who could be heir, so they were always forced to adopt sons-inlaw; also the present family head is an adopted son (Katsurai 1977).

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Those families whose ancestors are believed to have killed pilgrims are referred to as ie-suji (house or family line) and are stigmatized from generation to generation.3 One reason certain families were associated with the robbing pilgrims seems to be that in villages consisting of poor households during the Edo period, families that suddenly became wealthy for unclear reasons were likely to be seen as a serious threat to other villagers and were targets of envy. To counteract the possible threat posed by the newly rich, stories about their ancestors murdering pilgrims would begin to circulate.

Pilgrims welcomed and feared In Hida, Nagano Prefecture, there is a stone monument called the Three Thousand Mounds. The following legend is associated with this monument. Once there was a man who welcomed pilgrims, invited them to stay in his house for a night and gave them meals. When the number of pilgrims reached 3,000, he erected a monument for the repose of the souls of the pilgrims (Yanagita 1971). Taneda Santōka (1882–1940), a Haiku poet, spent 7 years altogether on pilgrimages. He started his last pilgrimage for Shikoku in 1939. According to his diary, he often stayed at henro-yado (special inns for pilgrims). The pilgrims brought rice along and paid only for firewood for cooking. There were no futons to sleep on. Pilgrims made it a rule not to stay in ordinary inns, where meals and futons for sleeping were provided. Even if they tried to stay in such places, they were usually refused. Often houses were provided by rural communities where villagers willingly received pilgrims to stay and gave them meals. Such houses are called zenkon’yado, which means a house through which people obtain Buddhist merit for receiving pilgrims. Moreover, pilgrims were also often entertained in wayside shrines (tsujidō). However, the kindness of villagers did not make life easier for the pilgrims. Pilgrims always tried hard to beg for food three to seven times a day. Begging was required on pilgrimages, and there was a rule for pilgrims that they must beg at least 21 times during one period of pilgrimage (Shinno 1980:138–43). On mainland Japan (Honshū) there were organized associations (settai-kō) set up for the purpose of taking care of pilgrims. Such settai-kō also went to Shikoku to treat pilgrims inside the compound of a shrine or temple. For example, an association called Kishū Settai-kō was organized in Wakayama in 1819, and members of the association went to Yakuōji Temple in Awa (Tokushima Prefecture). It was customary for the association to visit this place bringing with them different kinds of food and other items such as rice, red beans, pickles, pickled ume (plums), tofu, soy sauce, dried persimmons, miso, firewood, some money, waraji (sandals woven from susuki grass), etc. All these things were given to the pilgrims until the early twentieth century (Shinno 1980). Another way of taking care of pilgrims was on an individual basis. Rice, mikan (mandarin oranges), cakes, and money were given to pilgrims by individual families. This custom continued until recently on Shōdo Island. A third way of providing for pilgrims was based on the community. One example can be cited from Iio, Tokushima Prefecture. Three youth groups from three hamlets consisting of young men aged from 16 to 30 collected rice, red beans, rice cakes and toilet paper from every house of their hamlet several days before the 4th of the Third

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Month of the lunar (or old) calendar. On that day the three youth groups gathered inside the compound of Fujii Temple and cooked rice with red beans and other food. They then distributed the food to the pilgrims, and in the evening had a good time drinking sake together. A somewhat different view of pilgrims was held by villagers in the Tokushima region. Until recently beggars lived nearby in the dry river bed of the Lower Yoshino basin. The villagers knew this, but when the beggars came to beg for food, they gave them what they wanted because they said that beggars put on the white dress of pilgrims (Shinno 1980). Relatively recent legends include a story showing the traditional idea of the stranger. There was a pack horse driver in Aichi Prefecture who complained on the last day of the year that there had been no customers. On the way home, he found a leper lying under a pine tree. He thought that his ill luck was still better than that of the leper. After taking care of the leper, he put him on the back of his horse and took him home. Since the leper had a bad smell, he laid him down in a corner of the part of the house without flooring. The next morning, which was the first day of the New Year, the leper was still lying there. However, while he shook the man to wake him up, he found that the leper had been transformed into gold bullion (Yanagita 1948). There is a similar story in Esashi-gun, Iwate Prefecture, concerning five rokubu, who were kindly received in a house on the last day of the year. According to this legend, the next day the rokubu had been transformed into five boxes of gold (Yanagita 1948). In Iyayama, Tokushima Prefecture, a family received seven travellers as guests on the last day of the year. The next day, the first day of the New Year, these travellers all had been transformed into the Seven Gods of Good Luck. Legends of a similar kind can be found in Aomori, Niigata, Fukui, Kagoshima (Koshiki Islands) and Okinawa Prefectures (Yanagita 1948). These stories imply that if you kindly receive a leper, a rokubu, or other strangers, you will receive gold or the Gods of Good Luck. Around 1579 Tei Yasokichi in Awa (Tokushima Prefecture), who was suffering from leprosy, went as a rokubu on a pilgrimage of Shikoku, but died on the way. Villagers who found his body buried it and erected a mound (rokubu-zuka). Legend had it that when they prayed to the mound any illness was cured. There were many people who visited the mound to cure illnesses (Yanagita 1971). The message of this legend seems to be that if villagers bury the corpse of a pilgrim, a rokubu or any other stranger in or near the village, good fortune would be granted.

What made people set out on a pilgrimage? According to one of the documents written by the Tanaka family of the village of Miura, Ehime Prefecture, whose elders served as headmen for generations from 1753 to the end of the Edo period: at times of drought or continuous cold rain (in the summer) farmers went out to other provinces as beggars (or pilgrims)… Saisuke, a poor farmer, his wife and two children went off on a pilgrimage on the 4th day of the

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Second Month, 1803. Saisuke died of illness during the pilgrimage. Yet his family members returned home safely. (cited in Shinno 1980:36–7) This document shows that poor farmers also made pilgrimages for the purpose of overcoming hunger. During the 110 years that records were kept by the Tanaka headmen 53 persons went on pilgrimage and other travels, and among these, 31 went on a pilgrimage of the Eightyeight Holy Places (reijō) of Shikoku, while 14 went to worship at the Ise Shrine. For poor farmers the main motive for pilgrimage certainly was their poverty (Shinno 1980). Four people disappeared or died during their travels. Those who went on the pilgrimage to Shikoku included nine women and three children. This shows that some pilgrims went as families. Among all 53 there was only one individual who went to Dōgo Hot Spring in order to cure an illness (Shinno 1980). This person could have been a wealthy landowner. While the records of the Tanaka family are just one example, they give some idea about the frequency of pilgrimage among farmers, as well as the rates of death during pilgrimages. It is also said that some elderly people or lepers who could not work any more due to physical weakness often went on pilgrimages to find a place to die. Another motive for a pilgrimage was to hold a Buddhist service for the departed souls of one’s spouse, children, parents, other relatives or ancestors. Also, for certain villages in Ehime and in Hiroshima Prefecture, a pilgrimage to Shikoku was a necessary rite of passage (shugyō) for young people. It was only after this that boys became full members of the community, and girls were qualified to become wives (Takeda 1969). Among the pilgrims in Shikoku those in yakudoshi (unlucky ages) often went to exorcize unlucky ages.3 To take a most recent example of the pilgrimage in Shikoku in 1996, a memorial service for a deceased son was the motivation of a middle-aged couple for going there as a henro. Some of those who lost their spouses, parents or children in the devastating earthquake in the Hanshin region on 17 January 1995, set out on pilgrimages to Shikoku. Mr Shigematsu (52) and his wife (49), who lost their son of 20 in the earthquake, are one example. They began the pilgrimage to Shikoku in the summer of 1995, returning there to continue whenever Mr Shigematsu found some free time. They completed the pilgrimage visiting all 88 temples by the end of 1996. The Shigematsu family visited the temples by car, but wore the white dress of the henro. During their travels, they dreamed of their son, leaving them with the sense that they had met him. After returning home to Hiroshima, they said that they want to go on another pilgrimage in Shikoku in order to meet their son. It is said that Shikoku (shi=four, koku=countries) can metaphorically also be understood as the Land of the Dead, as shi can also mean ‘death’ (Asahi Shinbun, 19 January 1996). In the summer of 1996 I met a middle-aged man and his wife at the Reianji, one of the 88 temples in Shikoku. They told me that they decided to make a pilgrimage from Tokyo, and that the purpose of their pilgrimage was to hold a Buddhist memorial service (kuyō) at the 88 temples for the departed soul of the man’s mother who had died recently. Even though pilgrims are ordinary human beings, their nature is, in a sense, liminal, as they do not live like ordinary human beings in a permanent residence, but are travelling around. They might bring good luck as a kind of stranger-god, but they could also be

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dangerous. It was believed in the Shikoku region that the staff of a pilgrim could cure illness if it touched the patient’s body. The cards given to temples by pilgrims could be used magically for protecting one’s house against fire. However, the supernatural power of pilgrims was also feared because people believed that their power could be used against them. Thus pilgrims were on one hand sacred, but on the other hand they could possibly be thieves, yet if they were killed, the souls of the pilgrims could curse the villagers. Villagers who help pilgrims may also feel they want to get rid of them whenever possible. When wheelchair-bound pilgrims come to a village, villagers may push it to the border of their village in order to pass the burden of helping onto the next village. The next village in turn again pushes the pilgrim along. This seems partially to be a welcoming act by villagers who believe that pilgrims may bring good luck to them. However, villagers also state, according to Shinno (1980), that if pilgrims fall dead on the road inside their village, they have to bury them and provide funerals for them. However, if they leave the deceased there, retribution may befall them for their neglect. Therefore, they quickly push the wheelchairs on in order to avoid all such troubles. Villagers thus have ambivalent feelings towards pilgrims, and pilgrims are both welcomed and feared. Setouchi Harumi, a writer who became a Buddhist nun, and who spent her childhood near the basin of the Yoshino River, Shikoku, wrote that when parents scolded children, they used to say, “You shall be given to o-henro-san (pilgrims)”. The idea of a pilgrim thus brought fear to children. Inhabitants in Shikoku seem to have thought that pilgrims were creatures from a different or ‘extra-ordinary’ world in both temporal and spatial terms, and they were both respected and feared (Pitt-Rivers 1968; Shinno 1980).

Turner’s model of communitas Finally, I would like to make a few comments on Turner’s model of communitas4 in relation to Japanese pilgrimage. While I am much indebted to his writings, I have some reservations about his model of communitas. The concept of communitas seems useful in some of the pilgrimage cases. For example, the purpose of the pilgrimage practised by Takamure Itsue in 1918 in Shikoku was exactly congruent with the model of communitas, namely, temporary release from mundane life, and the search for equality (Hoshino 1981). However, diverse cases seen in the legends and other documents discussed in this paper indicate that the concept of communitas is of little value to understand most pilgrimage journeys. Turner states that: The social mode appropriate to all pilgrimages represents a mutually energizing compromise between structure and communitas, in theological language, a forgiveness of sins, where differences are accepted or tolerated rather than aggravated into grounds of aggressive opposition. (1974:208) We have seen that any number of conflicts existed between pilgrims and local inhabitants.

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The diverse motives for pilgrimage described above, such as poverty, physical weakness due to illness or old age, to hold a Buddhist service for the departed souls of one’s relatives, physical and spiritual training for young boys and girls, or to exorcize unlucky ages etc., may suggest that the model of communitas is not useful to understand these cases of pilgrimage; in none of these cases was communitas the pilgrims’ ultimate goal. Turner’s claim that pilgrimage is unstructured and spontaneous is belied by the fact that there were rules Japanese pilgrims and villagers needed to observe and duties they had to fulfil. As described earlier, when pilgrims found sick people on the road, they had to help them; if villagers found the corpse of a pilgrim on their territory, they had to bury him or her and organize the funerals; pilgrims also had to beg for food at certain prescribed times during one era of pilgrimage. Moreover, there was a rule for pilgrims not to stay in ordinary inns but in special inns for pilgrims (henro-yado). Since the early Edo period, various kinds of group pilgrimages were organized by religious associations (kō) on the basis of the village community (Hoshino 1981). Turner discusses communitas as ‘…a model of society as a homogeneous, unstructured community, whose boundaries are ideally coterminous with those of human species’ (1969:132). However, it seems unlikely that these community-based pilgrimages in Japan could be coalesced into a larger unified congregation (cf. Sallnow 1981), as essentially group boundaries were kept due to the nature of the Japanese village community whose strong solidarity is well documented.

Conclusion The concept of the stranger, as formulated in earlier periods, as noted by Origuchi, appears to have been greatly transformed into the notion of the stranger as being dangerous, or a person to be avoided. In relation to this change, as Komatsu (1985) has argued, the stranger was once accepted, but later rejected in Japanese folk society. Despite this change the traditional category of the stranger has never died. Otherwise pilgrimage itself would not have flourished in Japan. Various customs in the Shikoku and Saikoku (Western Japan) regions in particular continually supported pilgrimages. Certain families whose ancestors are said to have killed strangers (rokubu, pilgrims, etc.) are believed to have suffered various kinds of misfortune due to the retribution exacted by the murdered strangers. Often these families would suddenly become wealthy, but were perceived as a threat by most villagers who were poor. They thus stigmatized the rich families as mystically dangerous families. Behind this process lies the concept of stranger whose mystical power afflicted families with various kinds of misfortune for many generations. The concept of the ‘stranger-god’ is not unique to Japan. It is widely distributed in the world. In Homeric Greece, for instance, it was believed that a stranger or beggar might be the god Zeus, who might take the form of the stranger or beggar travelling from door to door in order to inspect how people observed the moral duty of hospitality. Therefore it is dangerous to ill-treat even a wretched wanderer in case he might be some heavenly god (Hocart 1973:78). In India the stranger or guest is himself a god, or rather gods, for he is ‘compounded of all the gods’ (Hocart 1973[1927]:81). As Pitt-Rivers stated, ‘the stranger

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belongs to the “extra-ordinary” world, and the mystery surrounding him allies him to the sacred’ (1968:20). Finally, Japanese pilgrimage is a polymorphic phenomenon. Therefore, it seems difficult to assume a priori that the concept of Turner’s communitas could be used to understand all the features of pilgrimage in the Japanese context. In short, I have argued that the sacred position of the stranger in the Japanese context makes him a sender of not only good luck but also of afflictions and misfortunes, depending on the behaviour of the host.

Notes A summarized version of this paper was read at the ninth meeting of The Japan Anthropology Workshop in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, in May, 1996. I wish to thank Keith Brown, Theodore Bestor and Jane Bachnik for revising the English style and supplying helpful comments which are incorporated in this paper. I am also grateful to John H.Stewart for his assistance in the writing of this manuscript while I was in the Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan during the period from August to December, 1996. Support for my travel to Santiago de Compostela was provided by the Japan Foundation for which I am grateful. 1 Kūkai was born in Sanuki (Zentsūji City, Kagawa Prefecture), studied Buddhism and Chinese classics in Kyoto, and did shugyō (spiritual and ascetic training) by visiting various sacred places on the top of mountains mostly located in Awa (Tokushima Prefecture), Tosa (Kōchi Prefecture), Iyo (Ehime Prefecture) and Yamato (Nara Prefecture). As previous chapters in this book have noted, he went to China during the Tang Dynasty to study Buddhism, and after returning home founded the Japanese Shingon sect of Buddhism. He has been widely worshipped by the people throughout the country to this very day. 2 This is very similar to the cases of dog-spirit holding families in Kōchi Prefecture, which I studied sometime ago, whose members are believed to possess other people and to cause them to become ill, suffer accidents or become mentally deranged (Yoshida 1967, 1984). 3 Unlucky ages are: 13, 25, 37, 49, 73, 85 (for men and women); ages ending with 2 or 5, e.g. 22, 25, 32, 35, 42, 45, etc. for men and ages ending with 3, 7, 9, 29 for women; (Takeda 1969:156–62). 4 Victor Turner made an analytical distinction between structure, society organized in terms of status, and communitas, whose salient features are anti-structure, homogeneity, equality, unity, release from ordinary life, etc. (1969:106–7, 131; 1978:252). He used the concept of communitas to understand pilgrimage (1974:166–230; 1978).

Bibliography Amino, Y. (1984) Joshō: Henreki to Teiju no shosō [Introduction: Aspects of Wandering and Sedentary Lives]. Nihon Minzoku Bunka Taikei [Outline of Japanese Folk Culture], Vol. 6, Tokyo: Shōgakkan. Eickelman, M.J. (1996) ‘Pilgrimage’, in A.Barnard and J.Spencer (eds) Encyclopaedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology, London and New York: Routledge. Fortes, M. (1975) ‘Strangers’, in M.Fortes and S.Patterson (eds) Studies in African Social Anthropology, New York: Academia Press. Gennep, A. van (1909) Les Rites de Passage, Paris: Librairie Critique. Hocart, A.M. (1973)[1952] The Life-giving Myth, New York: Harper and Row.

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Hoshino, E. (1981) Junrei—Set to zoku no genshōgaku [Pilgrimage: Phenomenology of the Sacred and the Profane], Tokyo: Kōdansha. Hoshino, E. (1986) Aruki to meguri no shūkyōsei: Saigoku junrei to Shikoku henro [The Religiosity of Walking and Cycling: Pilgrimages in Western Japan and Shikoku] in M.Inoue, S.Kamiyama and T.Yamaori (eds) ‘Buddhism and the Japanese—Self-training and Wandering’, Vol. 6, Tokyo: Shunjūsha. Hoshino, E. (1987) Junrei—sono mi to kōzō [Junrei pilgrimage—its meaning and structure] in Junrei to bunmei [Pilgrimage and Civilization], Tokyo: Seishin-Joshidaigaku Kirisutokyō Bunka Kenkyūsho. Hoshino, E. (2001) Shikoku henro no shūkyō gakuteki kenkyū in Shūkyō Kenkyū [Religious Studies] No. 333, Kyoto: Hōzōkan. Itabashi, S. (1993) Akai hana, akaimi—Nihon bunka ni okeru sekishoku no shinborizumu [Red flower, red fruit—The symbolism of the colour red in Japanese culture], Tokyo: Ika Shika Daigaku Kenkyū Kiyō [Research Bulletin, Tokyo Medical and Dental University] No. 23. Katsurai, K. (1948) Tosa mukashibanashi-shū [Collection of Tosa Folktales], Kōchi: Kōchi Nippōsha. Katsurai, K. (1954) Tosa no densetsu [Legends from Tosa], Kōchi: Kōchi Nippōsha. Katsurai, K. (1977) Hotoke tonbo kyorai [The coming and going of the Buddhist Dragonfly], Kōchi: Kōchi Shinbun-sha [Kōchi Newspaper Company]. Komatsu, K. (1985) Ijinron—Minzoku-shakai no shinsei [On Strangers: the Mentality of Folk Society], Tokyo: Seidosha. Konno, E. (1974) ‘Hinoemata minzokushi’ [Ethnography of Hinoemata], in Y.Ikeda, T.Oto, S.Makita and T.Wakamori (eds) Outline of Japanese Folklore, Vol. 9, Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten. Miura, S. (1986) ‘Rokujūroku-bu hijiri’ [The rokujū-rokubu priests], in T.Ogiwara and T.Shinno (eds) Bukkyō Minzokugaku Taikei [Outline of Folklore of Buddhism], Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan. Miyamoto, T. (1978) Minzokugaku no tabi [Ethnographic travelling], Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū. Nomura, J. (1984) ‘Sōsetsu—Mukashibanashi to minzoku shakai—Sekenbanashi kara mukashibanashi e’ [Outline—Folktales and Folk Society—From Gossip to Folktales], in J.Nomura (ed.) Collection of Japanese Folktale, Vol. 3, Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan. Origuchi, S. (1955–57) Origuchi Shinobu Zenshū [Complete Collection of the Works of Origuchi Shinobu], Origuchi Hakase Kinenkai (ed.), Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha. Origuchi, S. (1978) ‘Marebito-ron’ [The concept of the wanderer], in Nihon Minzoku Bunka Taikei [Collection of Materials on Japanese Folk Culture], Ikeda, Y. (ed.), Tokyo: Kōdansha. Pitt-Rivers, J. (1968) ‘The stranger, the guest and the hostile host’, in J.G.Peristiany (ed.) Contributions to Mediterranean Sociology, The Hague: Mouton. Sallnow, M.J. (1981) ‘Communitas reconsidered: the sociology of Andean pilgrimage’, Man, 16(2), 163–182. Shinno, T. (1980) Tabi no naka no shūkyō—Junrei no minzokushi [Religion in Travel— Ethnography of Pilgrimage], Tokyo: NHK. Takeda, A. (1969) Junrei no minzoku [Folklore of Pilgrimage], Tokyo: Iwasaki Bijutsusha. Turner, V (1969) The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-structure. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Turner, V (1974) Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Turner, Victor and Edith Turner (1978) Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture, New York: Columbia University Press. Wakamori, T. (1972) Kamigoto no naka no nihonjin [Japanese [life] in a context of rituals and ceremonies for the gods], Tokyo: Kōbundō. Yamaguchi, M. (1975) Bunka no ryōgisei [The ambiguity of culture], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Yanagita, K. (1948) Nihon mukashibanashi meii [Collection of Japanese Folktales], Tokyo: NHK. Yanagita, K. (1971 [1950]) Nihon densetsu meii [Collection of Japanese legends], Tokyo: NHK.

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Yanagita, K. (1990) Yanagita Kunio Zenshū [Complete Series of Yanagita Kunio], Vol. 24, Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō. Yoshida, T. (1967) ‘Mystical retribution, spirit possession, and social structure in a Japanese village’, Ethnography, VI:237–262. Yoshida, T. (1981) ‘The stranger as god: The place of the outsider in Japanese folk religion’, Ethnography, XX:90–94. Yoshida, T. (1984) ‘Spirit possession and village conflict’, in E.S.Krauss, T.P.Rohien and P.G.Steinhof (eds) Conflict in Japan, 85–104.

Part II Reconstructing the quest

7 Current increase in walking pilgrims Eiki Hoshino

Walking pilgrims As shown in previous chapters, the Shikoku henro pilgrimage typifies Buddhist pilgrimage in Japan. Shikoku is the fourth largest island in Japan and has an area of approximately 19,000 km2 and a population of approximately 3,200,000. The 88 designated temples of the Shikoku henro pilgrimage are scattered throughout the Shikoku area, and by visiting each one you complete a whole circuit of the island. Usui, among others in this volume, has noted that Japanese pilgrimages fall into several categories, the two main patterns being (a) visiting a single sacred area, and (b) a circuit covering many sacred areas. The Shikoku henro pilgrimage belongs to the second category and is a typical circuit pilgrimage of approximately 1,400 km. Following World War II, Japan was swept by a wave of motorization, and this certainly influenced the tradition of pilgrimage in Shikoku. From the 1950s onwards, pilgrims started to use large tourist buses as their mode of transportation. Then, in the 1960s, we find the ‘family car’ generation. The vast majority of the pilgrims at this point used some form of motor vehicle. Motorization is a common trend in modern society, and it is hardly surprising that motorized pilgrimages are on the increase. However, in contrast to this, a new trend is developing, or, it should be said, reappearing: Walking Pilgrimages. This trend seems as though it goes against the flow of civilization. Is it a simple anachronism? If it isn’t, then what is its meaning in today’s society? Why are these people walking? What is their purpose? What do they gain by walking? In this paper I will introduce some of the modern walking pilgrims’ experiences and try to fathom their world views. The number of people who do the Shikoku henro pilgrimage in a year is frequently around 100,000. One per cent of this figure consists of walking pilgrims, that is, about 1,000 persons. Some data, however, indicate that up to 10 per cent of the pilgrims may be doing the trip on foot. A walking pilgrimage can take many forms. In the case of the Shikoku henro pilgrimage one form is to visit every site (toshiuchi). Then there is the pilgrimage in which you visit each prefecture in Shikoku in turn (kugiriuchi). Also, there has been a long tradition of people visiting merely those areas where pilgrimage sites are relatively dense. This kind of pilgrimage is known as ‘the seven-temple visiting’ or ‘the ten-temple visiting’ pilgrimages. In recent years an increasing number of people have come just for the weekend or on holiday to visit the temples and do the pilgrimage in three days. The pattern the pilgrimage may take can vary greatly. A pilgrimage can, for instance, be: (a) a 100 per cent walking pilgrimage; (b) a pilgrimage where you are invited by someone and go together or (c) a pilgrimage done through a combination of walking,

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using the bus and/or train. In this ‘combination pattern’ there are many smaller patterns, for instance, when a pilgrim does not really want to use a car or a train, but has no other option. Furthermore, some people prefer to travel alone, others travel as a couple; still others will travel in a group. From where does this present-day boom of walking pilgrimages originate? Maybe it is linked quite generally to the so-called ‘walking-boom’. According to a recent survey, conducted by the Prime Minister’s Office, the most popular form of exercise is walking. In conjunction with this walking fad, however, one mustn’t overlook the important traditional Buddhist teaching placed on walking. I will expand upon this point briefly. From the introduction of Buddhism, many types of ascetic practices have played an important role in Japan (see also Yoshida in this volume). Corporal suffering was a prerequisite for the purification of the mind. A particularly distinctive feature in Japanese tradition is that walking along the steep roads of pilgrimage implies doing penance and seeking purification. As Nakamura Ikuo points out: It seems that the Japanese have a character trait that makes walking a goal in itself. We can see this in the aristocrats of olden times, who stubbornly opted to walk when visiting temples and shrines. What is more there is an old folk song which says, ‘It cannot be an ascetic practice if you use a horse.’ The more the pilgrimages in Japan make walking a goal in itself, the more a journey to the temples will begin to take on a profound meaning. The pilgrims must have realised that a pure body and mind do not come merely from religious services or confinement in temples, but through painful suffering in the process of reaching the sacred temples. We find a paradox here in that walking is a hardship, yet at the same time, can also be a joy. (1987:23–54) What Nakamura is saying is that the Japanese pilgrimage has added a strong religious meaning to walking, and that Japanese pilgrims, who make walking a goal in itself, place great importance on the process of going to the temples or shrines, more so perhaps than being at the actual target of the pilgrimage. It is possible that the idea of stressing the significance of walking may lie at the root of the Shikoku henro pilgrimage with its 88 temples. In other words, ‘To increase the number of spiritual places means to increase the number of mileposts, which in turn imposes more suffering, which again means experiencing a more thorough purification and ecstasy’ (Nakamura 1987:50). Accordingly, the profound meaning of the journey to the temples reveals itself in the reports on the experiences of present-day walking pilgrims (Kobayashi 1990:162; Sōdai 1997:91).

Why do people go on ‘walking pilgrimages?’ The following excerpts are taken from the reports of pilgrims, from interviews I have conducted, and also from information from web pages. Here, only a very small portion of the collected information can be presented.1

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One thing many of today’s pilgrims have in common is that they assert their motive for doing the Shikoku henro pilgrimage is not religious faith. Here are some statements: 1. Mr A (approximately 50 years old, active businessman, kugiriuchi-type pilgrimage, information taken from a web page): My reason for going on the pilgrimage was not religious. It was just a private trip that used the route of the traditional pilgrimage… Actually, I was enjoying ‘paid relaxation vacation time,’ but it was only at the very end of that vacation that I thought of going on a pilgrimage. I chant the Prajna-paramita-sutra at the pilgrimage sites, but my pilgrimage is more of a hobby. Personally I am not a student of Buddhism. 2. Mr/Ms B (Couple, kugiriuchi-type pilgrimage, interview): I recently had my 55th birthday. My wages dropped to 70%. Basically it was the aspect of ‘moving’ that appealed to me. Ever since I was young I have loved to run and to walk. I thought that the two of us would go abroad somewhere, but in the end we chose Shikoku. It’s not because we were religious. There were some people who said it sounded very religious, and they wondered why we would do such a thing, but we didn’t care what they said. Deep in my heart I am a sportsman, and it was the spiritual challenge that I did it for. 3. Mr/Ms C (author of the book Going on a Pilgrimage as ‘Two Fellow Pilgrims’ After Retirement; cf. Kobayashi 1990): I am an average Japanese person, and I’m not particularly knowledgeable about the Buddhist religion, nor am I especially religious (ibid: 3–4)… When it comes to the religious beliefs of Buddhism, besides being ignorant, I never had high hopes connected with it… (After retiring) I had this feeling of having been released from the organisation, and I felt like I was free, so I went on the pilgrimage to savour that feeling. (ibid: 32) 4. Ms D (single woman in her 30s, interview): I am a tour conductor. I was engaged to be married, but I broke it off just before the day. At that time, I was tired and everything was going wrong. As a conductor I went on pilgrimage tours and also visited Acalas. One of the tour leaders was a Buddhist monk and he encouraged us to go on a pilgrimage, I just felt like going. I practised the copying of a sutra, and I prepared myself. 5. Mr/Ms E (author of the book Walking Pilgrimage in Shikoku, 1996): I’m not a particularly devoted Shintō or Buddhist believer although I feel reverence for gods and Buddha… When you have lived for 60 years, grime has collected in your body and mind, you become soiled with evil passions. So you need to go on a pilgrimage to clean out your body and your mind, you need refreshing. 6. Ms F (single female in her 20s, interview): When I was in high school, I saw a program about the Shikoku henro pilgrimage. I thought I would go while I was in junior college, but I never got the chance. After I found a job, one of my co-workers went to Shikoku and did a pilgrimage; she was actually on TV. I got plenty of advice from this co-worker… Gradually I

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lost interest in my job. I loved to walk, and I was also interested in self-training. I wanted to have that feeling of achievement. So, I left my job and went to do the Shikoku henro pilgrimage. 7. Mr G (55, voluntarily retired from his department head position in a business, interview): Somewhere in my brain, I was always thinking about my superior who once did the Shikoku henro pilgrimage. I thought about my 80-year life. How would I spend the next twenty years? I wanted to harden my body. I wanted to build up my self-confidence by doing the Shikoku henro pilgrimage. I had the feeling that if I wasn’t able to do the Shikoku henro pilgrimage, what would I do with the rest of my life? I thought, maybe by going with my wife I could reflect upon my family, for which until then I had never had any time. I am quite aware that the quality of the answers differs between the indirect phrasing of the written reports, and the direct expressions of the spoken interviews. Nevertheless, if you look at why these seven people did the pilgrimage, you can say that there was no clearly defined reason for going; it wasn’t out of religious faith, nor was it a trip to seek out the truth. If you consider the positions taken up with regard to religious faith—e.g. ‘I read the Prajna-paramita-sutra, but I am not a student of Buddhism;’ ‘I am not a particularly devoted Buddhist or Shintō believer although I feel reverence for gods and Buddha’,—then the views expressed make it evident that they neither speak of an intense belief in Shintō or Buddhism, nor of particular interest in Kōbō Daishi. Rather, reference was made to ‘refreshing life’ and ‘challenge to the spirit’.2 Also, there is emphasis on self-searching, implying also self-training. In a newspaper interview Mr A said that while he did not really want to express his feelings in one word, he would nevertheless try to sum it up as ‘I went on the pilgrimage in order to heal myself, or for self-searching’. Once the pilgrims have commenced walking, they will keep on walking in sun or rain. Of course, there is always the possibility of something unexpected happening; maybe you stop to enjoy someone’s hospitality, or you get scared by a poisonous snake, or—of course—you begin to suffer from aching legs. Also, throughout the journey you may feel physiological desires, which can be a more serious problem. In the book known as the Walking Pilgrims’ Bible (Two Walking Pilgrims Together on the Shikoku Henro Pilgrimage, edited by the Association for the Protection of the Henro Roads), Miyazaki Kenju, a representative, declared that ‘the three most important things during the pilgrimage are sleeping, eating and going to the toilet’. Being a walking pilgrim means being very closely connected to physical things, and leg pains are one example of this. This is the exact opposite of religion as faith that comprehends religion as an inner belief, or a dogma. According to Morinis (1992), an anthropologist doing research on Indian pilgrimages, what matters on a pilgrimage is not mental curiosity, but the experience itself. He suggests that whatever happens during a pilgrimage has individual, personal and sensual importance. He also states that what pilgrims are doing is specifically ‘seeing, hearing, feeling and tasting’ (Morinis 1992:9– 21). The connection between pilgrimage and healing that is made by some may have some relation to this. Yumiyama explains healing in the following way: ‘Healing is the

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act of “feeling” and “sensing;” by directly appealing to the body and the senses, the body and the mind, joined as one, recover’ (1996:141–62). Among the examples we have looked at, not one refers to religious faith as a motive for performing the pilgrimage. I am not assuming here that all walking pilgrims have the same motives. Some people complete the pilgrimage simply by walking peacefully. However, it is difficult to assume that many of the people who walk the Shikoku henro pilgrimage these days do so out of a deep-rooted belief in Kōbō Daishi, who might cure Hansen’s disease or perform a miracle.

How do people feel after completing a ‘walking pilgrimage?’ If you read the notes of those who have completed their pilgrimage carefully, and listen hard to their experiences, it is possible to note quite a few statements that show you cannot simply say they are not religious, or that they have not had any religious experience. For example: 1. Mr/Ms A (early morning arrival at a temple, beginning the sutra chanting): There is always someone around, so my voice becomes quiet naturally. I’m shy, so my chanting gets faster and faster. Today I was alone, so I could chant slowly and loudly. Within one or two minutes I got the feeling of completely sinking into a different world. The chirping of the cicadas in the trees around me is more intense. I feel as though I was the only one existing in this world. I feel as though I am at the centre of the universe. I wonder if this is what Mr. K felt when he experienced ki (spiritual energy). 2. Mr/Ms B: Walking everyday for more than eight hours and carrying a pack on my back that weighs quite a lot, I gradually became aware of what is really important in my life. I am consistent with nature; rain, wind, sunshine, heat, cold. Accepting things as they are is the best way. Once you put your own desires aside you can really live comfortably; it’s as comfortable as if you’ve put your pack down. I can eat. I can have a bath. I can go to sleep on a futon bed under the covers; I often wonder if I need anything more than this. There is so much to be thankful for; every day I vigorously walk along. I have a wonderful time meeting and talking to people. The flowers, the birds, the plants and the trees, all let us have an enjoyable experience. You realise that there is no superior or inferior living being on the earth. It’s not only in my imagination, every tiny insect and every weed really has a life. I believe that everything is equal. I am conscious now that putting aside personal desires, being kind to everything and living with appreciation is important for living well. 3. Mr/Ms C: When I arrived at the last temple, Ōkuboji, and reported to Kōbō Daishi that I had completed the pilgrimage, I started a lamentation; I had a moment of ‘religious ecstasy,’ a moment of extreme bliss. Once I got home, I took my time reading through Buddhist books. In them I read that by the end of a pilgrimage a pilgrim

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‘becomes a Buddha with one’s body and is reborn.’ After the experience I had, I have to agree with that, as this is exactly what I experienced. 4. Mr/Ms D: For me every single thing that happened in Shikoku was significant, every good thing and every bad thing, everything had meaning. What I mean is that, even if I don’t know the meaning for every single thing that happened, at some point in my life there will be a moment when I realise the meaning of it, or when it becomes a guide mark and helps me solve my problems. I have come to think that the most important things that will enable me to have a truly happy life are that I value the connections made with the people I met on the pilgrimage, and that I can reciprocate emotions to those people who held out their hands to me. I believe that I was called to Shikoku and made to walk. 5. Mr/Ms E: I have gained the knowledge that ‘I am not living, but rather that I am being allowed to live’ I have to make special mention of this subject. As soon as I was certain that the eighty-eighth temple, Ōkuboji, was getting closer, my eyes overflowed with tears, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I walked along without thinking, repeating ‘thank you, thank you’ over and over, waving clenched fists with huge tears running down my cheeks. 6. Mr/Ms F: Before I went on the pilgrimage I thought ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if my mind could be clean?’ It’s hard to say whether or not my mind has been purified, but I know now, through the hospitality I received, that there are some kind people in this world. I never realised that there were people who were this kind. There was a person who helped me when I got lost at Unpenji Temple. Then there was another person who gave me a packed lunch… A religious belief has bloomed in my heart. If you believe, then Kōbō Daishi will watch over you, and reach out a hand to rescue you. Even when I encountered something dangerous, I was able to escape, I believe it was thanks to Kōbō Daishi. 7. Mr/Ms G: The Shikoku pilgrimage is a place for people’s rebirth… I realised that there is very little that you need in life. I didn’t need any extras when I was walking. I only had the bare minimum. I only had what I needed for that one day of walking. I now know what is really important for life… You place yourself in the lowest social stratum. If I were working in a personnel department of a company, I would definitely choose the Shikoku henro pilgrimage as the place for training employees. I would give them 50,000 or 100,000 yen and tell them to complete the Shikoku henro pilgrimage with this much money… I learned to see things from a different viewpoint than before… I reflect on myself, I reorganise my values… The Shikoku henro pilgrimage isn’t a simple thing to do. But, if you really try, you can do it. This is true of a company, also. Some of the above statements are extremely sensitive, being based on quite dramatic experiences. Others are reasonable, and you may call them a sort of enlightenment. However, it is a characteristic also of the ‘enlightenment’ style, that it is based on one’s

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experience as a walking pilgrim, and not on intellectual understanding through ideas or words. The statements refer, in effect, to what we usually call a religious experience: “I get the feeling I am sinking into a completely different world”; “I feel as though I am at the centre of the universe”; ‘Set aside personal desires, be kind to everything and live with appreciation”; “A moment of ‘religious ecstasy,’ a moment of extreme bliss”; “Becoming a Buddha with one’s body”; “Being reborn”; “I was called to Shikoku, and I was made to walk”; “I have gained the knowledge that I am not living, but I am being allowed to live”; “If you believe, then Kōbō Daishi will watch over you, and reach out a hand to rescue you”; “I realised that there is very little that you need in life”. It is noticeable that all these expressions, not to mention those that explicitly refer to Buddhism, do not differ much from those seen in the sayings and confessions of true Buddhist believers. I wish to point out, however, that these pilgrims do not perceive their experiences to be ‘religious experiences’. A further characteristic is that hardly any religious professionals, like Buddhist priests, mediate between the experiences and feelings that the pilgrims have.

Are ‘walking pilgrims’ religious or not? Nowadays the relationship between religion and society is complex. If you look at the rising prominence of the Islamic religion, or the strong links between racism and religion, you will see that religion still has a lot of power. However, in Japan, according to the results of a survey, the percentage of people who believe in religion is in steady decline. Nevertheless, in national elections the number of ‘religious’ votes is worth taking note of. It is certain that the number of pilgrims who mention (traditional) ‘faith’ as their motive is decreasing. Also, people who do the pilgrimage in a large group are on the decrease. Though the pilgrims choose to dress themselves completely in white, and steadfastly walk the pilgrimage, if you look at these people from a traditional standpoint, they really aren’t acting like pilgrims. For one thing, it costs much less to do pilgrimages by car. However even in the case of walking pilgrims it is quite rare that they walk from their own homes to Shikoku and back; they use public transportation at least part of the way. Are these people not religious? Many of them say that their motive for doing the pilgrimage is not religious. That may be so, but if you look at some of their experiences, are these not ‘religious’? Having the feeling of being in a different world, feeling oneself in the centre of the universe, setting aside personal desires etc., these are all religious sentiments, but at the same time it is hard to assert that they are only experienced in the religious world. In this era of change, there is no need to contain something ‘religious’ only within the confines of the concept of ‘religion’. In this global era, politics, economics and culture are no longer captured in the conventional standards. The pilgrims, who have started to walk in Shikoku again, are part of a new wave. Are they raising the curtain on a new age of the Shikoku henro pilgrimage?

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Notes 1 B.Aziz (1987), who is engaged in a research on pilgrimage in South Asia, points out that, even when people are doing pilgrimage in a family or a small group, each person’s experience is highly individual and often differs from person to person. 2 According to B.Aziz (1987), the factor of ‘adventure’ can be frequently noted among the pilgrims in India and Nepal.

References Aziz, B. (1987) ‘Personal dimensions of the sacred journey: what pilgrims say’, Religious Studies 23, 247–61. Kobayashi, A. (1990) Teinen kara wa dōgyō ninin [Going on a Pilgrimage as ‘Two Fellow Pilgrims’ After Retirement], Tokyo: P.H.P. Research Institute. Morinis, A. (ed.) (1992) Sacred Journey: The Anthropology of Pilgrimage, Wesport, Conn., Greenwood Press. Nakamura I. (1987) Nihonjin no junrei—‘aruku’ koto ni yoru metsuzai to ‘jōka’ [Japanese pilgrimages—the destruction of sin and purification through ‘walking’], Christian Culture Research Institute of Seishin Women’s College (ed.) Junrei to bunmei [Pilgrimage and Civilization], Tokyo: Shunjūsha, pp. 23–54. Sōdai Michi Kūkan Kenkyūkai (1997) Shikoku henro to henrodō ni kansuru ishiki chōsa [Opinion Survey of Shikoku Henro Pilgrimage and Its Road], Tokyo, Sōdai Shakaigaku Kyōshitsu. Yumiyama, T. (1996) Nihon ni okeru healing boom no tenkai [The development of the healing boom in Japan], Shūkyō Kenkyū 308, 141–62.

8 New forms of pilgrimage in Japanese society Maria Rodríguez del Alisal

Introduction As the previous chapters have made clear, there is a long tradition of pilgrimage in Japan. As in other parts of the world, pilgrimages were not always embarked on only for religious reasons, but were also a means of getting in touch with new places, new people and new ways of life. Nowadays as well, when visiting a shrine or temple during a pilgrimage, the religious objective is many times only a pretext for other, more ‘secular’ reasons. Modernity has brought a more secular approach to religious activities. Here I shall analyse forms of pilgrimage that are becoming more and more widespread in Japan, where old sites and traditional motivations appear to be as popular as in the past. In this paper I have included some of the data I collected when doing field-work in autumn 1994, in spring 1995 and in summer 1999 in the Osaka and Wakayama areas, travelling from Ikoma in the Kinki region down to the south to the Kii peninsula and the Kumano region. I am interested not only in describing and analyzing new places and new pilgrimages, but also in the new forms which have developed in traditional and wellknown pilgrimages as in the case of Kumano in Wakayama prefecture.

Tourism and pilgrimage The development of tourist itineraries and new routes of transportation have been important for the spread of new pilgrimage forms and sites that were unknown in the past. Through tourism, people come to know the traditions and specific customs of places other than their own. Socially, it is obvious that tourism has always been closely related to the exchange, development and production of cultural practices. Seemingly, religious institutions and religious worship have been important precursors to tourism. In this sense the Edo period in Japan was an epoch where travelling attained a new dimension, thanks to the development of an infrastructure of roads. This fact led to the spread of new forms of technology, and to the exchange of local traditions and culture among the Japanese population. On the one hand, the sankinkōtai system (alternate attendance)1 was instrumental in the increase of the number of travel facilities such as inns, or resting places that offered meals and drinks. On the other hand, the authorities forbade travel by horse- or animal-drawn carriages. The populace had no recourse other than to travel on foot, but this, instead of preventing travel, was one of the factors that led to the popularization of travel in Japan. It is calculated that in the Genroku era (1688–1704),

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more than one million Japanese travelled every year on the Tōkai road. And, finally, since the government exercised a rigid control over the movement of people, allowing travel exclusively for religious worship or for curing illnesses at hot springs, people had to give these as reasons in order to be able to temporarily leave their homes. Permission to travel in order to visit a famous place of worship was even more easily given if a person was travelling with a group. Therefore whole communities, such as hamlets, or groups of people from the same locality, commonly travelled together under the leadership of an o-shi (literally: ‘revered master’). These o-shi, who originally were often low-ranking Buddhist priests, can be thought of as the ancestors of modern tour guides. They provided various services: finding other, more specialized guides along the road; making reservations for meals and lodging; providing all kinds of connections with the different temples along the way, as well as with the main temple or sanctuary to be visited; and organizing ludic activities. There are various records that describe the characteristics of travel and reveal the real purposes of travelling, often concealed under the guise of worship. In the book Kyōkun Manbyō Kaishun (Teachings for the Recovery from All Kind of Illnesses, 1771), it is reported that many people used to travel officially in order to have an ailment cured at a hot spring, but in fact the search for pleasure was their actual reason. In an encyclopaedic book published by Kitamura Intei in 1830 entitled Kiyūshōran (A Catalogue of Pleasure Seeking; cf. Ishimori 1989), the author comments on the nominal purpose of travel being worship, when it really was the enjoyment of going out and about. Institutionally, the development of the jidan seido was relevant for later tourist travel in Japan. This was an institution that placed the population under the control of a temple, the parishioners (danka) of a specific temple thus having a permanent ‘contract’ with a priest, who was also in charge of organizing visits to places of worship. Like the more freelance guides described above, the priest had to make all the arrangements for the tour: from organizing lodging and meals, to participating in ludic activities such as attending performances, shopping and even visiting brothels. In other words, in Japan religious worship, hot springs, and pleasure seeking have always been closely connected.

New forms of pilgrimage Maintaining ‘tradition’ is an important element in modern forms of pilgrimage, for even new forms, while having different elements than those in the past, remain closely related to the concepts of the traditional ones. For example, from the Edo period onwards it was popular to take soil from famous pilgrimage places in order to build a miniature pilgrimage site that was a tiny reproduction of the original. Thus pilgrimages such as the circuit of Shikoku (Shikoku henro) and the circuit of western Japan (Saikoku Junrei) were the first to be reproduced in eastern Japan. The reason for these replicas was that not everybody could go to visit the sacred sites, so priests—or even ordinary individuals— would decide to create these abbreviated pilgrimages nearer to home. With time, this type of pilgrimage spread, mainly in eastern Japan. In Japan, as in Europe, railways played an important role in developing new areas for tourism. In this manner, pilgrimages in Japan, which had developed thanks to good roads in the Edo period, attained a new popularity during the Meiji period. During this period, a

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large railway system was established. This produced a high number of pilgrims visiting famous temples and shrines, and tourists visiting mainly hot springs. Frequently, the pilgrim-tourists or tourist-pilgrims were combining both spa visits and worship. In 1889, the Sangū Railway Company was founded, to serve as a link with the Ise Shrine. The railway from Kamakura to Enoshima was established in 1910. In western Japan, the Hanshin Electric Railway Company, the Kintetsu Railway Company and the Nankai Railway Company were crucial in the increase of short visits to famous pilgrim sites and to special beautiful landscapes.

Tradition and modernity in the Japanese pilgrimages Almost pure religious pilgrimages co-exist with not-so-serious religious pilgrimages, where tourism may be the primary factor for undertaking the journey. As already noted, even in the past many pilgrimages went more for pleasure-seeking than for worship, and this is still true today. It is also relevant to take into account the changes in Japanese society in order to understand the plans and motivations of people visiting famous pilgrimages sites. The development of transport facilities, described above, in combination with new religious practices, has brought forth new forms of pilgrimage: more sites are accessible to larger numbers of visitors because of modern transport. Bus companies, travel agencies and railway companies contribute a great deal to links between popular religious pilgrimages and the beautiful landscapes that surround them. Tourist companies even direct pilgrims to new pilgrimage sites. Four examples will show the importance of these secular and economic institutions in pilgrimage today: a) Shigisan; b) a place known as ‘Shūkyō Lando’ (Religion Land), near Sakakibara Spa; c) Tennōji in Osaka and d) Kumano. a) Shigisan The temple of the Shigisan area—Chōgosonshiji—is located on the slopes of the Ikoma Mountains near Osaka. It always was a famous place for worship, becoming even more famous after the establishment of new lines, one in 1915 and another in 1930, by the Kintetsu Railway. Later, a toll road linking the temple with an amusement park was built, and dotted with lookouts in order for travellers to view the scenery from the top of the Ikoma range. At the entrance to Shigisan there is a large map showing the different sites visitors can see, because at Shigisan there are not only places of worship, but also hotels providing lodging, and a hot spring. Once inside the grounds of the temple, the big stone figure of a tiger greets the visitor. Here and there are found also small figurines of the tiger that is the mamori kami or kami sama no o-tsukai (guardian deity) of the temple. As the pamphlet about the history of Shigisan explains, Prince Shōtoku Taishi (574–622 CE) visited this place once and the deity Bishamon-ten appeared in front of him. The Prince took the visitation as a good omen, deciding that Bishamon-ten was his guardian deity. Thus he built a temple in honour of Bishamon-ten, and this was Shigisan. Bishamon-ten (Sanskrit, Vaisravana: ‘the one who listens widely’) is one of the Seven Gods of Good Fortune and Happiness. Under the name of Tamon-ten, he is also one of the Four Guardian Gods of Heaven (Shitennō): the god who protects the North Gate of Heaven. He is, at the same time, the Tiger in the 12 signs of the Chinese Zodiac and is

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invoked for luck in business and commercial ventures, as well as for good fortune in thisworldly affairs. This could be the reason why so many offerings are made at Shigisan on the part of companies and individual businessmen. Scattered throughout the wide extension around the main building, there are some small sanctuaries offering charms (omamori) and talismans for sale. On top of one of the hills is a small-size reproduction of the 88 Holy Places of the Shikoku pilgrimage. Visitors thus have the opportunity to make a mini-pilgrimage of this great circuit. b) Shūkyō Lando Near Sakakibara Spa, and just off the road leading to it, is the place known as Shūkyō Lando (Religion Land). A wealthy man, who probably started it as a business rather than for religious purposes, established the place. Shūkyō Lando benefits from the tourist buses crowded with people who go there after staying at the spa. Usually, travel agencies include a visit to Shūkyō Lando on the way back from the hot springs. In the resort’s shops it is possible to buy plenty of souvenirs and lucky charms. Next to the main entrance, there is a ‘Louvre Sculpture Museum’, with some reproductions of works that are found at the Louvre such as the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory from Samotracia. Surprisingly, there is also a reproduction of the Statue of Liberty. Once past the entrance, there is a group of maneki neko (welcoming cats). These small cat figures, with an upright paw inviting customers in, are often displayed in restaurants and shops in Japan, as it is said that they bring good luck in commerce. Certainly, not only shop owners and people dedicated to commercial activities visit this place, but also any person who hopes for a good economic opportunity. Not far from where these maneki neko stand, there is another group of figures representing musician frogs. These frogs are about 70 cm tall, and each of them is playing a musical instrument. Frogs are known in Japan for bringing back good luck, bringing back lost things and people, and helping people to come back safely, because the sound of the word kaeru (frog) is identical to kaeru (to return), to kaeru (to change) and to kaeru (being able to buy).2 Here is a list of some of the things that these frogs can bring back to people or do for them: takara kaeru (jewels and precious things are returned) buji kaeru (come back safely) okane kaeru (money will come back to us) nandemo kaeru (we will be able to buy anything we want) aijō kaeru (love comes back, is returned) kibō kaeru (our hopes are fulfilled) byōki kaeru (change sickness into good health) keiki kaeru (to change economic conditions) katsu kaeru (vitality comes back) In this site there are also sculptures dedicated to the Seven Gods of Fortune, among them Ebisu, the god of health and fortune for family businesses, and Daikoku, the god of harvest and good fortune. Next comes a statue of Fudō Myōō, the god of esoteric wisdom, of Kannon, the god or goddess of mercy, and of Yakushi Nyorai, the medicine deity. A large sculpture of a hand is on one side of the grounds and a written notice

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advises how to proceed: Breathe in slowly and deeply, then, while exhaling touch the sculpture, caressing it; repeat three times. The real highlights of Shūkyō Lando are the Kannon Reisen, a fountain dedicated to Kannon with waters said to promote longevity, and a mini-version of the 88 Holy Places of the Shikoku henro pilgrimage, consisting of soil from each of the 88 sites placed beneath special strong glass covers. When people step over these, in effect they can consider having visited the real places. The entire visit here can last for just 20 minutes. Many elderly people coming to Shūkyō Lando are on their way back from a short stay at the spa of Sakakibara Onsen. The visit to Shūkyō Lando is more touristic than religious, and people coming here are happy to have the opportunity of worshipping after having enjoyed the spa. In the visits I made to Shūkyō Lando, apart from tour groups, I saw also individual people, aged couples, or small groups of men and/or women. c) Tennōji In the southern part of Osaka city, and not far from Osaka castle, is Tennōji. This temple is one of the most traditional and popular temples in the city. It is dedicated to the Four Guardian Gods of Heaven: Jikoku-ten (Guardian of the East), Zōchō-ten (Guardian of the South), Kōmoku-ten (Guardian of the West), Tamon-ten (also called Bishamon-ten, Guardian of the North). In the grounds of the Tennōji, which is also a departure point for the famous henro pilgrimage to the 88 Holy Places in Shikoku, there is a mini-version of just these 88 sites. People visiting the Tennōji and doing the small-scale reproduction of the Shikoku pilgrimage are mainly residents of Osaka city as well as people coming from areas nearby. I asked several, mainly elderly people, but also some younger persons whom I met at the Tennōji, the reason why they were doing the compact pilgrimage. They answered that they would like to undertake the whole, real pilgrimage in Shikoku but were unable to do so. Younger people said they would go to Shikoku in the future, and older people said that they would go if they could, but at the moment they were not sure if they would be able to make the whole pilgrimage. d) Kumano Kumano, or Kumano Sanzan (The Three Sacred Districts of Kumano: Hongū, the Main Shrine, and the shrines Shingū Hayatama Jinja and Nachi Jinja), refers to one of the most traditional and emblematic pilgrimage routes of old Japan. It is said that Izanagi, one of the two deities who created the Japanese Islands, is buried next to the great waterfall of Nachi. Kumano became a famous place of religious worship in the Heian period (794– 1192 CE), as the abdicated (cloistered) emperors favoured Kumano with their visits. The emperors Shirakawa (Emperor 1072–1086, cloistered 1086–1129), Toba (Emperor 1107– 1123, cloistered 1129–1156), Go-Shirakawa (Emperor 1155–1158, cloistered 1158– 1179/81–1192) and Go-Toba (Emperor 1183–1198, cloistered 1198–1221) made a total of 97 visits (once a year, approximately) from Kyoto to Kumano, covering a total of 600 km. These trips lasted for a whole month, and more than 1000 people journeyed as imperial attendants. In the Kamakura period (1192–1333), after the establishment of the Shogunate at Kamakura, the samurai started visiting Kumano, also coming from far away eastern Japan. However it was in the Muromachi period (1336–1573), when commoners in large

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numbers began to visit Kumano and the sites became accessible for regular people. In the Azuchi-Momoyama period (1568–1602) Kumano went into decline and was overtaken by other places of pilgrimage and worship, such as Kōyasan, the 33 Sacred Sites dedicated to Kannon in western Japan (Saikoku), and the 88 Holy Places of Shikoku. At the time when the cloistered emperors made almost annual visits to Kumano, powerful Buddhist monasteries supported the state by contributing moral and religious legitimacy to the emperor’s power, and it is said that their political influence was high. Later on, yamabushi (itinerant mountain ascetics) and bikuni (Buddhist nuns) played an important role in the popularization of Kumano as a widely known centre of religious worship. Both the yamabushi and the bikuni would explain the history and the characteristics of Kumano using simple visual aids, and they sold charms and amulets from the sanctuaries. The Kumano pilgrimage has, moreover, since ancient times been connected with ideas about life after death. There are records of many people who went to Kumano in anticipation of their death, as a penitence for their sins, and also when they had suffered disasters or tragedies in their lives. Until recently, the journey to Kumano was an experience full of danger and hardship, because of the difficulties in reaching the sacred sites. Nowadays, Kumano is experiencing a ‘revival’, thanks to the improvement of access roads and other good transport facilities. The great numbers of festivals as well as cultural and recreational events in the Prefecture of Wakayama have also led to an increase in the numbers of visitors. Through the pamphlets advertising Kumano we know that it is possible to reach it from the new Kansai Airport, or by train to Shingū and then by bus to Hongū and Nachi. This allows a visitor to make a circuit tour of the sacred sites as well as Shirahama Spa in one day. For some of the people visiting Kumano today, religious worship is still a central element. For others, seeing the landscape, walking across the mountain roads and having a new experience are important. Groups of yamabushi walk the whole way from Ōminesan (Mount Ōmine) to Kumano for the mine iri (entering/climbing the mountain for spiritual training) several times a year. However, nowadays pilgrims are people living mainly in big cities, and not especially religiously minded. Their main objectives are to enjoy the landscape and nature, to know about tradition and history, to do some physical exercise, and to meet other people. In general, people go in groups, escorted by a professional guide. Sometimes not only a guide, but also an expert in history and religion goes with the group in order to give accurate information, as many visitors to Kumano are mainly interested in learning about the history of Japan. For these people, a trip to Kumano can be a good occasion for getting in touch with their ancestral past and becoming aware of their Japanese identity. Nowadays, rural tourism in Japan is being boosted by local governments. That is why they publish elaborate tourists’ brochures with details about visits to historical sites in their area. Where pilgrimage routes exist, these are emphasized in an appropriate way with details about all the benefits associated with that pilgrimage. Moreover, aspects related to the enjoyment of the landscape in the course of the four seasons are described for particular places. For those interested in walking, there is also information about the different paths, their difficulty, and any other useful details. Therefore, today a pilgrimage like that to Kumano might be a good experience for those interested in

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history, for those who only want to contemplate the landscape, for those who like to walk, and even for those who just wish to join a group for which fun activities are organized. As an example of this last type the organized journeys following the so-called Old Pilgrimage Route of Kumano (Kumano Kodō) should be mentioned. As the tourist brochures published by the Prefecture of Wakayama say, this route can be covered in five stages. The starting point is in Takijiri Ōji, situated in the city of Nakahechi. Following part of what, in the past, was the old road to Kumano, one arrives at the Main Shrine of Kumano at Hongū. In total, 40 km are covered. During the trip different activities are organized: explanations of the history of the Old Kumano Route; didactic contests; broadcasts in FM; and, along the way, typical products of each area are exhibited. Dramas related to Kumano, its history, and to the ecology of the forests and mountains of the region are also put on. Apart from the increasing interest in the Old Kumano Route, the event recalling the old pilgrimage of the emperors and noblemen to Kumano has become popular. It is held on the fourth Sunday of October. All the participating pilgrims, who walk about 1.5 km, are dressed in the clothing of Heian period courtiers. The event starts at 10 am in the city at Nachi, the departure being from a gift shop called Nebokedo. Upon entering Daimonzaka incline, the pilgrims go up the old stone path, along the way visiting the shrine of Nachi. Next, they offer prayers in front of the three-storied pagoda of Seigantoji temple and see the daigoma (fire) ceremony, done in the yamabushi style. Finally, as one of several ludic elements, there is a taste-testing of tuna. The revival of the Old Pilgrimage Route of Kumano is linked to the ‘Movement to revive rural areas’ (muraokoshi), which Japan has been promoting since the 1960s. This kind of initiative is not only found in Japan, but has parallels in different parts of the world and is also related to other back-to-nature movements such as organic farming, living in agrarian communes, as well as the revival of awareness of historically rooted national identity,3 whatever the country might be. In fact, the muraokoshi movement in Japan has truly become a strategy for revitalizing areas faced with depopulation. It is important to point out the positive aspects these initiatives have. They allow different communities to keep in contact with each other, to use more natural ways of land cultivation, and also to recover traditions in danger of dying out, including those of autochthonous products which, due to a lack of diffusion, had been almost forgotten. The recent popularity of the Old Pilgrimage Route to Kumano could also be seen from the perspective of the ‘Exotic Japan’ campaign (cf. Ivy 1995:48), attracting modern pilgrims amongst people who live in the big cities. To quote Okpyo Moon (1997:233), if ‘nature has become something to be acquired by the people from the big cities’, then traditional pilgrimage sites such as Kumano are becoming the ‘internal exotic Japan’ for city dwellers.

Kumano and Santiago In May 1997, the prefecture of Wakayama and the Galician Community signed an agreement by which the Road to Santiago and the Pilgrimage Route of Kumano were officially twinned as pilgrimage itineraries. From that date, there have been several visits

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by monks and various Buddhist institutions to Santiago de Compostela. Wakayama Prefecture has also organized groups of youngsters, ecological associations and rambling clubs to make pilgrimages or visits to Santiago de Compostela. On the other hand, the city of Santiago organized in May 1999 a very detailed photographic exhibition in the pilgrimage museum about the Kumano itinerary. However, I have noticed that until now, contacts between the authorities of the Cathedral of Santiago and the religious authorities in Kumano have been almost nonexistent. The agreement between Santiago de Compostela and Kumano was signed, on the Spanish side, by the President of the Community of Galicia, Mr Manuel Fraga, but nowhere on the document does the sign or seal of the Cathedral or any catholic authority appear. This may be due to the fact that the Cathedral of Santiago and its authorities need more time to decide upon how to look at the Kumano pilgrimage. On the part of Kumano, however, as is usual in Japan, the authorities seem to have a very hospitable attitude towards the relationship. In fact, several monks have already completed the Road to Santiago, and every year more and more Japanese people travel the whole way to Santiago following the French Road from Roncesvalles and Somport in the Pyrenees. The total of pilgrims from Japan to Santiago de Compostela (counting just those who walked more than 100 km) was almost 150 in the year 2003, according to the Oficina del Peregrino in Santiago. The partnership between a Buddhist/Shintō pilgrimage like Kumano, and a Catholic pilgrimage like that to Santiago, rooted in the European religious tradition, is very meaningful. Even more important is the way in which, from now on, the relationship between these two centres of pilgrimage will be deepened, and the process of assimilating a foreign religion both by Buddhist and Catholic authorities and their followers will take place.

Notes 1 Each lord was required to spend every other year in Edo. 2 See also del Alisal (1984). 3 For Japan, see: Fukuoka (1983, 1987), Takahashi (1984) and Watanabe (1989).

Bibliography del Alisal, M. (1984) ‘Yoshino Yama no kaero Tobi’ [The soltist festival in Nara Prefecture], Mikayo, H (ed.) Yama no Matsuri Geino [Japanese Mountain Festivals and their staging], Tokyo: Hirakawa. Aoki, Tamotsu (1983) Gendai junrei to nihon bunka no shinsō [Modern pilgrimages and the deep structure of Japanese culture] V.Turner and M.Yamaguchi (eds) Misemono no jinruigaku [The Anthropology of Exhibitions], Tokyo: Sanseidō, pp. 66–113. Bhardwaj, Surinder M. (1973) Hindu Places of Pilgrimage in India: A Study in Cultural Geography, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Eade, John and Michael J.Sallnow (1991) Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage, London: Routledge. Fukuoka, Masanobu (1983) Wara ippon no kakumei [One Straw’s Revolt], Tokyo: Shunjūsha. Fukuoka, Masanobu (1987) The road back to nature: regaining the paradise lost, Frederic P.Metreaud (trans.), Tokyo: Japan Publishers.

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Geary, Patrick (1986) ‘Sacred commodities: the circulation of medieval relics’, Arjun Appadurai (ed.) The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 164–94. Gorai, Shigeru (1967) Kumano mōde: Sanzan shinkō to bunka [The Pilgrimage to Kumano: Beliefs and Culture of the Three Sacred Districts of Kumano], Kyoto: Tankōsha. Graburn, Nelson (1983) ‘Anthropology of tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research, 10(1), 9–33. Hobsbawn, Eric and Terence Ranger (eds) (1983) The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoshino, Eiki (1987) ‘Buddhist pilgrimage in east Asia’, Encyclopedia of Religion 11, 349–51. Hoshino, Eiki (1997) ‘Pilgrimage and peregrination, contextualizing the Saikoku Junrei and the Shikoku Henro’, Japanese Journal of Religious Studies, 24, 271–97. Ishimori, Shūzō (1989) ‘The popularization and commercialization of tourism in early modern Japan’, T.Umesao, M.Fruin and N.Hata (eds) Japanese Civilization in the Modern World IV: Economic Institutions (Senri, Ethnological Studies No. 26), Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, pp. 179–94. Ivy, Marilyn (1995) Discourses of the Vanishing: Modernity, Phantasm, Japan, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Kornicki, Peter and I.J.McMullen (1996) ‘Rethinking Japanese folk religion: A study of Kumano Shugen’, in P.Kornicki and I.J.McMullen (eds) Religion in Japan: Arrows to Heaven and Earth, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 120–34. Leed, Eric (1991) The Mind of the Traveller, New York: Basic Books. Miyake, Hitoshi (1974) Nihon shukyō no kōzō [The Structure of Japanese Religion], Tokyo: Keiō Tsūshin. Miyake, Hitoshi (1984) Yama no matsuri to geinō [Mountain Festivals and Performing Arts], Tokyo: Hirakawa Shuppan. Moon, Okpyo (1997) ‘Marketing nature in rural Japan’, Pamela Asquith and Arne Kalland (eds) Japanese Images of Nature. Cultural Perspectives, London: Curzon, pp. 221–35. Morinis, Alan (1984) Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition: A Case Study of West Bengal, New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Reader, Ian and Paul Swanson (1997) ‘Pilgrimage in Japan’, Japanese Journal of Religious Studies, 24, 225–70. Takahaski, Yoshio (1984) Inakagurashi no tankyū [Research into Rural Lives], Tokyo: Shōshisha. Turner, Harold (1979) From Temple to Meeting House: The Phenomenology and Theology of Places of Worship, The Hague: Mouton. Turner, Victor and Edith Turner (1978) Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Vlastos, Stefan (ed.) (1998) Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan, Berkeley and Los Angeles: The University of California Press. Watanabe, Shōichi (1989) The Peasant Soul of Japan, London: McMillan.

9 Old gods, new pilgrimages? A whistle stop tour of Japanese international theme parks Joy Hendry

Introduction It is now rather well-known that Japan boasts an abundance of parks that depict foreign countries in various forms. Huis ten Bosch (formerly, Oranda-mura [Holland Village]) near Nagasaki was probably the first one to follow Tokyo Disneyland’s depiction of American playtime, and has certainly been amongst the most popular, but there have been many others. At the height of their popularity, they included Canadian World, the Danish Nixe Marine Park and Glücks Königreich in Hokkaido, Tazawako Swiss Village in Akita-ken, Parque España in Ise-shima and a Russian village in Niigata-ken. Several other parks combined representations of a number of different countries or cultures, including Shuzenji Niji no Sato, which linked Britain, Canada and Japan; Reoma World, which recreated an Oriental Trip and The Little World, also known as Museum of Man, which represents a multitude of different cultural forms. My interest in these and other ‘representations’ of foreign countries was aroused during a study of Japanese gardens (see Hendry 1997), where reconstructions of the ‘natural’ world were interpreted as ways of ‘taming’ or ‘wrapping’ the wild version, very often regarded as dangerous because of the likelihood of uncontrolled encounters with the supernatural. The earlier discussion of the association between foreigners and wandering gods (e.g. Yoshida 1981) suggested a parallel between gardens and these parks, usually called teema paaku (Theme parks/theme parks), since they allow their predominantly Japanese visitors an encounter with foreigners, or at least with their artefacts, without the need to acquire a passport, travel abroad, or wrestle with the potential pitfalls of using a foreign tongue. The parks wrap or tame abroad for domestic Japanese consumption. A visit to a series of these parks proved to be most informative. First of all, I was surprised by the degree of sophistication that many of them displayed. I was more encouraged than ever by the parallel with gardens, and I would argue that they have been somewhat mis-classified by the use of the category theme park, certainly in its British usage, which largely implies a day of exciting rides. Many of them do have rides, it is true, but most of them have much more, and in some cases the rides are altogether absent, or set discretely apart from the main body of the park, conceptually separated as yūenchi (amusement park). In my view, several of these parks have more in common with British Hills, an educational establishment atop a mountain in Fukushima-ken, than with a more conventional theme park, although they are of course undoubtedly inspired and

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influenced by various forms of Disneyland and the more conventional Japanese amusement park at Takarazuka. In this paper, I would like to address some of the touristic elements of these so-called theme parks, and investigate the now quite familiar idea that visits to places such as these may be playing a role comparable to that made by a pilgrimage to shrines and temples. To this end, I will examine the characteristics of pilgrimage as postulated by writers such as Graburn (1978, 1983), Reader (1993), Rimer (1988) and Turner and Turner (1978) in order to identify their possible parallels in the theme parks I observed; I will then examine Moore’s (1980) contention that the theme park form, notably that of Disney World, is borrowed from the medieval pilgrimage centre, and review some of his ideas; and finally, I will evaluate the usefulness of this comparison for understanding the role these so-called theme parks play in contemporary Japan.

The magical, liminal or non-ordinary Graburn’s classic paper Tourism: the Sacred Journey identifies magic as a characteristic of ‘those structurally-necessary, ritualized breaks in routine that define and relieve the ordinary’ (Graburn 1978:19). He refers to Durkheim’s notion of the sacred as a ‘nonordinary’ experience, to be alternated with the profane, and he adds the important ingredient of a journey, with a beginning and an end, for the actual practice of tourism, and for the metaphorical representation of life as a succession of events marked by changes in state. For Westerners, he argues, ‘tourism is the best kind of life for it is sacred in the sense of being exciting, renewing, and inherently self-fulfilling’ (Graburn 1978:23). In a later article, when Graburn focuses on Japanese tourism, he notes an even stronger connection when he writes ‘the inherently interesting, fascinating, or spectacular places in the land have for long been the object of pilgrimages and tourism’ (Graburn 1983:12). He goes on to identify a Japanese ambivalence towards naturally awe-full places, which ‘both attracts the population out of its “normal” sphere of life and fills them with fear’ (Graburn 1983:13)—hence the shrines, to partake of the power and protect people from it. These are extra-normal sites for ritual gathering and liminality, and he notes that they are ‘managed…for aesthetic purposes, “perfecting” and producing miniatures of the ideal landscape for contemplation’ (Graburn 1983:12–13). Theme parks that reproduce miniature versions of foreign countries ‘manage’ the extra-normal in the same way, I would argue. By definition, they provide a non-ordinary experience, described as hi-nichijō no sekai (non-everyday world), and they are ranked according to their ability to create a dream world (yume no betsusekai), where one will keep feeling moved (kanjō mochitsuzukeru). A journey is created, even in a relatively urban area, so that a trip to Huis Ten Bosch, in Sasebo, is made from Hakata station in a special, brightly coloured train, whose terminus leaves the passenger with a substantial walk across a wide bridge before entry can be secured. Many of the parks are situated at considerable distance from the nearest train station, though often with a special bus terminal, which still deposits the visitors at some walking distance from the entrance. At Tazawako, in Akita-ken, the bus which circles the lake, and passes near to Suisu-mura (Swiss Village), arrives at the station a few minutes after

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the city train leaves, and departs just before the next one arrives. Of course, this may be a strategy to have tourists visit the shops and other local facilities (undoubtedly encouraged by the taxi firms), but it also exemplifies the sense of adventure typically associated with reaching a magic land. Some of the parks also feature various forms of transport within them so that the whole experience continues to be a series of journeys. The parks are all enclosed, however, and the enclosure is referred to as en,1 with aspirations about the magic of the inside (en-nai) and published stipulations about visitors’ appropriate behaviour. In confirmation of the association of tourism with van Gennep’s (1977) scheme for rites of passage, a definite rite of separation takes place at the entrance, where as well as parting with considerable sums of money, a visitor is issued with a passport, a map, and sometimes a book of tickets or a special credit card to use within the different world they are entering. On leaving, too, a visitor who has successfully collected the appropriate stamps along the way may claim a souvenir prize. In any case, there is usually a veritable abundance of souvenir shops to thread through before one can check out at the turnstile and make the return journey. The magic, liminal or non-ordinary nature of the inside is created in various ways. First, the buildings offer replicas of streets, parks or other scenes from the country concerned. Some of them may be entered, offering a variety of delights from museum display, through interactive shows, rides and films, to demonstrations of crafts and skills characteristic of the country concerned. All of them offer goods only to be found in that particular theme park, which once purchased will be properly wrapped in distinctive bags. All offer food and drink, usually of the country concerned, some have hotels, offering a longer stay in the world of fantasy and several have churches where dream weddings can be booked. Most have concerts, some have parades, and all have special events at particular times of the year to encourage the visitor to return.

Saints and liberation from constraints Reader’s introduction to Pilgrimage in Popular Culture (Reader and Walter 1993) makes an analysis of the use of the word pilgrimage in the English language, noting its application to visits made to sites associated with famous people, and also to secular journeys to foreign countries, where these are made for idealistic reasons. Thus, those who pay homage at the graves of heroes such as Elvis Presley, or Billy Fury or who visit the cottage where Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote The Ancient Mariner, may be described as pilgrims, in the same way that those intellectuals, who visited communist countries in their early heady days to seek cures for the maladies of capitalism, might. The work of Rimer (1988), which Reader also cites, combines these two meanings in his discussion of the visits of Japanese writers to France, which he analyses for the elements they share with pilgrimage. Drawing on the work of Turner, to which we will return, he argues that, like pilgrims, they give up their usual surroundings and travel to an unfamiliar spot, thus experiencing a displacement of site; like actors, they are performing a rite, estranged from their ordinary sense of self; and, if they are true pilgrims, they return having experienced a sense of the larger purpose of life (Rimer 1988). Rimer examines in detail the example of Shimazaki Tōson, and his subsequent writing, but there

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are, of course, prior Japanese examples of this kind of venture, perhaps characterized by the travels of the poet Bashō, and those who followed in his footsteps.2 It is quite in keeping with our comparison between theme park and pilgrimage, then, to find that almost all of these depictions of foreign countries feature either a writer, or one or more of their characters. Canadian World is even built around scenes found in Anne of Green Gables, and during the summer months, tea may be taken with a Canadian actress playing the part of Anne, accompanied by her teacher and her friends Diana and Gilbert, who also offer informal English classes in the replica of Avonlea village school. An exhibition about the author, L.M.Montgomery, is found in a reproduction of Green Gables, which is furnished in the style of the period. Visitors express the same zeal that may be witnessed amongst Japanese who travel to the Bronte house and community in Yorkshire, England. The Brothers Grimm are featured in the German park, where characters from their stories are represented in statues, on rides, and in an abundance of souvenirs, as well as in books which may be purchased in several different languages. In the Danish park, it is Hans Christian Anderson, who is featured; in Parque España, it is Cervantes, or, more precisely, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, who pop up in spectacular shows as well as in books, statues and souvenirs. In the Swiss village, visitors climb up the grassy hill to Heidi’s cottage, where they encounter cows, goats and ducks, just as she did, and they can watch a video about her Switzerland. Alice’s House and a Beatles Bus may be visited in Rainbow Village (Niji no sato), Reoma World has created its own characters which closely resemble those of Walt Disney, and in Huis Ten Bosch, there is a Characters’ Gallery, reflecting the global nature of this now huge enterprise. To emphasize the acting role the visitor may play, some of the theme parks offer clothes and accessories to be tried on. Girls may temporarily convert themselves into Anne of Green Gables, at various ages, in Canadian World, and in The Little World, there are costumes from Alsace, Bavaria, India, Korea and Okinawa. The deal includes a photo opportunity, and there are usually enough costumes to transport the whole family into a cultural dream. Elsewhere, visitors may be photographed alongside native performers who provide examples of their specialty entertainment. In Glücks Königreich, this included acrobatics, ballroom dancing and classical music, in Parque España, street music and flamenco dancing, and in the World Bazaar at Huis Ten Bosch, there was an Irish concert when I was there, as well as an elaborate cheese competition. These opportunities for interaction, albeit limited, with the foreigners themselves, or actors playing the part of fictional foreign characters, as well as their artefacts and activities, remind us of another parallel with pilgrimage, this time discussed in relation to the journey to Santiago de Compostela (Costen 1993). Reader points out that one of the reasons why relics and saints were so important to pilgrims along the journey was that ‘they appeared to offer the ordinary person ready access to the holy’ (Reader 1993:19). Even though they had died, they were thought to reside in and around their tombs, and prayers to them would invoke their special powers. This model is not unfamiliar to a Japanese tourist, offering prayers at a Tenmangū shrine to the god of learning, or the Izumo shrine to cement a marriage. An approach to distant foreigners is made possible at the magic world of theme parks, just as an approach to deified humans is made possible at a Shintō shrine.

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Furthermore, entry into the magic world of one of these foreign theme parks allows tourists to escape, albeit temporarily, into the world of freedom from obligation and constraint which is often held in Japan to be a characteristic of ‘abroad’ (gaikoku). This quality is close to that identified by the Turner and Turner (1978:9) who assert that pilgrimage ‘offers, and emphasizes the voluntary nature of the liminal liberation from profane social structures’, the entry into this state they then describe as ‘liminoid’ (Turner and Turner 1978:34–5). The Japanese visitor can enter a foreign world without worrying about the local customs and conventions, but it is to be hoped that they do not follow too closely the parallel between religion and travel if, as Turner and Turner assert, ‘they do this only in order to intensify the pilgrim’s attachment to his own religion, often in fanatical opposition to other religions’ (1978:9).

Theme parks and pilgrimage Moore (1980) draws heavily on Victor Turner’s work in an article that proposes that the form of the amusement park Walt Disney World is unconsciously borrowed from the archaic pilgrimage centre. He draws on theories of play to demonstrate that play and ritual ‘are expressions of the same metaprocess…symbolic, transcendent or “makebelieve,”…both are related to changes of interaction rates over daily, yearly, and generational cycles…’ (Moore 1980:208). Like the pilgrimage centre, Walt Disney World is bounded, set apart from ordinary settlements, with a place of congregation, some symbols on display, some common activities, and a myth that the other elements— site, symbols and activities—invoke. Rites of passage accompany movement in and out of the park, and between different sections of this giant limen, ‘At a time when some proclaim that God is dead’, he argues, ‘North Americans may take comfort in the truth that Mickey Mouse reigns at the baroque capital of the Magic Kingdom’ (Moore 1980:216). No single figure would seem to have achieved the success of Mickey Mouse in other Japanese theme parks, but animals acting as people abound in the shows which may be visited. Moore sees this phenomenon as an example of Turner’s notion of ‘anti-structure’, emphasized in the way that the characters become the special property of children. Japanese theme parks illustrate many of the same characteristics which Moore claims are derived from pilgrimage centres—they are bounded, usually distant places of congregation, with plenty of symbols on display, and many have common activities available. Some of them even have real animals—the Marine Park Nixe, whose name means mermaid, has dolphin and sea lion shows, for example, and Canadian World has ponies and deer—as well as humans in animal guise. However, I find it hard to identify a real solid myth in the Japanese foreign theme parks. Moore finds the American dream everywhere in Disney World, but the dream of internationalization (kokusaika)…? Hardly.

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How useful is the concept of pilgrimage for understanding Japanese theme parks? In Japanese theme parks, there is little evidence of a quest, a word that commonly crops up in studies of pilgrimage (e.g. Morinis 1992:ix; Reader 1993:8). According to Morinis, in his introduction to an edited volume on the anthropology of pilgrimage: [P]ilgrimage is born of desire and belief…desire is for solution to problems of all kinds that arise within the human situation. The belief is that somewhere beyond the known world there exists a power that can make right the difficulties that appear so insoluble and intractable here and now. (Morinis 1992:I) Europe has been admired in Japan over the last century, it is true, as has America, but it would seem presumptuous to suggest that the Japanese who visit these theme parks are seeking more than temporary solutions to the problems of life. Moreover, there is also not much in the way of self-testing ordeals, or the fulfilment of vows and promises so often associated with Christian and Hindu pilgrimages, unless these may have been made about daring to ride the roller coasters and interactive video machines (watching the world rush by, madly avoiding things hitting you)! Some of these are quite alarming, and notices warn those with heart problems, pregnancy, or high and low blood pressure, to refrain, but the experience is inherently safe, exciting but not proving or painful. According to Cohen, ‘pilgrimage is…expected to provoke religious “rapture” or “exaltation”’, whereas tourism ‘is expected to give mere pleasure and enjoyment’ (Cohen 1992:53). The latter is now culturally approved as a legitimate activity to refresh from the stress and strain of normal life. It is ‘recreational’, he points out. At a structural level, Cohen (1992) distinguishes between pilgrims who move towards a centre in their world, and tourists who travel away from the centre of their world to a periphery. He notes that ‘even as the traditional pilgrimage becomes “mere” tourism, tourism…becomes for some the new pilgrimage’ (Cohen 1992:52–3). In this theoretical context, since theme parks actually stand for a peripheral world, their Japanese visitors find themselves in a position quite opposed to the pilgrimage model. In any case there is no special power attached to the sites of these theme parks, unlike many of the sites of pilgrimage (e.g. Eade and Sallnow 1991). They are usually constructed on any convenient empty location, sometimes purposely to provide employment for workers made redundant as a previous enterprise closes down. In contrast to Cohen’s understanding of pilgrimage, which is characterized by movement towards a centre, in Japanese pilgrimage there is very often more of a fixed path of travel, with several sites to visit, rather than a sacred centre. In theme parks too, there is some sense of a meguri (circular tour, often in the sense of circular pilgrimage), as one follows the marked route on an appropriately numbered map. As with the famous Japanese pilgrimage to the 88 Holy Places of Shikoku, the numbered sites may be visited

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in a different order, possibly during several return visits, and in Shikoku, too, there may be much eating, drinking and merrymaking, but there is a definite sense of purpose, as one travels the path with the saint and folk-hero Kōbō Daishi (774–835 CE; see Chapter 2). Prayers and offerings are made at each temple, requests and wishes are written out, and a pilgrim’s book or scroll is completed ‘as a form of spiritual passport…to enter the Buddhist Pure Land after death’ (Reader 1993:112–13). Reader also notes, ‘If pilgrimage manifests touristic themes it also provides continuing scope for the expression and solution of individual and personal problems’ (ibid). Certainly the theme parks represent liminal or even liminoid time; with rites of passage at entry and exit, they also offer the opportunity for freedom and equality, encounters with literary characters and a make-believe or magical experience. In Reoma World there is even a Magical Street, and elsewhere fairy tales abound. Some even have apparently religious buildings, in many cases a church, though in the Swiss village this was also a garage. On the Oriental Trip of Reoma World, there are reconstructions of a Nepalese temple of the first century BC, a Thai temple from the twelfth/thirteenth century, a seventh-century Middle-Eastern Mosque and a Himalayan building from Bhutan. The latter encloses an array of shrines to Hindu gods, and may be approached while spinning a series of mani wheels. In the Mosque area, there is a row of mechanical fortune-tellers, of different origins, offering an activity parallel to the purchase of o-mikuji (written oracle, sacred] in shrines in Japan, and in Huis Ten Bosch there is an astrological hall where the delights of Western astrology are explained and applied by means of a computer. However, I saw no one praying at any of these edifices, and in a beautiful reconstruction of a golden shrine from Peru, in The Little World, many of the visitors just walked on through without a glance at the ornate altar and depiction of the dying Christ. A group of youths visiting the Thai temple when I was there even rejected it as Buddhist (bukkyō no koto ja nai deshō). Despite all this apparently ‘sacred’ or ‘religious’ activity to back up the structural and metaphorical parallels discussed above, there would seem to be a total lack of devotional or spiritual experience, to be taken home and shared with family and friends.3 In a society like Japan where elements of religion may be identified everywhere and nowhere, the existence of buildings is not enough. Anyway, the churches are for weddings, or to house the spare model racing cars, and without exception, the visitors I spoke to were there for fun (asobi). The theme parks, for their own part, are predominantly commercial ventures, and the abundance of goods available for purchase in some of them is quite staggering. Indeed, one of the main points of ranking in the comparison of different theme parks is the number of exclusive items that can be purchased there. Wine and beer are specialties in almost all the European parks, and groups of men were drinking from quite early on at Glücks Königreich on the day I visited. Sangria was available at little stalls in Parque España, and all manner of drink and food could be found in Huis Ten Bosch. Visitors expect to purchase things to take home, as well as to enjoy them at the site, but further research would be required to investigate their consumption and symbolic value in the sphere of everyday life. Foreign goods clearly carry a high value in Japan, and this could be a very fruitful way to proceed. To return, finally, to the ritual aspects of visiting theme parks, I would like to make reference to a classic work in the genre concerned with another related form of activity,

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namely the festival. In his essay, Time and False Noses, Leach (1961) identifies two opposing types of behaviour associated with rites of passage: on the one hand these rites may be formal, where differences of status are precisely demarcated by dress and etiquette, and where moral rules are rigorously and ostentatiously displayed; on the other, they may involve masquerade, where the individual, instead of emphasizing his social personality and his official status, seeks to disguise it. Leach gives examples of rites, such as weddings, which start with one of these types of behaviour and ends with the other, and of periods of time, such as Lent, which are marked by one at the beginning and another at the end. He argues that the complete role reversal found at some festivals might characterize a strictly liminal state, which would then be precisely the opposite of normal life. The three, taken together, comprise the three phases of separation, transition and incorporation of a classic rite de passage, as identified by van Gennep (1977). In a complex society, where time is carefully marked out and divided up according to at least two calendars, there is no need for rites to mark time in this way as they did in ancient societies. Indeed the marking of space has become somewhat academic in the world of television, videophones and internet diaspora. The sacred/profane distinction postulated by Durkheim, and developed by van Gennep, has provided the underpinning for many a clever theoretical argument linking tourism and religion, but in my view it is time for a more careful consideration of this classificatory device in a global context. There are many parallels between the behaviour of pilgrims and tourists, in Japan and elsewhere, but there are also some critical differences, as I hope that Japanese theme parks have made clear. The exercise was informative, but I think we must look elsewhere for a more complete understanding of the explosion of Japanese theme parks (cf. Hendry 2000).

Notes 1 The Japanese character for this en includes a complete surrounding box, which illustrates the meaning of a location enclosed in some way, and separated from outside space around it. 2 For an example in English, see Downer (1990). Endo’s novel Foreign Studies (1989) also illustrates the experience, and indeed plight, of the Japanese writers living in Paris. 3 Gifts of amulets and other memorabilia were brought back from pilgrimages when it was customary in Japan to save many as a group to send one or two representatives from time to time. These engimono, now replaced by o-miyage or o-mamori etc. from specific shrines, have been interpreted as ‘magical links’ between the actual pilgrim and the other members of the group (Kyburz 1988, discussed in Hendry 1993). There are plenty of goods to be purchased in theme parks, but I have not yet established the type of role they are playing.

References Cohen, Erik (1992) ‘Pilgrimage and tourism: convergence and divergence’, Alan Morinis (ed.) Sacred Journeys: The Anthropology of Pilgrimage, Westport, Connecticut and London: Greenwood, pp. 47–61. Costen, Michael (1993) ‘The pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in medieval Europe’, I.Reader and T.Walter (eds), Pilgrimage in Popular Culture, London: Macmillan, pp. 137–54. Downer, Leslie (1990) On the Narrow Road to the Deep North, London: Septre.

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Eade, John and Michael Sallnow (eds) (1991) Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage, Routledge: London and New York. Endo, Shūsaku (1989) Foreign Studies, London: Septre. Graburn, Nelson (1978) ‘Tourism—The Sacred Journey’, Valene L.Smith (ed.) Hosts and Guests: The Anthropology of Tourism, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, pp. 17–32. Graburn, Nelson (1983) ‘To pray, pay and play: the cultural structure of contemporary tourism’, Centre des Hautes Etudes Touristiques Serie B, no. 26. Aix en Provence. Hendry, Joy (1993) Wrapping Culture: Politeness Presentation and Power in Japan and Other Societies, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hendry, Joy (1997) ‘Nature tamed: gardens as a microcosm of Japan’s view of the world’, Pamela J.Asquith and Arne Kalland (eds) Japanese Images of Nature: Cultural Perspectives, London: Curzon Press, pp. 83–105. Hendry, Joy (2000) The Orient Strikes Back: A Global View of Cultural Display, Oxford and New York: Berg. Kyburz, Joseph (1988) ‘Engimono, Miyage, Omocha—Three material manifestations of the notion of en’, Unpublished paper presented at the 5th Triennial Conference of the European Association for Japanese Studies, Durham. Leach, E.R. (1961) ‘Time and false noses’ in his Rethinking Anthropology, London: The Athlone Press. Moore, Alexander (1980) ‘Walt Disney World: bounded ritual, space and the playful pilgrimage center’, Anthropological Quarterly, 53(4), 207–18. Morinis, Alan (ed.) (1992) Sacred Journeys: The Anthropology of Pilgrimage, Westport, Connecticut and London: Greenwood. Reader, Ian (1993) ‘Dead to the world: pilgrims in Shikoku’, I.Reader and T.Walter (eds) Pilgrimage in Popular Culture, London: Macmillan, pp. 107–36. Reader, Ian and Tony Walter (1993) Pilgrimage in Popular Culture, London: Macmillan. Rimer, J.Thomas (1988) Pilgrimages: Aspects of Japanese Literature and Culture, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Turner, Victor and Edith Turner (1978) Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. van Gennep, Arnold (1977) The Rites of Passage, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Yoshida, Teigo (1981) ‘The stranger as God: the place of the outsider in Japanese folk religion’, Ethnology XX(2), 87–99.

Part III The quest for the magic, liminal or non-ordinary

10 Pilgrimages in Japan How far are they determined by deep-lying assumptions? Peter Ackermann

Introduction Places of pilgrimage in Japan are frequently situated in the mountains, ‘mountains’ meaning anything from wooded and slightly elevated terrain just outside a town or a village, to places far from any settlement, hidden in a lonely valley or exposed to the winds high up on a peak. Pilgrimage thus consists of moving a certain distance, usually upwards, through space, this movement giving the pilgrim something he or she deems vital for his or her well-being. What emotional value, however, is attached to this movement? What expectations might be related to it? Interviews and discussions may give us a few plausible answers. People might say, for instance, ‘I like to come to this place because of its natural beauty’ or, ‘I like to come here because my parents and grandparents used to come too’. Yet the question remains whether there is not some deeper and more compelling logic guiding the pilgrim, maybe far beyond his or her awareness. In other words: is it possible to catch a glimpse of what might lie behind the data that we can gather through observation and interviews? The intention is not to cast doubt upon what has been observed, but to try and give observable actions a place within an encompassing framework of logic, a place which may help us to see an action not as a possibly random or merely spontaneous one, but as one that forms part of a concrete, albeit unconsciously held, pattern of reasoning.

Mystic experiences in mountains There could be several reasons for a person to leave home and suffer the sometimes severe hardships of a journey to an often remote temple or shrine. However, one principal motivation for such a journey could well be the wish to travel to a mountain. No doubt, on the surface the legends surrounding the great centres of pilgrimage play a prominent part in the formation of the conscious and unconscious images people hold of the places they visit, and of the high value attributed to going there.1 Beyond these legends, however, and beyond a particular deity (or Buddha, or Bodhisattva) that is to be revered, it is, as mentioned, noteworthy that the goal of pilgrimage as a rule is situated on the slopes, or even on or near the summit of an elevation. This factor alone, I assume, could well be the major reason for making the pilgrimage.

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Let us take a closer look at the way pilgrimages were traditionally described in songs and stage plays, in which persons setting out to a sanctuary were a common topic. Sometimes the name of the sanctuary is explicitly mentioned (e.g. Mii-dera in Shiga Prefecture, Dōjōji in Wakayama Prefecture, the Ise shrines etc.). Often, however, we are just told of a journey to a hill, a mountain (which, if surrounded by water, could also be an island), or a peak whose sanctuary is mentioned only by the way, if at all. What is important is that at the goal of such a journey it is possible to have a mystic experience. To give some concrete examples, of the seven central songs sung to the accompaniment of the zither koto in the city of Edo around 1800 several can be categorized as sankei-michiyukimono (pieces [singing] of the visit to a shrine or temple).2 These pieces deal with movement through space and reach a climax of artistic elaboration when the text indicates a mystic experience. In two songs this journey is explicitly a pilgrimage (one to the island of Enoshima, the other one to the Sumiyoshi shrine in the present-day city of Sakai). The remaining songs describe a journey to a sacred space in mountainous territory, one in the Province of Kii (Wakayama Prefecture), the other— using imagery associated with Mount Yoshino in Nara Prefecture—in the wooded lands of Kitano, outside Kyoto (cf. Hirano 1978). The larger context into which the mystic experience at the goal of the journey is embedded is basically the same in all of the songs: at the beginning of the piece the singer describes how they are conscious of reality, which is determined by the law of karmic causality and the cycle of growth and decay. Caught within the cyclic structure of reality the singer then refers to miserable days spent performing some empty routine or, worse, suffering from emotional disturbance such as grief, sorrow, anger or unrequited love. After this, however, the suffering singer sets out on an imaginary journey. In many stage plays, particularly in nō theatre, it is not the person suffering who sets out, but a priest, who in the course of his wanderings meets human beings in distress. In other words, here—in a sense—the mystic place comes to those who are suffering. In both cases—in the songs of Edo and in nō plays—the state of suffering and that of being at least emotionally if not physically tied and thus incapable of moving through space are inseparably linked. It is logical, therefore, that after depicting a state of suffering, a song or a stage play will describe efforts to break away. This is precisely where asobi (play) comes in and becomes such an essential part of human experience. Asobi helps a person regain physical energy and health by relieving him or her from the negative effects of suffering. However, we may note that asobi does not include true mystic experience and in the end is shown to be futile, even if it marks an important first step in a person’s spiritual quest. Asobi is characterized by circular movement, in line with the idea of the karmic cycle, that also takes a person onward from spring to summer (often implying from youth to adulthood) and in the process widens the scope of experience. However, in the wake of just such experience a person becomes all the more conscious of autumn and winter (i.e. of decay and evanescence) and is thus led back to a state of suffering. The cyclic nature of both an ordinary life as well as asobi, something all ordinary people seek, is often portrayed by images of wheels or carriages, or by enumerations (e.g. of place names), that equally create the feeling of ‘going round’. One example of how a song may illustrate asobi is the well-known ‘Forgetting-shell (wasuregai) song’, which is cyclic in both structure and content and forms the centre part

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of Sumiyoshi, one of the late eighteenth-century pieces mentioned above and portraying a pilgrimage to the Sumiyoshi shrines:

The forgetting-shell—it’s just illusion: meeting, parting, and after that looking forward to blossom viewing once again, one counts the days, remembering… The forgetting-grass—it’s just a cheat— sprouting, withering, and after that looking forward to moon viewing once again, night for night, remembering… spring and autumn. (wasuregai to no na wa soragoto yo/ōte wakarete sono nochi wa/mata no hanami o tanoshimi ni/hikazu kazoete omoidasu. wasuregusa to no na wa itsuwari yo/shigerite karete sorekara wa/nochi no tsukimi o tanoshimi ni/yowa o tsumitsutsu omoidasu/haru ya aki.) The ‘Forgetting-shell song’ both is, and sings of, asobi. However, true mystic experience lies beyond asobi. As noted above, this place beyond is usually a mountain or an elevation where nature has a powerful impact on the human psyche.

Seeking (re)vitalization As a rule, some sort of sanctuary will be found at the elevated spot that is conceived to be something beyond asobi. Accordingly, the Edo period songs in their final part after the asobi take the singer onward to a goal, and this is usually one of the great shrines or temples everyone knew at least from hearsay (cf. Ackermann 2000). At such spots the laws of ordinary life, characterized by suffering on the one hand and play—asobi—on the other, are described as being no longer in force. The mystic atmosphere at the end of the songs has an overwhelming impact and is created by a climax on all levels: music, text and (often) dance. On the textual level, we find descriptions of how the moon appears, the tide comes rushing in, the wind from the mountains starts to blow through the pines,3 cherry blossoms or maple leaves scatter, or a waterfall thunders down the rocks. Sometimes, a deity or supernatural being will reveal itself personally in such a context. The piece always ends with the implication that a pilgrimage to the particular temple or shrine mentioned, or to the region, or at least into the kind of nature described, will help the individual out of his or her being trapped within the karmic cycle, and will restore full vitality, energy and good health. We may thus assume that moving through space away from normal life into a territory with a mystic quality can be seen as an essential step once a person has become conscious of the facts of existence. However, consciousness—and hence suffering—fixes attention

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on the cycle of cause and effect, growth and decay, and therefore saps away energy needed to live a healthy life. This explains the importance of a mystic experience beyond rational thinking. Here we must recall the fact that in pre-Meiji Japan it was certainly common sense that physical well-being had to be planned and kept up through practice, and that good health—and hence longevity, one of East Asia’s most basic traditional concepts (cf. Bauer 1971)—could be gained by generating or regenerating energy and maintaining its flow. The regeneration of energy was essentially coupled to two things: first, the prevention of useless outpouring of energy (such as will happen if one wastes it through suffering); second, the intake of clear, good energy—particularly in the mountains. The emphasis on the idea of vitalization and revitalization appears to me a characteristic that may set Buddhist places of pilgrimage apart from non-Buddhist ones elsewhere around the globe.4

Mystic experience in mountains described by the Kokin Wakashū It is remarkable how constant the metaphors used in describing Man’s efforts to break out of the karmic cycle and regain energies have remained to this very day, even if their deeper implications are no longer understood. These metaphors, probably all originating on continental Asia, have their direct roots in the classical framework of Japanese expression that took shape during the ninth and tenth centuries. To gain a more profound understanding of them as they appear in fixed sequences I looked through the Kokin Wakashū (‘Collection of waka of Former and Recent Times’, compiled around 904–914 CE), the first imperial anthology of Japanese language poetry (waka) and definitely Japan’s most influential collection of poems for all subsequent centuries. As we read through the poems in the Kokin Wakashū in strict sequence we witness a fascinating movement of up and down, coming and going, growing and decaying, out and back. This movement, which bears witness to an understanding of time and space in terms of the philosophy of yin and yang, is of special interest here in so far as it portrays movement between the plain and the mountains, between no and yama. At the same time we may note that it is always yama that relate to a mystic experience. In the plain (no) decay sets in, but at a certain point a shift of perspective occurs from ‘this world’ (the plain, the house, the private surroundings) to ‘that world’ (yama, the mountains, the wilderness). It is as if yama had the power to rejuvenate, revitalize and re-energize.

Spring The first poems in the Kokin Wakashū (all examples here are taken from Kubota 1960) portray the beginning of the year and human beings at home enjoying the white plum blossom. Energy comes in form of the warbler that visits from the mountains (poem no. 16):

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not far from the fields/is where I live/so the warbler’s call reaches my ear/morning after morning (nobe chikaku iei shi oreba uguisu no naku naru koe wa asa na asa na kiku) Activity at this stage is concentrated in the plain and is of a down-to-earth nature, characteristic of the straightforwardness of youth (poem no. 26):

the fresh green willow threads/are twined and twisted/ by the winds of spring in great confusion/the blossoms now burst open! (aoyagi no ito yorikakuru haru shi mo zo midarete hana no hokorobi ni keru) When the plum blossom has been picked, or has fallen, Man realizes for the first time the cyclic nature of the universe, that is, he realizes that things come to an end (poem no. 46):

if the plum blossom’s scent/I could transfer to my sleeve/ and have it stay there it might—once spring has passed—/keep memories alive (ume ga ka o sode ni utsushite todometeba haru wa sugu tomo katami naramashi) When this cycle of growth and decay, and, for the first time, the notion of evanescence (here: the awareness that the plum blossoms will scatter) has been dealt with, attention turns to yama and moves away from no (poem no. 51):

cherry blossoms in the mountains/as I come from far to see you/ mists of spring begin to rise on slopes and peaks/concealing you from view (yamazakura wa ga mi ni kureba harugasumi mine ni mo o ni mo tachikakushitsutsu) The next climax in the sequence of poems takes place in the mountains, not in the plains (poem no. 66):

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in the radiance of cherry blossom/I will deeply dye/ the robe I wear so once the blossoms all have scattered/I may remember them (sakurairo ni koromo wa fukaku sometekimu hana no chirinamu nochi no katami ni) Then the cycle draws to a close as also the cherry blossoms scatter.

Summer In the humid and rainy summer yama cannot be visited, and the poems tell of how humans sit in their dwelling and hear the message of yama from the cuckoo (poem no. 145):

if you cuckoo/in the summer hills/ can feel for others do not make me—being deep in thought—/have to hear you calling! (natsuyama ni naku hototogisu kokoro araba mono omou ware ni koe na kikase so) Consciousness, that saps our energies and makes us aware of the karmic cycle, becomes more und more of a problem (poem no. 162):

cuckoo/calling in the mountains/ who are you waiting for I all of a sudden/feel my longing grow (hototogisu hito matsuyama ni naku nareba ware uchitsuke ni koi masarikeri)

Autumn In early autumn, as the crickets in the plains start to wail, feelings of frustration reach a peak (poem no. 196):

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you crickets!/do not wail and wail/ in these long autumn nights for drawn-out laments/I have reason—more than you (kirigirisu itaku na naki so aki no yo no nagaki omoi wa ware zo masareru) However, after these sounds of frustration in the plain, attention is again drawn to yama, which literally call out to those who are sensitive enough to listen (poem no. 215):

deep in the mountains/stamping through the coloured leaves/ a stag when its call reaches our ear/we intensely feel what autumn means (okuyama ni momiji fumiwake naku shika no koe kiku toki zo aki wa kanashiki) In contrast to summer, this time of the year again has a playful element. This is similar to, but more intense than, what we witnessed in spring (poem no. 230):

the maiden flower/bends in the wind/ that sweeps the autumn plains in whose direction I ask myself/does all its feeling tend? (ominaeshi aki no nokaze ni uchinabiki kokoro hitotsu o tare ni yosuramu) Play (asobi) clearly belongs to the realm of the plains, and this realm stands in the sharpest possible contrast to that of the mountains. We can see this in the following poem, which spells out a state of majestic detachment by referring to the idea of eternity and invariability contained in a mountain’s name, ‘Tokiwa-no-yama (i.e. Mountain of Timelessness)' (poem no. 251):

never changing, never breaking out in colour/Mountain of Timelessness/ does not the sound of the wind/ tell us there/that autumn has come? (momiji senu tokiwa no yama wa fuku kaze no oto ni ya aki o kikiwataruramu)

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The yama that are referred to from here on have the quality of a supernatural and mystic realm (poem no. 296):

where the deity resides,/up to Mount Mimuro/ I go in autumn feeling that the falling leaves/were tailoring a robe for me (kamunabi no mimuro no yama o aki yukeba nishiki tachikuru kokochi koso sure)

A mystic climax is reached soon after (poems no. 304 and 305): when the wind blows/the autumn foliage scatters/ while waters, crystal-clear let even leaves that have not fallen/appear—reflected—in their depths (kaze fukeba otsuru momijiba mizu kiyomi chiranu kage sae soko ni mietsutsu)

standing still/and looking ere I cross—/ autumn foliage falls like rain/yet the waters do not rise (tachidomari mite o wataramu momijiba wa ame to furu tomo mizu wa masaraji)

Winter When winter sets in, the experiences of the year—basically the experiences of movement between no and yama and of pleasure and suffering on the one hand and detachment on the other—have created a state of mind that is beginning to break out of the karmic cycle (poem no. 316):

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in the wide skies/the moon shines brightly/ pure and clear the waters that reflect its rays/are the first to freeze (ōzora no tsuki no hikari shi kiyokereba kage mishi mizu zo mazu kōrikeru) Finally we come to the image of retained strength and energy (poem no. 340):

snow has fallen/and the year draws to a close/ this is the time where to the pines that know no autumn colours/at last our eye is drawn (yuki furite toshi no kurenuru toki ni koso tsui ni momijinu matsu mo miekere)

Retaining energy in the mountains In its 1,111 poems the Kokin Wakashū addresses a basic problem of human life, namely Man’s incapability to become detached. This fact is repeatedly driven home by sequences of poems that illustrate the senselessness of emotional reaction and stress the evanescent nature of the objective world. In this context, the poems show how consciousness leads to suffering, because Man emotionally cannot come to terms with evanescence. At regular intervals the Kokin Wakashū thus draws attention to the fact that there is a link between suffering and consciousness. It is here that the poems begin to refer to a world represented by mountains. In the mountains we are shown a mystic dimension beyond the grasp of a discerning mind, where escape from suffering is said to be possible, and, as a consequence, a person’s body is revitalized. In line with a pattern of structuring the sequence of its poems in a back and forth movement between no and yama, towards the end the Kokin Wakashū comes to images like the following (poems no. 944 and 951):

a dwelling in the mountains/is a lonely place indeed/ yet rather than suffer in a wretched world/I am pleased to live here (yamazato wa mono no wabishiki koto koso are yo no uki yori wa sumiyokarikeri)

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as in this world we pass our time/feelings of wretchedness increase/ to the steep paths of rocky Yoshino therefore/I now shall make my way (yo ni fureba usa koso masare miyoshino no iwa no kakemichi fuminarashitemu)

The impact of Buddhist concepts of Man and the universe I have tried to shed some light on assumptions that presumably play a part in shaping the idea of travel—especially travel to a sacred place—in Japan. I am not saying that in present-day Japan people set out to shrines and temples with the same kind of expectations as they did in past centuries. The point I wish to make is that we can assume that a specific logic founded on Buddhist concepts of Man and the universe has, over a very long period of time, systematically patterned people’s expectations as to why and when journeys (for spiritual gain) should be undertaken. Whatever the motivations may be today for visiting shrines and temples (particularly those that are, as it were, ‘out in space’, separated from where everyday life takes place), I expect them not to be identical with, but to have evolved out of, the concepts outlined above. We should remember that the manifold efforts to create images of Japanese culture since the Meiji period, combined with the impact of naive foreign interpretations, particularly of what are classified as ‘religious’ establishments, have led to patterns of explanation both in and outside Japan that should not be taken at face value. I would argue that vague feelings, expectations and associations, having taken shape through the transmission of values among the members of family lines, or been sparked off directly by the sensual experience of a visit to a sanctuary, are invariably rooted in an understanding of human nature that was shaped by the great traditions of East-Asian thought, in particular Taoism and Buddhism. To sum up: in order to gain a deeper insight into assumptions that are likely to determine attitudes towards movement through space, and hence also towards pilgrimage, I have drawn upon songs, stage plays and poetry. The songs I focused on were especially sankei-michiyukimono (songs depicting a visit to a sacred place), composed around 1800. The stage plays were pieces for the nō theatre (mainly fourteenth/fifteenth century). Both the songs and the nō plays have a three-part structure: 1) a description of suffering; 2) asobi, i.e. seeking comfort and solace in a this-worldly way, only to find that the cyclic chain of cause and effect merely leads back into suffering; 3) rapid and straight-forward movement towards a mystic experience suggesting harmony outside the constraints of space and time; in the nō play often a final dance (cf. Yasuda 1989). In the songs, the mystic experience takes place at the final goal of the initial movement out into space, as a rule a sanctuary. In the stage play, however, a wandering priest—a representative of space and the mountains, as it were—meets suffering people (in the plains) and helps them. Both songs and stage plays show the benefit of an activity that is at the same time mental and physical, namely training to overcome attachment to this-worldly phenomena. This alone is said to lead to the regeneration of vital energy, good health and longevity.

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Finally, the poetry of the Kokin Wakashū, dating from the ninth and tenth centuries, deals with the human nature that at the same time enjoys the laws of the universe and suffers under them. In the course of the year (which is clearly an image of the course of life) it becomes more and more obvious that personal attachment to this-worldly matters arouses emotions that sap away vital energy and thus trap a person within the cycle of growth and decay (cf. Ackermann and Kretschmer 2002). In the sphere beyond every-day life, however, symbolized by mountains—especially mountains in deep, white snow—the mind is cleared of all colour (i.e. emotion and destructive consciousness), so that the human body can regain—and retain—energy. In view of the importance attached to the transmission of the Kokin Wakashū throughout the ages, and the fact that its poems are drawn upon as a model of classical imagery in all subsequent centuries, we may conclude that this anthology of poetry is a particularly valuable source for discovering basic assumptions about the order and rhythm in life. These assumptions, I maintain, deeply influence concepts of movement out into space, into nature and to the realm of a sanctuary.

Notes 1 Here the Buddhist concept of engi should be introduced. Engi has several meanings, all related in some way to the concept of ‘cause’ (within a relationship of cause and effect). The specific meaning of the engi referred to here is the ‘reason for the origin of a temple or shrine’, or the ‘legend concerning miracles or virtuous deeds of a being with supernatural powers’. Vivid descriptions of such engi appear in the picture scrolls (emaki) that became extremely popular from the fourteenth century onward and may also be found throughout the Edo period wherever mention is made of shrines and temples. 2 Typical categories for musical pieces are shūgimono (festive pieces), tsuizenmono (pieces to recall a deceased person), sankei-michiyukimono (pieces singing of the visit to a shrine or temple), engidanmono (pieces telling of some engi) and shikimono (pieces dealing with the four seasons). For details see Hirano (1972, 1978). 3 A poem from the Imperial Collection Shūishū (early eleventh century) is often used to recall these associations:

with the sound of the zither/the wind in the mountain pines/ is felt on which peak, which string/do the tunes originate? (koto no ne ni mine no matsukaze kayōrashi izure no o yori shirabesomekemu).

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4 Practically all pre-Meiji temples and shrines of Japan I would consider as Buddhist institutions in a wide sense. Even though the notion of kami as specifically meaning ‘the gods of Japan’ was familiar in the Edo period, strict ideological separation was brought about by shin-butsu bunri, the division of religious spheres into Shintōism and Buddhism in 1868.

References Ackermann, Peter (2000) ‘Sumiyoshi, Enoshima and Yoshino—On the function of meisho in traditional Japanese music’, Kosaka Shiro and Johannes Laube (eds) Informationssystem und kulturelles Leben in den Städten der Edo-Zeit, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 169–81. Ackermann, Peter and Angelika Kretschmer (2002) Kokin Wakashū. Die vier Jahreszeiten, klassische japanische Gedichte, Frankfurt/M und Leipzig: Insel. Bauer, Wolfgang (1971) China und die Hoffnung auf Glück, München: Carl Hanser. Hirano, Kenji (ed.) (1972) Nakanoshima Kin’ichi zenshū [The Complete Collection of [pieces played by] Nakanoshima Kin’ichi], Tokyo: Victor Record Company. Hirano, Kenji (1978) Yamada Kengyō-shū [Collection of Pieces [composed by] by Yamada Kengyō], Tokyo: Sony. Kubota, Utsubo (ed.) (1960) Kokin wakashū hyōshaku [The Kokin Wakashū, annotated edition], Tokyo: Tokyo do. Yasuda, Kenneth (1989) Masterworks of the No Theatre, Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.

11 Agari-umāi, or the Eastern Tour A Ryūkyūan royal ritual and its transformations Patrick Beillevaire

Introduction Agari-umāi (Higashi o-mawari in standard Japanese), literally the Eastern Tour, is the common term for a major state ritual of the ancient kingdom of Ryūkyū, which involved its two leading figures, the king and the chief priestess. Initiated during the fifteenth century, as the ruling class was setting up a centralized system of civil and religious administration, it lost part of its importance as early as the mid-seventeenth century under the influence of Confucianism. Nevertheless, it survived official downgrading as well as the more dramatic demise of the kingdom itself by gradually becoming the focus of ancestor worship for kin groups from all over the Ryūkyū Islands. Thus, with some adjustments in scope, it remains a most popular ritual in today’s Okinawa Prefecture. The study of the Agari-umāi as a state ritual raises a number of difficult questions ranging from the practical details of its execution to the development of the Ryūkyū state organization and ideology. In this chapter, I limit myself to a general presentation of the Agari-umāi ritual. Modern authors refer to Agari-umāi as junpai, junrei or sankei, terms that, as previously discussed, mean ‘touring/visiting places of worship (haisho); or sacred places/abodes of spirits (reijō)’ Pilgrimage, a standard translation of these terms, appears to be an accurate designation of both the ancient and modern forms of the Agari-umāi.1 The phenomena of pilgrimage cannot be dissociated from the belief in the existence of special places located beyond the territorial boundaries of daily life—the term pilgrimage, after all, comes from peregre, meaning ‘abroad’ or ‘from abroad’. There, humans would come into contact with some principle, whatever its nature, governing their existence or with what may be termed some sacred otherness. Pilgrimages are often comprised of more than one holy place, so that the devotional exercise follows a route or circuit along which the assistance of supernatural entities is solicited—gods, saints, ancestors or abstract forces—be it for one’s own individual benefit, or on behalf of one’s community. The narratives attached to those routes and places express a generally complex and flexible world-view supported by myths, legends and history. Visits to such places contribute, among other things, to sustain social cohesion and people’s feelings of belonging to the land. While this aspect of pilgrimage is largely obliterated in monotheistic religions, because of their emphasis on individual salvation to the detriment of collective and this-worldly perspectives, it appears fundamental in polytheistic cultures such as Japan and the Ryūkyū Islands.

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The royal ritual During the initial period, extending from about the mid- or late fifteenth century to the mid-seventeenth century, the Agari-umāi was conducted by the king (kokuō) and the chief priestess (kikoe-ōgimi, chifi-ufujin in Ryūkyūan) whose singular relationship with the country’s supreme deities was regarded as the source of royal authority.2 The chief priestess was a relative of the king, ideally perhaps his eldest sister, but in fact, as the records show, more often a paternal aunt, a mother or a daughter, if not a more distant kinswoman (Wacker 2001:52). The ritual, taken as a whole and without entering into the intricacies of the attempts at reconstructing its early developments, consisted of two different journeys—one during the Second Month, the other during the Fourth Month of the lunar calendar—to a series of sites scattered along the coast of Ōzato, Sashiki, Chinen and Tamagusuku districts (magiri), all situated east-southeast of Shuri, the former seat of the royal government.3 Among those sites—the same ones that attract today’s pilgrims—the most important are: Yonabaru-uyagawa, Baten-utaki, Sashiki-uigusuku, Sukuna-mui, China-uteda-ugā, China-ugā, Seifa-utaki, Chinen gusuku, Chinen-ugā, Yabusatsu-nu-urabaru, Hamagawautaki, Yaharajigasa, Ukinju-hainju and Mifūdā, Minton-gusuku, Nakandakari-hīgā, Tamagusukunuru-dunchi (see map). Okinawan sacred places, like their Japanese equivalents, are generally associated with impressive spots in nature such as groves (mui), springs (gā) or with ancient strongholds (gusuku, or gushiku). Some of these spots are referred to as utaki (shrine). Literally, utaki means ‘peak’ or ‘mountain’, although not every utaki stands on an elevated piece of land. The general purpose of the royal journeys, designated in historical accounts as gyōkō or junkō—two respectful terms referring to a monarch’s outings—was to celebrate the bestowal of the so-called five staple grains (gokoku), that is, generally, mugi (barley), ine (rice), awa and kibi (two varieties of millet) and mame (beans) by the country’s primeval deities, and to ensure the renewal of fecundity and prosperity in the kingdom.4 Several versions of the myth, of varying complexity, relate that event and are found in the official chronicles (see below) and in the Ryūkyū shintō ki (‘The Account of the way of the gods in Ryūkyū' [1609]), written by the Japanese Buddhist priest Taichū. To give a very brief account, the central figure of the myth is named Amamikyu. He or she (this is not always clear), possibly acting on behalf of a heavenly deity, alights on earth, begets humans, and provides them with the seeds of the five grains. In some variants, Amamikyu is coupled with another deity, Shinerikyu, in which case they are definitely female and male. Local traditions locate Amamikyu’s descent to earth in many different places in the area. In the official narratives, it occurred on the small island of Kudaka, five kilometres off Cape Chinen, where the first seeds of barley would have been grown. Then, crossing the sea, Amamikyu is said to have set foot in Tamagusuku and planted the first seeds of rice. This is just one version; the region is rich in other versions of the origin-myth of humans and grains. Regarding the latter, they can be received from heaven through a variety of devices, sometimes brought by the sea in a drifting jug, sometimes carried by a bird. In a slightly more realistic version from Hyakuna, quoted by Mabuchi (1974), the rice seeds were carried from China by a crane on request of an Okinawan traveller.

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The myth of Amamikyu recorded in the official chronicles also provides a schematic account of the origin of society. With respect to their sex and birth rank, the deity’s children are said to be the progenitors of the kings, local lords and priestesses, sometimes of the common people too, depending on the source. Historical sources give only scant information about the ceremonial contents and the establishment of the Agari-umāi. The earliest document is the Omoro sōshi, an anthology of ceremonial songs compiled between 1532 and 1623, but these remain allusive and difficult to interpret. Later sources, especially the official chronicles Chūzan Seikan (‘Mirror of the ages of Chūzan’, i.e. the kingdom of Ryūkyū), completed in 1650; the Ryūkyū-koku Yuraiki (‘Account of the origins of the Country of the Ryūkyū [Islands]'), completed in 1713; and the Kyūyō (a poetic name for Ryūkyū), compiled between 1743 and the 1870s, all mention the ritual shortly, without giving substantial details. Conversely, the records kept in some of the villages involved in the royal tour supply a wealth of details, but, because of their fragmented and sometimes anecdotal nature, they do not give a precise picture of the whole event. Even the very periodicity of the Agariumāi remains an open question. According to the Ryūkyū-koku Yuraiki and other sources, the royal journeys, to Kudaka during the Second Month and to Tamagusuku during the Fourth Month, would have taken place every other year, maybe alternately. Even though it is this 2-year periodicity which is today generally accepted, the Chūzan Seikan implies that both journeys occurred in one and the same year (Mabuchi 1974:614; Suetsugu 1995:102; Wakugami 2000:464). Turning to how the Agari-umāi was actually carried out, what we know is that before setting forth the king first visited Sonohiyan-utaki, a small shrine located in front of the palace, to ask for its deity’s protection during the journey. On their way to and along the coast, the king and the chief priestess, accompanied by a retinue of male and female dignitaries, were welcomed and entertained by village officials and priestesses (now, nuru in Ryūkyūan). During the Second Month, after a stop at a resting place called Yonabaru-udun, the royal cohort embarked at the nearby harbour for Kudaka Island, where the priestesses waited for their arrival in order to perform the mugi-mishikyoma festival which celebrates the first ears (hatsuho) of mugi, in other words the beginning of its maturation. Even though the actual contents of that festival are unknown, Iyori (1995) has shown that the use of a red canopy during the annual festivals on Kudaka Island was a trace of the royal attendance that marked the barley festival in former times. The visit to Kudaka Island also included ceremonial prayers to the deities of the local utaki, which assumed special significance for the court. On their second eastward journey, during the Fourth Month, the king, the chief priestess, and their followers visited the sites along the coast of Chinen and Tamagusuku districts.5 The event coincided with the festival celebrating the first ears of rice (inemishikyoma). A highly solemn stage of this journey consisted of a ceremony held at Seifa-utaki, a rocky formation flanking the hilly Cape Chinen and commanding a view of Kudaka Island. In the days of the kingdom, entrance to Seifa-utaki was forbidden to all men save for the king himself; as for the ceremony performed we have no further details. The wooden and secluded area, about 12 kilometres from the royal capital, is considered to be Okinawa’s most sacred place. Its importance in the context of the Agari-umāi is underscored by the fact that, two days before the king’s departure from Shuri, water

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drawn from an adjacent spring by the now of the neighbouring village of Kudeken was brought to the court to be offered to the king and the chief priestess (Miyahira 1987:159). The homonymy between sites for prayers at Seifa-utaki and at the Shuri Palace suggests a complementary relationship between these two places representing, respectively, the centre of the spiritual and of the secular realms. Moreover, it is also on the hallowed ground of Seifa-utaki that the newly appointed chief priestesses, escorted by their subordinates, would receive divine investiture. The ritual, called oara-ori, was conducted by Kudaka Island’s leading priestess who held the prerogative of hanging the sacred jewels, magatama, the symbol of eminent spiritual capacity, on the new chief priestess (Wakugami 1983; Iyori 1993). After the ceremonies at Seifa-utaki the royal cohort, heading south, made its way to another sacred spot of paramount importance in the mythological genesis of the Ryūkyū country. This place, located close to the shore, about four kilometres away from Seifautaki and in an area that formerly belonged to the southern kingdom of Nanzan, comprises two springs and the nearby tiny paddy field they irrigate. The springs are referred to as Ukinju-hainju, and the paddy field as Mifūdā. According to the origin-myth of the Ryūkyū Islands sketched above, Mifūdā (the field of the three ears of rice) is a plot of land where the first grains of cereal were planted (Mabuchi 1974). On their visit to that site, the king and the chief priestess were sprinkled with the water flowing from the springs, which is thought to have a rejuvenating power. This rite, still observed today and performed on other occasions such as the New Year, is called ubi-nadī (o-mizu-nade in Japanese). Finally, it is necessary to point out that the king also had the opportunity to ‘worship from afar’ (yōhai) the sacred places in the east. For that purpose, two small altars were erected in a shrine called Benkadake (Binnutaki in Ryūkyūan) within the precincts of the royal palace, on the highest spot of the whole area (165 m above sea level). One was intended for the deities of Kudaka Island, the other for those of Seifa-utaki.6

Historical and ideological outline Even though the circumstances leading to the establishment of the Agari-umāi are obscure, it is known that ceremonial visits to Seifa-utaki, in connection with the importance already attached to Kudaka Island, were organized under Shō Toku’s reign (1461–1469), the last king of the first Shō dynasty. Shortly after, according to the Irōsetsuden—a collection of myths and tales compiled around 1720—a resting place intended for the king was built in China-gusuku (Chinen district) during the reign of King Shō Shin (1477–1526) of the second Shō dynasty. It is under the latter’s rule that both civil and religious affairs within the country were subjected to strongly centralized control.7 Almost a century before similar measures would be taken in Japan, former regional lords (aji or anji) were disarmed and forced to live in the vicinity of the royal palace in Shuri, where they were granted the privileges of an aristocratic status. As a consequence of that displacement, a shrine called dunchi was built in each of the three wards (mihira) of the capital corresponding to the three administrative divisions of the kingdom. This made possible the continuation of the ‘worship from afar’ of their native deities.8 The shrines were under the responsibility of

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the three ufu-amu-shirare, the immediate assistant priestesses of the kikoe-ōgimi. In parallel with the civil administration, a hierarchical system of religious functionaries was created, headed by the kikoe-ōgimi and her assistants of high birth and extending through intermediary offices down to the noro in charge of villages. Whatever the circumstances surrounding the selection of the Chinen and Tamagusuku regions for the Agari-umāi, it cannot be considered a mere transposition of ritual practices that had previously existed elsewhere, and the details of the route leave no doubt about the rulers’ intent to take full advantage of the mythrelated topography east of Shuri to enhance the royal authority. As a state ritual epitomizing an ideology centring on the king and the kikoe-ōgimi couple, the Agari-umāi draws much of its symbolic weight from the enactment of some pervasive elements of Ryūkyū folk-beliefs. The most fundamental belief-although there are local exceptions or adaptations—is the association of the east, the direction of the rising sun (teda or tīda) with the primeval life-giving deities controlling the renewal of fecundity (and descendents). Their dwelling place, known as nirai or nirai-kanai, is understood to be situated beyond the horizon, where the sea and the sky merge, or under the sea. The kikoe-ōgimi and the other priestesses, at their respective level, play the role of intercessors between these deities linked with the solar radiance and the human community. In that respect it is no coincidence that on the winter solstice, as observed from a vantage point in Urasoe-gusuku, the early seat of the government, the sun rises exactly behind Fubū-utaki, Kudaka Island’s most sacred shrine. Seen from Seifa-utaki, located closer, the sun also appears to spring up from that island most of the year. Okinawan scholars sum up this primitive form of solar worship, more or less explicitly retained in actual religious practices, under the notion of wakateda shisō (young sun ideology). From an early age, and together with the penetration of Chinese and Japanese Buddhist, Taoist or native religious notions, heaven and nirai-kanai have tended to appear as interchangeable locations for the supernatural beings. This overlapping is widely exemplified by the uncertainties of village cosmologies, but above all it is also found in the origin-myth of Ryūkyū, some versions presenting Amamikyu as a celestial being under the command of the ‘heavenly ruler’, others as a resident of nirai-kanai, from where the deity is said to have acquired the first grains. In the context of sixteenth-century ceremonial activities, as evidenced by the Omoro songs, the ‘sun as deity’ took on even greater importance in connection with the king’s identification with ultimate life-sustaining power. The young sun ideology evolved into what is termed tedako shisō (son of the sun ideology; cf. China 1988; Smits 2000). That conceptual shift, which was meant to strengthen, or to account for, the sacredness of the king’s person and authority, also implied that he no longer stood as a passive recipient of the divine message or energy (shiji) transmitted to him by the kikoe-ōgimi on ritual occasions. By being directly associated with the sun, the king had become a divine agent himself. Thereby, the role of the kikoe-ōgimi now carried some ambiguity as regards her role towards the king. Her spiritual power, on which the ruler’s authority had so far relied (cf. note 5), seemed to have lost part of its primary significance. The ‘son of the sun’ ideology had been clearly inspired by the Chinese concept of ‘ruler of heaven and earth’ and by the cult of the solar Buddha, Dainichinyorai, in the Shingon school of Buddhism. It is to be noted that the term tīda, itself a possible

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derivation of tendō, could be used to designate either the ruler of heaven and earth, Dainichi-nyorai, or the kikoe-ōgimi. In passing it should be observed here that periodic festivals performed in a number of villages throughout the Ryūkyū Islands involve comparable eastward movement conducted by priestesses and representatives of the community. Examples are the harvest or rain rituals in Hateruma and the Sutsu-upunaka in Tarama, both meant to invite the life-sustaining force yū (Japanese yō) to impregnate the human world (Beillevaire 1982; Ouwehand 1985). We may thus possibly consider the Agari-umāi as the aggrandizement onto the scale of the entire kingdom of a process found in village rituals.

Decline and rebirth of the Agari-umāi The invasion of Okinawa by Satsuma’s troops in 1609 brought to an end the political autonomy of the kingdom of Ryūkyū.9 This traumatic event, however, did not entail the collapse or even the weakening of the state apparatus. On the contrary, in the following decades, the bureaucratic control over the nobility was reinforced by the application, among other things, of Confucian ethics. That policy was understood by the rulers as a means to consolidate the Ryūkyū state, despite its overall submission to Satsuma’s interests (Smits 1999). At the religious level, the enforcement of the Confucian principles entailed a downgrading of folk-beliefs and a strengthening of ancestor worship, as reflected in the formation of patrilineal groupings known as munchū (or hara). In 1667 the kikoe-ōgimi was superseded in the state hierarchy by the queen. Simultaneously her power of divination was denied. Henceforth she occupied the third rank in the state hierarchy. Eventually, ten years later, the government decided that her office was to be held by the queen. Concerning the Agari-umāi, the reform movement caused it to be discontinued in what may be termed its primitive form. As several chronicles relate, in 1673 (the fifth year of King Shō Tei’s reign), and under the rule of the regent and Confucian scholar Haneji Chōshū (Chinese name Shō Jōken), the king ceased to perform the Agari-umāi in person.10 His role was now limited to the ‘worship from afar’ of the eastern deities in the previously mentioned Benkadake shrine, especially in times of severe drought. The Haneji shioki, recording Haneji’s directives, states the arguments brought forward in order to put an end to the king’s participation in the ritual: 1) The passage to Kudaka Island during the second month is unsafe; 2) The annual rituals of Kudaka Island should be performed by the priestesses (fujo) of the island shrines; 3) The expenses for the two festivals organized every other year should be borne by the peasants of the four eastern magiri (districts) Chinen, Tamagusuku, Sashiki, Ōzato; 4) The rites of Kudaka and Chinen are merely recent practices; if one wishes to regard them as being ancient, one could perform them once in a lifetime, send a substitute, or invite the deities of Kudaka and Chinen to come near Shuri Palace; moreover, the five grains having been brought from Japan by humans, their ritual celebration could be performed at any

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place; 5) The resting place built for the king in the castle of Chinen, where he used to spend four or five days, is insecure. (Haneji 1981:43–4; Miyahira 1987:160) With this rationale, Haneji was clearly following up a plan to raise the kingdom’s political and social virtue in order to gain respect from its tutoring neighbours, in particular from Japan whose domination he did not challenge (Tonaki 1988; Smits 1999). To this end, a minimal requisite was for the king to abstain from conducting public rituals along with women, more especially so as his status appeared to be inferior to theirs on such occasions. Consequently, in application of Haneji’s views, the king himself would no longer be involved in the ritual pilgrimage. In his place, an official supervising the palace ceremonies—the shitakuri-atai—was to be dispatched from time to time to accompany the chief priestess on her visit to the sacred sites of the Agari-umāi. In the same year, the king’s attendance at two other shrines, namely the kikoeōgimiudun (the chief priestess’s own shrine near the palace) and the Shuri-dunchi (a shrine administered by one of the three assistant priestesses of the kikoeōgimi), for the Ninth Month thanksgiving festival for the second crops of barley and rice was likewise considered inappropriate and therefore discontinued.11 In the early eighteenth century members of the kingdom’s shizoku class, the gentry (locally known as samurē), started visiting the sites related to the Agari-umāi. Two reasons may explain this. Firstly, a growing concern for ancestry prompted by, on the one hand, the adoption of funeral tablets and the development of family funeral rites, on the other, by the increasing influence of Confucian ideas that had already led to the creation of a Bureau of genealogies (keizuza) in 1689. Members of the gentry were thus encouraged to conceive of their family in a rigorously defined patrilineal perspective on the model of the munchū groupings. Secondly, in the earlier half of the eighteenth century, the release of the gentry from the over 200-year-old obligation to reside in Shuri resulted in many of them resettling in the countryside. Here they created new villages called yādui. In turn, the family-centred and male-oriented concept of ancestor worship diffused to the peasantry, bringing about the reshaping of traditional practices and the establishment of munchū groupings responsible for the necessary rituals. When the Ryūkyū kingdom was abolished in 1879, the custom of touring the sites of the Agari-umāi spread quickly among both the inhabitants of the new capital, Naha, and the peasants of nearby regions. With time, the custom reached areas more and more remote from the capital. The first manuals of the Agari-umāi were published around 1900, introducing to a popular readership its different courses and the mythological, legendary and historical details concerning the sites encountered on the way.12 As it no longer had the function of upholding the authority of autocratic rulers, the Agari-umāi now relied solely on the appropriation of its sites, myths and deities by kin groups of ordinary people associating their family ancestors with the island’s primeval deities.13 At regular intervals, most often once every five or seven years, munchū members, who may rarely see each other the rest of the time, gather at some place to reach the coastal area together and to walk the path of the Agari-umāi side by side. They carry with them incense, food, sake, and sometimes ritual paper money for the deities. The tour is performed under the guidance of the munchū ritual leader (kaminchu, kudī, kudingwa), traditionally a female elder belonging to the main branch of the family. Each

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group of pilgrims has some favoured sites identified by a family narrative that possibly relates them to the ancestors or simply recalls past habits. One day is now enough to complete the tour, which commonly takes place between the Eighth and the Tenth Month of the lunar calendar, when the farming population can take some time off. The visits to the numerous wells and springs, especially those irrigating the first paddy field in Tamagusuku, are occasions to dab one’s face with their sacred water and to fill some flasks for those who could not join the tour. The mystery of the surrounding scenery, which conjures up images of Amamikyu’s terrestrial deeds, appears to arouse a feeling of closeness to one’s forebears. The Agari-umāi is not the only pilgrimage of the sort in Okinawa. It is often compared, in particular, with the Nakijin-nubui (or Nakijin-umāi, Nakijin-ugami) of Motobu Peninsula, with which it shares structural similarities. The latter’s circuit, much smaller in scale, is comprised of a series of sites close to the remains of Nakijin-gusuku, the stronghold of the former northern kingdom of Hokuzan. Apart from the family groups, the sites of the ancient Agari-umāi are also visited by kamigakari, more commonly called yuta (often associated with shamans), whose competence is to communicate with spirits or deities, frequently in order to remedy human misfortunes resulting from the wrongdoings of an ancestor. Their activities were officially forbidden in 1736, although the population never stopped accepting their assistance. From the late nineteenth century onwards, they have played a major role in the stimulating concern for the patrilineal ancestors and in the popularization of the Agariumāi. The increasing number and commercial prosperity of these religious specialists observed in recent decades is considered to be, not without reason, the consequence of the weakening of community and family ties entailed by mass urbanization. Former participants in the Agari-umāi had to stride several days on stony and dusty paths. Today, the sacred places are reached comfortably by car or bus.

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Map 2 Route of the Agari-umāi. As a family event, the ritual seamlessly combines a recreational dimension with a deeprooted sense of obligation towards one’s ancestors and an abiding devotion to the country’s deities. Despite all the changes experienced since the abolition of the kingdom and the oblivion into which its rulers may have sunk, the Agari-umāi thus contributes to maintain a strong attachment of the Okinawans to their natural environment and to their past.

Notes 1 It is also the term chosen by Ronald Y.Nakasone (2002), an Okinawan American scholar living in Hawai’i, who had the opportunity to participate in the Agari-umāi with members of his kin group. 2 The expression kikoe-ōgimi could mean either ‘the chief priestess who has her prayers heard by the deity’ or ‘the great deity who consents to hear the prayers of the priestess’, the sun being the deity alluded to in the context of the Agari-umāi. On this issue, see Sakima (1991). Very aptly, Gregory Smits uses the phrase ‘empowering agent’ to define the function of the

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high priestess in relation to the king, although, as his analysis shows, this relation remained fundamentally ambiguous (Smits 2000:90). 3 A discussion of ancient sources on the Agari-umāi routes and a minute examination of their variations are found in Suetsugu’s Ō no gyōkō (1995). Detailed information on the sacred sites is provided in: Okinawaken kyōiku iinkai (ed.) 1995–1996. 4 As in mainland Japan, kami (kam, kang in Ryūkyūan) is the common designation for all deities, which are only infrequently given an individual name. 5 The leading role played in the ritual by the kikoe-ōgimi is in fact but one expression of the female predominance in the spiritual or religious sphere that characterizes Ryū-kyū culture at all levels. Moreover, sisters, especially the eldest sister, are supposedly endowed with a protective power over their brothers, a belief subsumed under the concept of onari-gami (sister-deity) and recounted in numerous myths, legends and biographies throughout the archipelago. Even after marrying, the eldest sisters stay, or used to stay, in charge of the rituals for the dead and the ancestors of their brother’s household, and of his patrilineal group as well, despite the fact that they were no longer counted among its members themselves. 6 Both Sonohiyan-utaki and Benkadake were constructed in 1519 by a man from Yaeyama and named Nishitō. 7 It is important to note that the process of political unification which took place during the fifteenth century resulted in the complete domination of Chūzan (Middle Mountain) over two other little chiefdoms, retrospectively referred to as kingdoms, namely Hokuzan to the north and Nanzan to the south. The three kingdoms had developed in tandem during the fourteenth century, vying with each other to expand their seaborne trade, and had been successively recognized as tributary states by the recently established Ming government in China. However, King Shō Hashi (1421–1439) achieved political unification of the island by seizing control of Chūzan, his native region, before defeating Hokuzan in 1416 and Nanzan in 1429. Soon after, the Amami-Ōshima Islands, located north of Okinawa, were also brought under Chūzan’s control. Shō Hashi, who initiated the transfer of the capital from Urasoe to Shuri, is the founder of the short-lived first Shō dynasty, although, for diplomatic reasons, it is his father, originally lord of Sashiki district, who officially preceded him on the throne under the name of Shō Shishō (1404–1421). Shō Shishō's father, Samegawa-ōnushi, in turn originated from the small island of Izena off the north-west coast of Okinawa Island, before settling in Baten in Sashiki district (Kadena 1983). It is noteworthy that Shō Shin, the father of Shō En (1470–1476) who founded the second Shō dynasty, also originated from Izena Island (Naka 1983). As some authors have suggested, there may have been a voluntary over-emphasis of the symbolic value of the east in consequence of that geographical origin; also, the Agari-umāi may owe something to the tradition of ‘worship from afar’ and to the ritual welcoming of the sea-deities, both found on Izena Island (Iyori 1993; Mabuchi 1974). 8 This is another instance of yōhai. The three dunchi were designated as Shuri-dunchi, Makabedunchi and Gibo-dunchi, the term dunchi being composed of the characters for dono (mansion, temple) and uchi (inside). 9 However, the kingdom was thereafter allowed to continue its diplomatic and commercial relations with China. 10 The function of regent (sessei) was a permanent one in the Ryūkyū state organization. Prince Haneji Chōshū (1617–1675) occupied that position from 1666 to 1673. 11 The king used to visit those shrines, accompanied by the kikoe-ōgimi, once every 3 years (once every 2 years according to the Ryūkyū-koku Kyūki). The rite performed within the Shuri-dunchi related to the fire deity (fī nu kam), who was conceived as an intermediary between the humans and the sun. 12 The handbook of munchū-related ritual tours edited by a Research group on Okinawan customs, although meant for a more educated public, can give an idea of what these early manuals were like (cf. Okinawa no Shūzoku Kenkyūkai 1986).

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13 In contemporary conversations the name Agari-umāi calls to mind almost exclusively the actual popular forms of the ritual. The article of the Encyclopedia of Okinawa which alludes to the ancient royal tour only at the end bears witness to that bias (Shinjō 1983).

Bibliography Beillevaire, Patrick (1982) ‘Le Sutsu Upunaka de Tarama-jima. Description d’un rite saisonnier et analyse du symbolisme spatial sur une île des Ryûkyû’, Bulletin de l’Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient LXXI, 217–57. China, Teikan (1988) ‘Okinawa no taiyō shinkō to ōken: ‘tedako’ shisō no keisei katei ni tsuite’ [Royal authority and the solar cult in Okinawa: on the development of the ‘son of the sun’ ideology], in Okinawa no shūkyō to minzoku. Kubo Noritada sensei Okinawa chōsa nijūnen kinen ronbunshū [Okinawan Folklore and Religion. Collection of Essays in Commemoration of Professor Kubo Noritada’s Twenty Years of Investigation in Okinawa], Tokyo: Daiichi Shobō, pp. 101–22. Haneji, Chōshū (1981) ‘Haneji shioki’ [Records of Haneji’s directive], Okinawaken shiryō. Zenkindai 1. Shuri ōfu shioki [Historical Documents of Okinawa Prefecture. Premodern Period 1. The Administration of the Royal Government of Shuri], Naha: Okinawaken Kyōiku Iinkai, pp. 3–57. Iyori, Tsutomu (1993) ‘Sei naru shima e no kokkateki shikaku no keisei. Ryūkyū ōkoku oara-ori girei ni miru Kudakajima no imi’ [Formation of a national sacred island in the kingdom of Ryūkyū Significance of Kudaka Island as seen from the royal ritual of oara-ori], Ningen Kankyōgaku, 2, 23–55. Iyori, Tsutomu (1995) ‘Saijō no akai tengai to shiroi tenmaku. Okinawa Kudakajima no nenjū saishi saijō ni miru Ryūkyū ōkoku saishi saijō hosetsu no kage’ [Red canopy and white tent. Remains of the royal ritual setting in the annual festivals of Kudaka Island, Okinawa], Nihon kenkyū, 12, 121–57. Kadena, Sōtoku (1983) ‘Samegawa ōnushi, Shō Shishō, Shō Hashi’, Okinawa Daihyakka Jiten, 2, 238, 419, 431. Mabuchi, Tōichi (1974) ‘Okinawa no tanemono kigen setsuwa’ [Okinawan tales about the origin of grains], Mabuchi Tōichi chosakushū, 2, 603–24. Miyagi, Eishō (1979) Okinawa noro no kenkyū (Research on the noro of Okinawa), Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Miyahira, Minoru (1987) ‘Agari-umāi no michisuji to minzoku’ [Route and folklore of the Agariumāi], in Okinawaken rekishi no michi chōsa hōkokusho 4: Shimajiri shokaidō, Shuri, Naha no michi, Ginowan: Rokurindō, pp. 158–67. Naka, Shōhachirō (1983) ‘Shō En’ Okinawa Daihyakka Jiten, 2, 410. Nakasone, Ronald Y. (2002) ‘Agari-umaai: an Okinawan pilgrimage’, in his edited Okinawan Diaspora, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Okinawa no Shūzoku Kenkyūkai (eds) (1986) Munchū haisho meguri no tebiki. Okinawa reichi no rekishi to denshō [Handbook for Visits to munchū-related Places of Worship. History and Tradition of Okinawan Sacred Places], Naha: Shinkokai Publishing. Okinawaken Kyōiku Iinkai (ed.) (1995–1996) Agari-umāi nado kanren sōgō chōsa, I, II [General Survey of the Places of Worship Relating to the Agari-umāi and other rituals], Naha: Shinkokai Publishing. Ouwehand, Cornelius (1985) Hateruma: Socio-religious Aspects of a South-Ryukyuan Island Culture, Leiden: E.J.Brill. Sakima, Toshikatsu (1991) Omoro fūzokukō [Study of the Old Customs in the Omoro], Yonabaru: Ryūkyū Bunka Rekishi Kenkyūjo. Shinjō, Tokuyū (1983) ‘Agari-umāi’ in Okinawa Daihyakka Jiten, 1, 32.

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Smits, Gregory (1999) Visions of Ryukyu. Identity and Ideology in Early-Modern Thought and Politics, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Smits, Gregory (2000) ‘Ambiguous boundaries: redefining royal authority in the Kingdom of Ryukyu’, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 60(1), 89–123. Suetsugu, Satoshi (1995) Ryūkyū no ōken to shinwa [Myths and Royal Authority in Ryūkyū], Tokyo: Daiichi Shobō. Tonaki, Akira (1988) ‘Ryūkyū ōken ron no ichikadai: Kokuō no Kudaka, Chinen, Tamagusuku miyuki no haishi wo megutte’ [Contribution to the discussion on the royal authority in Ryūkyū: on the abolition of the king’s trips to Kudaka, Chinen and Tamagusuku], Okinawa no shūkyō to minzoku (Kubo Noritada sensei Okinawa chōsa nijūnen kinen ronbunshū) [Okinawan Folklore and Religion. Collection of Essays in Commemoration of Professor Kubo Noritada’s Twenty Years of Investigation in Okinawa], Tokyo: Daiichi Shobō, pp. 295–313. Wacker, Monika (2001) ‘Onarigami: Holy woman in the kingdom of Ryūkyū: A Pacific culture with Chinese influences’, J.Kreiner (ed.) Ryūkyū in World History, Bonn: Bier’sche Verlagsanstalt, pp. 41–67. Wakugami, Motō (1983) ‘Oara-ori’, Okinawa Daihyakka Jiten, 1, 364. Wakugami, Motō (2000) Okinawa minzoku bunkaron. Saishi, shinkō, utaki [Essays on Okinawan Popular Culture. Rituals, Beliefs, Shrines], Ginowan: Yōju shorin.

12 Takiguchi Shūzō and Joan Miró Pilar Cabañas

Introduction In this chapter, I wish to demonstrate how an encounter with something beyond the ‘ordinary’, far away and outside the boundaries of one’s culture, often bears fruit in art. Because of its implications for understanding the process of such an encounter, I would like to pay particular attention to the personal relationship between the Spanish painter Joan Miró and the Japanese poet Takiguchi Shūzō. This relationship greatly influenced the collaborative work they did, while the admiration that Takiguchi felt for Miró has played an important role in the interpretation and acceptance of his art by the general public in Japan.

Takiguchi Shūzō Takiguchi Shūzō (1903–1979) was the principle Japanese artist involved in the introduction of Surrealism to Japan. Among his achievements is the diffusion of the painting process invented by the Spanish artist Oscar Domínguez called decalcomania (i.e. the technique of transferring an image from one surface to another one). In the magazine Mizue (May 1937), the painter Imai Shigeru wrote an article entitled: ‘About Decalcomanie and its method’. In this article Imai Shigeru described the Fifth Exhibition of New Plastic Art, in which 15 decalcomanies, painted in conjunction with short poems by Takiguchi, were shown. Imai wrote: ‘As haiku and haiga (painting in the haiku spirit) were joined in our country, now poetry and painting have joined their hands as well’ (Iwaya 1993:132). Since the poet Takiguchi maintained artistic collaborations with different painters, among them two very well-known Spanish artists, Antoni Tàpies and Joan Miró, it seems to me that the Japanese art tradition of collaboration was deeply embedded in Takiguchi’s psyche. It should be noted that Takiguchi was the only Japanese poet who practised ‘automatic painting’, the very essence of the Surrealistic method. Also, he translated Breton’s Surrealism and Painting (1930) into Japanese, and had a very close relationship with many of the French Surrealists. Thus he is considered to be one of the leaders of the new artistic movements in Japan. During the Second World War, the militarist government in Japan attempted to eradicate progressive elements in art, and in 1941 Takiguchi was arrested and imprisoned for eight months. When he left prison the authorities kept him and his activities under surveillance. After the war he began to work as an art critic. In the light of his arrest, it can be concluded that he had already begun to be active and influential as a critic before the war; further evidence of this is a 1939 monograph that he wrote on Joan Miró, which

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in 1940 was also the first published work about the painter. It has been already noted that Takiguchi was intrigued by the continuity between writing and drawing, a fascination that was to have interesting consequences. As the poet noted in the catalogue for his first drawing exhibition (October 1960): It began when I bought a notebook for drawings. I sketched some lines with my pen. I was looking for something more than just writing characters. I did not know if I was writing or painting. What I was really interested in was in that uncertainty. (Iwaya 1993:133) In November 1956 Takiguchi visited the exhibition of World Contemporary Art in Tokyo, and his interest in the continuity between writing and drawing was reinforced. In May 1958 he travelled to Venice as the Japanese member of the international jury of the Biennial. During this first trip abroad he stayed in Europe for five months, meeting Dalí, Duchamp and Michaux, while of his meeting with André Breton he remarked that it had changed his life. He visited Spain and spent some days in the house of Tàpies in Barcelona, but did not meet Miró. When he returned to Japan, he found it difficult to continue working as a journalist, and his experiments with the decalcomanie method became more frequent. It was during this period of the 1960s that his interest in Miró increased.

The personal relationship and artistic collaboration between Takiguchi and Miró1 The personal relationship between the two men began when Takiguchi heard that Miró was coming to Japan to visit his own great retrospective exhibition. Takiguchi wrote a letter to Miró that was described by him as a curieuse lettre d’identification.2 In this selfintroduction he speaks of his book about Miró, published in 1940, and about the fact that a friend had told him that he had seen a copy of the red-covered monograph in Miró's library. In his letter, Takiguchi explained to Miró that he was writing part of the catalogue for the exhibition and he invited the painter to write to him if he wanted to know anything about Japan, even if only to ask about trivial matters. When Miró travelled to Japan he had a meeting with Takiguchi in Tokyo. Afterwards, Takiguchi sent a letter with a poem entitled Avec des étoiles de Miró (dated September 1966) that he had composed in honour of Miró, commemorating this great retrospective exhibition. In the letter the poet asked Miró to illustrate the last part of the poem and to autograph his exhibition catalogue. So it was that the first step towards the artistic collaboration of the two artists was taken by the Japanese part. As we know from notes written just after returning to Spain in October, Miró considered the possibility of doing a book written in Japanese and French: ‘It could be a beautiful book’.3 In May 1967 the Maeght Gallery published a catalogue of Miró’s current exhibition at the gallery. In this catalogue Miró’s illustrations of poems by various writers were included, among them one by Takiguchi, Itinéraire. When Takiguchi wrote to Miró to express his sincere and enormous gratitude, he added that he had felt great emotion upon

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seeing his little poem printed together with Miró’s wonderful pictures. He explained to Miró that he had written to Mr Maeght telling him about a Japanese publishing house’s proposal, namely the publication of a book with Miró’s drawings combined with Takiguchi’s poems in Japanese and possibly in French as well. Takiguchi asked Miró for an opportunity to create a work that could symbolize their friendship. Miró, after some further correspondence that defined the idea more clearly, accepted the proposal. The Barcelona publishing house favoured by Miró, Polígrafa, decided to publish the work, but asked Takiguchi for more poems to add to the three he had composed for Miró. Miró thought it would be better for Takiguchi to write some short and poetic sentences, or even to choose some fragments from his previous works. Miró’s idea was to make a luxurious album with big lithographs printed on beautiful paper. In 1967, after returning from Japan, Miró had already illustrated a book entitled Haíku, and in his personal library he possessed a book on the best haiku poets.4 He felt that painting and poetry as mediums of expression were very close. In the short haiku poems he found concentrated all the emotion that words could evoke, and intended to respond to these emotions aroused by the poems with his paintings. Miró specifies that it was absolutely essential that Takeguchi’s poems be written in Japanese characters, since the painter conceived his own work in relation to the pictographic writing. Miró also added that in order to promote the work and give it wider diffusion, it should be translated into different Western languages: English, French, Italian, Spanish and Catalán. Miró’s idea was to create a work that was light, subtle and beautiful like a flower.5 When Miró returned to Japan in 1969, he received a welcome letter from Takiguchi, informing him that he had already finished the poems. The poet said they were short and simple and added that some of them were close to the haiku. He entitled them Handmade Proverbs. Looking at this work, the union of Western and Japanese cultural traditions can be observed and appreciated. The vertical format is reminiscent of Japanese kakemono (hanging scrolls with a painting or a work of calligraphy). Also the elongated size of the paper, the composition of the drawings with their strong diagonal strokes, and the monochrome black used in the text’s illustration, give the work an air of ‘Japaneseness’. However, the hand which guides the brush is Western and the symbols and lines are orchestrated in a special and unconventional way typical of Miró. In the Japanese lithograph version, the importance of the drawing loses some of its impact because of the relevance of the pictographic writing; it is evident that Miró had based his work on the characters. I would like to call attention to this work as an example of a situation that has occurred in many different cases and fields: Western esteem helps Japan to examine itself and to rediscover—and reinterpret—its own tradition. Miró asked Takiguchi to forget the modern writings of his fervent Surrealist years and to concentrate on the composition of small and condensed poems, richly evocative and similar to haiku. On the other hand, Miró’s style seems to abandon the metallic and thin strokes he had used before the Second World War, and a progressive approach to Japan can be observed. The strokes become softer and thicker, resembling calligraphic brushstrokes. When Takiguchi saw the result of their collaboration, he was surprised by the Japanese feeling transmitted by the Handmade Proverbs. He affirmed that this work was a monument not

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just to their own friendship, but to the friendship between Miró and Japan. He described Miró’s work as drawn calligraphy possessing great simplicity and power. The other collaborative project between Miró and Takiguchi had a more difficult conception and delivery. Even though the idea arose at the same time as the Handmade Proverbs, it did not become a reality until 1978, nearly 10 years later. This work is entitled Miró no hoshi to tomo ni (‘Among Miró’s stars’), and the publisher was Heibonsha, although the lithographs were done by Arte Adrien Maeght in Paris. This work can be seen as the culmination of their relationship and the reciprocal admiration cultivated throughout the years. In this art work Miró's style is recognizable in its most characteristic form and, at the same time, the profound feelings that it aroused in Takiguchi are also apparent. I think it is possible to argue that the emotion felt by the poet was shared by the thousands of Japanese spectators of the Catalán painter’s work. On this occasion it was Takiguchi who suggested the format of the work. Since he felt it was necessary to publish the poems dedicated to Joan Miró, he wanted the work to resemble the folded books used to record Buddhist sutras which opened like fans when read. In some way his intention was to present Miró’s work as similar to that of these sacred texts, and he probably wanted to express the high regard he felt for Miró’s art through this format. The work was published in Japanese with a French translation on a separate leaflet. Miró’s paintings should be understood not as a direct illustration of the contents of the text, but as the result of the emotion aroused by Takiguchi’s poems in Miró’s spirit. He created a visual code for transmitting this emotion. This was something he had done before; Joan Brossa, a famous Catalán poet, said that when Miró was illustrating his work Oda a Joan Miró, the painter took some notes: “the colour has to be like a punch,…the background like a symphony that finishes smoothly,…as if I push a door” (1989:216). In Miró no hoshi to tomo ni one can appreciate how Miró felt about the poems as he translated them into a plastic form using symbols from his own vocabulary. There is a perfect interrelation between the text and the designs: If the text were taken out it would be the equivalent of erasing some of the characters in Velázquez’s painting Las Meninas. The harmony and movement between the vertical lines of writing and the horizontal pictorial flow are beautiful, and impossible to achieve with Western writing; rhythm and balance are two of the main characteristics of this artistic work. It might be that for visual and aesthetic reasons, Miró had rejected the idea of including prose in the first book, as the abundance of pictograms might have spoilt the rhythm and harmony between writing and painting. Moreover, Miró no hoshi to tomo ni did not see publication in other languages, since this would have resulted in a totally different creation: the mutual understanding between Takiguchi’s Japanese texts and Miró’s painting could not have been reached if the writing had been the Western alphabet. The Japanese writing system, which goes from top to bottom and from right to left, permits reading and painting in a contiguous way, allowing the viewer to go along with the text to the work’s end. It is also interesting to note, in this connection, that Takiguchi’s signature could at first sight be confused with the strokes of Miró’s painting, though close observation shows that it was done in a very loose way without lifting the brush. As already noted, the poetic feeling in Miró’s works is a consequence of his desire to communicate in a plastic way what the poet does with his words. Beyond that, the works

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are also of special interest as examples of a cultural encounter. It can be seen how Miró, continuing to be himself, ‘drinks’, as it were, from Takiguchi’s poems, acting as a participant in the work and not as a simple illustrator. A great part of this work’s value lies in the enrichment produced by the cultural encounter between Takiguchi Shūzō and Joan Miró.

Takiguchi looks at Miró, Japan looks at Miró The fact, mentioned above, that Takiguchi Shūzō was the first-known author of a monograph about Joan Miró (published by Atelier Editions of Tokyo in 1940) merits further elaboration. The book was neither voluminous nor expensive, consisting of 36 pages of text and 48 pages of black and white plates. To put it in context, it is necessary to remember that Takiguchi was the leader of new artistic tendencies introduced in Japan, as well as—in 1930—the translator of the work by Breton, Surrealism and Painting; at the same time he was the sponsor of the Surrealist movement in Japan, and a friend of many of the French Surrealists. Thus when Takiguchi thought of writing this monograph about Joan Miró it seems probable that his intention was to introduce Miró to the Japanese. Furthermore, the fact that Joan Miró was the personal preference of Takiguchi, one of the prime movers diffusion of Western artistic movements in Japan, was bound to influence the Japanese public in their valuation of Surrealism. This is the artistic movement in which Miró is often included, although because of his peculiar artistic personality, he is difficult to classify. Thus even today, when you ask about a Surrealist painter in Japan, Miró is probably one of the first names that come to people’s mind, even before Max Ernst, Marc Chagall or René Magritte. Takiguchi’s choice, then, conditioned the diffusion of the Japanese public’s knowledge of Miró. Takiguchi’s interest in Miró, together with that in Antoni Tàpies (whom I cannot discuss in detail here), has led me to focus on these two painters. In both cases it can be seen that the attraction they felt for Japanese culture and tradition, which, for both of them, lay far beyond the ‘ordinary’, had a decisive influence upon their work. Yet at the same time certain features of their own characters and attitudes seem in a sense to be very close to the Japanese traditions. As an example I would like to quote Miró: The very last works are the three large blue canvases. They took me a long time. Not to paint, but to think them through. It meant an enormous effort on my part, a very great inner tension, to reach the emptiness I wanted. The preliminary stage was intellectual…. It was like preparing the celebration of a religious rite or entering a monastery. Do you know how Japanese archers prepare for competitions? They begin by getting themselves into the right state, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling. It was the same thing for me. I knew that I had everything to lose. One weakness, one mistake, and everything would collapse. I began by drawing them in charcoal, very precisely. (I always start work very early in the morning.) In the afternoon, I would simply look at what I had drawn. For the rest of the day, I would prepare myself internally. Finally, I began to paint: first

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the background, all blue; but it was not simply a matter of applying colour like a house painter: all the movements of the brush, the wrist, the breathing of my hand—all these things played a role. ‘Perfecting’ the background put me in the right state to go on with the rest. (Miró, 1961 interview with Rosamond Bernier) Recently, while interviewing a Japanese person it appeared to me that she had understood, in a very intuitive way, the feeling and manner of expression of Joan Miró. She noted that his works very often transmit the sense of, as well as reminded her of, the concentration and emptiness of spirit needed to practise calligraphy. In my opinion this identification—the recognition of something Japanese in Miró’s work—was one of the reasons why Takiguchi, consciously or unconsciously, was drawn to Miró (and Tàpies), becoming friends with them. At the end of the 1950s and beginning of the 1960s, the general public in Japan looked at European art through the work of art critics, and, in this post-war period, Takiguchi was one of the more outstanding among these. Thus we can say that when the Japanese looked at Miró they saw him through Takiguchi’s eyes. The participation of this poet and art critic in Miró’s exhibition catalogues was obvious, and in the first great retrospective of Joan Miró organized in Japan, Takiguchi wrote most of the catalogue (except for the introduction which was written by the commissary of the exhibition, Jacques Dupin, the French poet and a good friend of Miró).6 Japan received an impression of Miró that was somewhat ‘Japanized’ by the fact of being filtered through Takiguchi. In contrast to the American public, who paid attention to the strength of the basic colours and the strong impact of the gestures, therefore, the Japanese valued his signs, the cheerfulness of his colours, and a sense of the Universe found in his works. Perhaps some of these perceptions were like those of the painter’s own. Miró said in 1959 in relation to the interpretation and experience of the public, “…my painting could be considered as humorous and happy, although I am tragic”. The association of his work with the idea of happiness certainly influenced the Osaka Gas Company, participating in the Expo ‘70 in Osaka, to think of Miró as the ideal artist for the occasion, as Fukuda Tsuneari had proposed ‘Smile’ as the topic for the main pavilion in which art was exhibited and theatrical performances were held. The Osaka Gas Company entrusted Miró with the task of creating in the pavilion an atmosphere similar to that of his paintings; they gave him total freedom and he accepted the opportunity to return to Japan with enthusiasm. Miró created a ceramic mural with the idea that it would be exhibited later in the city’s museum, and another mural painting done in situ that would have to be destroyed with the pavilion. It was a confrontation between permanent and ephemeral art. There was a great contrast between the intense composition and the black lines that enclose the bright colours in the ceramic mural, and the ephemeral painting on the downward ramp which led to the pond. The pond acted as a mirror to the ceramic wall that was set behind it. In the painting on the ramp, by contrast, the white colour of the wall that was used as canvas is predominant, the strokes are freer, and the colours at their purest.7 Continuing the idea of the contrast between the permanent and the ephemeral, Miró created some bronze sculptures painted in his personal colours, and some ephemeral designs to be worn as costumes for the pavilion’s guides. Characters invented by Miró

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similar to Donald Duck or Mickey Mouse in Disney World were to stand at the entrance to welcome visitors. These characters, incidentally, carried pilgrims’ gourds (calabaza de peregrine)—which are a very common object in Spain. As planned, the mural painting created by Miró in situ was destroyed with the pavilion, and the fancy dresses were replaced by regular uniforms. After visiting Miró in Osaka, Takiguchi sent him a short poem about the ceramic wall. The poet refers to the human laughing openly and describes it as promising good luck for everybody:

ōkuchi akete warau darō makoto ni warau kabe ni fuku kitaru (The mouth wide open, appearing to be laughing. Truly, to the laughing wall comes good luck) A French version of the poem runs as follows:

Regardez le mur Miró Tous les hommes riront en éclat comme une carbassa a la bouche grande overte devant le grand mur riant qui invite vraiment le bonheur au monde entier (Shūzō Takiguchi, 28 November 1969, Osaka)8 In my opinion Takiguchi understood this work as hare (i.e. ‘pure’ in the Japanese religious sense) and through their happy and noisy laughing humans are inviting the gods to smile and send them good fortune. I believe that this happiness and amusement in Miró’s work was understood by the Japanese, and that it was one of the reasons why he was attractive to them.

Conclusion Takiguchi Shūzō has come to exemplify the admiration of the Japanese for the world of contemporary art in general, and for that of Joan Miró in particular; while Miró himself assumed that his discovery and acceptance of what is Japanese was generally valid in the

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world of Western contemporary art. Moreover, the Japanese public became acquainted with Miró through Takiguchi’s translations, which acted as a filter for this encounter between a Spanish and a Japanese artist. Between them there took place an intercultural encounter which touched on their artistic creativity at its most profound, although each of them had their roots in, and were attached to, ancient cultural traditions that were conceptually distant. In Miró’s pictures we can observe both calligraphic strokes and the creator’s eyes as found in Romanesque frescos. Takiguchi in turn discovers in Miró the tradition of Western painting which, in search for its own path, converges with the Eastern tradition of pictographic signs. In an essay titled The Age of Abstraction (Iwaya 1993:135) Takiguchi stated: Writing; drawing. Once again I have doubts about the difference between the two things. In ancient times, writing was very near painting. They were almost indistinguishable. In fact some of the ancient steles on metal or stone are akin to Klee or Miró’s modern paintings. In the Orient an original form of writing known as shodō (the Way of the Brush) is aesthetically developed thanks to the brushstrokes, the Chinese ink, the paper, the special climate, and the animistic sensitivity, which imbues spirit to a line. On the other hand, in modern Western painting something characteristic for oriental writing has appeared. Takiguchi points out that Klee and Miró were the ones who reduced the distance between reality and its signs or representations. In this manner they revived the life of writing as art, producing cheerful, emotive and suggestive works that invite the spectator to participate actively. There are many anecdotes about Miró and how he interpreted his work. Whenever he was asked, ‘Is it this? Is it that? Is it the other?’, he usually answered ‘Yes’, even though the options were contradictory. Despite his delight in such interpretive uncertainty, it can be said with some certainty that Joan Miró discovered in Takiguchi a poet who used the signs of writing as referential images; he saw in him the possibility of working ‘directly’, interweaving his own signs with those coming from Takiguchi’s brush. Far beyond the borders of what is ‘ordinary’ in one’s own part of the world, respect and admiration has thus formed the basis for the meeting of compatible ideas, and the interweaving of techniques and visions that have led to the creation of fascinating works of art.

Notes I would like to express my sincere gratitude to the Fundació Pilar i Joan Miró of Palma de Mallorca who helped fund the research for this project; to its Director at the time, Mr Pablo Rico; to Ms Aránzazu Miró, the librarian of the institution, for her helpful service and advice; to the Fundació Joan Miró of Barcelona in the person of Ms Teresa Montaner for its kind collaboration; to Ms Katō Ruiko from the National Museum of Modern Art, Kyoto, and to Mr Yagi Hiromasa from Toyama Museum for the information they gave me; to Mr Françesc Catalá-Roca and Mr Jacques Dupin for giving me the opportunity to interview them; to Mrs Usui Sachiko from the International Research Center for Japanese

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Studies, for her constant confidence and encouragement in this research; Dr Junko Sasaki and Professor Maria Dolores Rodríguez del Alisal, President of the Fundación Institute de Japonología, for their collaboration, support and friendship; and to Ms Diane Bucy who helped me to correct the English version of this paper.

1 The material I use in this section is based mainly on the research I have done on the letters sent by Takiguchi Shūzō to Joan Miró and some drafts of the replies sent by Miró (both in the archives of the Fundació Pilar i Joan Miró in Palma de Mallorca), and on the works which were the result of their artistic collaboration. 2 Tokyo 14 July 1966 (Fundació Pilar i Joan Miró, Palma de Mallorca [NIG 6015 Archive CA039001]). 3 ‘…en podría fer un llibre preciosista’ (Note, October 1966. Fundació Pilar i Joan Miró, Palma de Mallorca NIG 5992). 4 This was Le Haiku translated by Georges Bonneau (1935) (Le Colleccion Yoshino, vol. 9, París: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner). 5 cf. Draft letter 28 September 1969 (Fundació Pilar i Joan Miró, Palma de Mallorca [NIG 6006 Archive CA039901]). 6 The wide distribution of this book is noteworthy, taking into account that around 9,000 people visited the exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art of Tokyo the first day it was open to the general public. 7 There exists a silent film of the encounter at the Osaka Gas pavilion between Miró and Takiguchi, shot by Miró’s photographer, Françesc Catalá-Roca, and by his dealer Adrien Maeght. The film includes a scene in which Miró is totally absorbed in his creative work, and another one recording the visit of Takiguchi when it was already finished. One can observe how Miró explains the painting to Takiguchi, his hands moving as if he were painting it all over again. 8 ‘Poema inédito entregado en mano a Miró durante su estancia y días de encuentro en Osaka’ (Fundació Pilar i Joan Miró [NIG 5993 Archive CA 040101]).

Bibliography Bernier, Rosamund (1961) ‘Interview with Miró’, L’Oeil, July-August, pp. 258–259, Paris. Brossa, Joan (1989) ‘Reloj del viento’, 109 llibres amb Joan Miró, Barcelona: Fundació Joan Miró. Cabañas, Pilar (1996) ‘1966. Miró en Japon. Impresiones de un viaje’, Actas del II Congreso de la Asociatión de Estudios Japoneses en España, Madrid: Institute de Japanología. Cabañas, Pilar (1998) ‘Los poemas de Shūzō Takiguchi a Joan Miró. El origen de una colaboración artística’, Actas del III Congreso de la Asociatión de Estudios Japoneses en España, Madrid: Institute de Japanología. Cabañas, Pilar (1999) ‘Dos visiones de haiga: de la tradición japonesa a la obra de Joan Miró’, Japón. Hacia el siglo XXI, un enfoque pluridisciplinar y multicultural en el avance del conocimiento. Actas del IV Congreso de la Asociatión de Estudios Japoneses en España, Barcelona: Asociatión de Estudios Japoneses en España. Cabañas, Pilar (2000) La fuerza de Oriente en la obra de Joan Miró, Madrid: Electra. I way a, Kunio (1993) ‘Shūzō Takiguchi y la Decalcomanía’, Sueños de Tinta Decalcomanía de Oscar Domínguez a Marx Ernst, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria: Centre Atlántico de Arte Moderno. Miró, Joan (1959) ‘Je travaille comme un jardinier’, Revue XX siécle, le 15 février, (1), Paris. Shigeru, Imai (1937) ‘About Decalcomanie and his method’, Mizue.

13 Hiroshima, mon amour An inner pilgrimage to catharsis Antonio Santos There are two kinds of memory: the small memory for remembering small things, and the big memory for forgetting big things. (Montserrat Roig 1993)

Introduction In the film script Hiroshima, mon amour (Alain Resnais 1959), written by Marguerite Duras (1988), the city of Hiroshima serves as a dialectic space. The fortuitous encounter between a French woman and a Japanese man in Hiroshima allows us to compare, on two levels, different lines of dramatic and narrative development. On the spatial and temporal level we find a context which conditions the contrasting experiences of the tale’s two protagonists. On a psychological level the audience is presented with a seminal conflict in which are juxtaposed the co-ordinates of the real and the imaginary, and of remembering and forgetting. Hiroshima will be considered, following the film’s plot, as a space of agony, where the opponents enter into conflict. But it is also the place where reconciliation with the past becomes possible; and also the place that serves as the starting point for the foreigner’s catharsis. In other words: both in Duras’ and in Resnais’ work, Hiroshima is treated not so much as a geographical and historical setting as it is a symbolic and subjective one. Within the conflict presented, the coming together of Europe and Japan makes possible the reconciliation between past and present; or, in the words of Resnais himself, provides a resolution for the contradiction between history and poetry, while oblivion is transformed into a complementary mechanism for memory as well as an indispensable strategy for living. As a consequence of these characteristics, Hiroshima, mon amour is valued as an open, suggestive text: an outstanding example of the poetry of the real, defining and enlightening with artistic intensity many of the troubles which oppress us. Alain Resnais: The real and the imaginary1 This singular film-maker, antithetical to both narrative conventions and commercial demands, has often shown his unwillingness to be considered an ‘author’ (auteur) in the sense in which this word is normally used; in fact he has preferred to refer to himself as a metteur en scene. His films are based on texts written by such reputable authors as Marguerite Duras, Alain Robbé Grillet, Jorge Semprún or the scientist Henri Laborit.

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Initially limited to making documentary films, he has in several instances highlighted genocides committed throughout the twentieth century: Guernica (1950), Night and Fog (Nuit et brouillard 1955), as well as Hiroshima, mon amour (1959), which was his first feature film. The theme of memory is one that recurs in most of his films, whether they are documentaries or fiction. As a complementary mechanism to memory, Resnais likes to use the concept of the imaginary: some parts of history—both personal and collective history—he understands as capable of being retrieved by an inner, subjective manipulation of events. If we accept this as an authentic activity, it is possible to admit that our inner, imaginary life may be inseparably linked to the world conventionally termed ‘real’. Hiroshima, mon amour was initially conceived as a project for a documentary on the atomic bomb. Marguerite Duras’ collaboration, and the system of co-production with Nagata Masaichi and Anatole Dauman,2 resulted in a more complex and ambitious work that is set in the city of Hiroshima, taking place over a period of only 24 hours. In spite of the spatial and temporal limits, the action arouses a whole stream of reminiscences extending back over the previous 15 years to the end of the Second World War. Both protagonists remain strictly anonymous throughout the film; only at the end is each of them referred to by the name of their respective birth-place—a final act of atonement for their past lives. SHE (Emmanuelle Riva) is a French actress who is on location making a film in the city, now in the throes of rebirth after nuclear chaos. HE (Eiji Okada) is a Japanese engineer who meets her for the very first time that afternoon. Together they embark on a fortuitous, adulterous love affair; it is, we could say, a consummated ‘Brief encounter’. The film begins with the couple making love in a hotel room. The spectator is not informed about any previous meeting between them; the narrative just focuses on what happens in the few hours which elapse after this casual encounter.

Memory is a path towards oblivion The title of the film itself suggests a reconciliation of two principles which seem to be opposed: Hiroshima as a representation of chaos and supreme absurdity, and Love. We may certainly speak of an antithetical opposition between pain and love. The woman recognizes this all along in her inner monologue: ‘You are killing me. You are my life. Devour me. Deform me into utmost hideousness’. The fusion of these antithetical principles will result in oblivion, whose erosive action proves to be essential for survival. The plot used is commonplace, but at the same time the setting chosen is an unlikely one: Hiroshima. As Duras (1988:13) says, ‘A special atmosphere marks every gesture, every word there’. The evocation of horror occurs in a hotel bed, at the moment of pleasure’s consummation. According to Duras, the scene might appear to be sacrilegious. In the script’s preface, however, the readers/spectators are asked to free themselves of their prejudices and accept everything they are going to read or see about this couple: ‘What is truly sacrilegious, if sacrilege exists, is Hiroshima itself. This fact should never be allowed to escape the mind, and all hypocrisy must be rejected’ (Duras 1988:12).

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Hiroshima thus is shown as a place of agony and horror, yet at the same time it is the space where encounter and reconciliation are possible. In Hiroshima the woman finds herself at a place where the possibility for catharsis exists that would release her from her past.

Crippled bodies The film opens with an abstract image, shot in negative. A few moments later, this becomes a recognizable wound in the skin of a person and will be understood as analogous to the pain which has left its scars on the memory of a woman whose perceptions the audience will share. Because of memory both wounds—the physical and the mental—are open. We can speak of torture before catharsis. Soon the spectator is bombarded with a confused succession of shots which are later recognizable as bodies twisted together, naked and sweaty, but whose faces are never shown. This is the first hint at anonymity, which will be maintained throughout the film; it is also a sign of mutilation and deformation. The aggressive editing, as well as the fragmented composition of each shot, compel us to equate torn flesh with violence. In other words, the cutting of the film dissects the two lovers. Such ‘visual anger’ links love-making to the dead bodies, lacerated by an air raid, evoked in the following images. The physical encounter of the bodies opens up a path towards time as experienced internally along the two symbolic planes of imagination and memory. This way, the senses are given a vehicle to indulge in a special kind of communication: anonymous and isolated, the man and the woman ‘talk without talking’. From the subsequent break between spaces and times comes the paradox which has fed all preliminary episodes: the sexual meeting does not coincide with spiritual agreement. The first dialogues lay down the norm: HE methodically denies everything SHE affirms. This dialectic rule, followed throughout the prologue, is only once turned round, when SHE is negative (‘I have invented nothing’), arousing the only affirmative statement from HIM: ‘You have invented everything’. The opposition between these two perspectives allows the audience to extract their own conclusions: SHE represents an imaginary, subjective point of view, while HE represents a realistic one. SHE represents the connection between past and present (both the real and the imaginary); HE is bound only to present and hardly speaks about his past. Images do not spring from HIS memory as they do from HERS. As Duras comments, it is impossible to talk about Hiroshima: a community destroyed in a few seconds; a community which has come to represent horror and absurdity. This Japanese city is, in the words of the French writer, the only place in the world where the universal experiences of love and pain are seen in implacable light (Duras 1988:13–14).

The poetry of the real The binary oppositions which—as I have tried to show—provide the film’s foundation are resolved within the conflict between love and pain, or, we may say, between life and death. The physical senses create an intimate path for a voyage of selfknowledge which

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unites intuition and experience, but such knowledge is revealed as frightening: The woman’s inner pilgrimage is a journey of love and death. She must close her eyes in order to survive the chaos. In this film we see empty sockets, a brutal image of eyes gouged out by barbarism, reminding us of Oedipus who tore out his own eyes lest he should see himself trapped in his own horror. Thus the nuclear bomb is juxtaposed with the story of an unconventional amour fou. Resnais’ images often recall surrealistic models, which take their meaning from an absurd and cruel situation—which is what this apocalypse of the twentieth century was. We specifically recognize Buñuel’s about-to-be-cut eye, as well as the radioactive ants which surface from nothing, represented in that sterile, polluted land of Hiroshima.3 The sweaty, embracing bodies which the editing violently hurls around at the beginning of the film take on an ominous resemblance to the dead bodies covered by ashes after the atomic explosion; they may also recall the lovers whose bodies were discovered in Pompeii, carbonized by the Vesuvian eruption.4 Past tragedy joins present delight. Under the ashes of Hiroshima, in museums and in hospitals, the visitor discovers an unintelligible, aggressive space, a universe that Alain Robbé Grillet, recalling Sigmund Freud and Jacques Lacan, defined as ‘real’ (Robbé Grillet 1986:50–3). It should be pointed out that for Robbé Grillet and his sources the ‘real’ is not equivalent to ‘realism’. Jacques Lacan affirmed that ‘the real begins where sense is finished’ (quoted in Robbé Grillet 1986:50–3). A poetic of the ‘real’ would be, in this way, one where sense vanishes. The oppositions on which the film is built well illustrate the three registers identified by Lacan: The ‘real’ (to kill/to live); the ‘imaginary’ (to see/not to see); and the ‘symbolical’ (to know/not to know). The sexual relationship treads the narrow boundary between life and death. It is, in the final instance, a sensual way of perceiving the ‘real’, and just as Vicente Aleixandre equated destruction with love in his poetic work, during this scene love-making is identified with the nuclear apocalypse. The orgasm, after all, has been defined as the little death,5 where individuality is lost, giving way to a state bordering on insanity. Accordingly, the woman demands from her lover a fate similar to Hiroshima’s: ‘Deform me into utmost hideousness’. Only in this way does it seem possible to achieve absolute possession: ‘Eat me up’, she cries.

Memory of shadows and stone Even in opposition, memory and oblivion are two complementary activities sharing similar characteristics. This was elegantly noticed by Marguerite Duras (1988:34): ‘Oblivion is only possible when Memory is able to finish its work’. At one point in the opening sequence of the film, the woman says to her lover: ‘Like you, I wished I had an inconsolable memory, a memory of shadows and stone’. What could this sentence mean? The woman’s memory recalls a series of events which we shall define as real, namely her traumatic love affair in Nevers during the German Occupation. The legacy of that episode—a lasting memory—could metaphorically be defined as a ‘memory of stone’. In contrast, the vague, subjective images could well be part of that unreal knowledge which

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she links with shadows. The shadows and stone also allude to two other senses—sight and touch—which synaesthetically mark out a path towards the inner world. Shadows refer us to the intangibility of the film image itself. The woman did not experience the actual events that really occurred in Hiroshima: film image is not real, it only represents reality. Also, as it is not possible to apprehend reality, it is necessary to resort to its representation. Such a metaphorical opposition in the end pits reality against fiction, as in Plato’s Myth of the Cavern: the shadows reflected on the rock—an anticipatory image of filmic representation—are also a source of a false knowledge about reality. From films, but also from graphic or written sources, history is discovered to be a manipulated tale. In Hiroshima, both the hospital and the museum are spaces for the justification, or explanation of history. The museum, as a fictitious space, is closely connected to film as a document, as both reconstruct a second reality, essentially different from the reality they are representing. In the museum’s halls, evidence of chaos has been collected and transformed into a witness of the past. The images come to life, and are reflected in the dying figures. As the woman notes: ‘The illusion is so perfect that when seen, people cry’. Photographs and films have supplied the woman with—manipulated—information about Hiroshima’s fate. Through her work in the film in which she is acting, she even contributes to increasing such a false knowledge of reality; tragedy becomes a performance, as in all the films shot about the nuclear bomb. Tragedy is even minimized in the gift shops of the city, where small copies of its Atomic Dome are sold.

East and West After meeting her Japanese lover in Hiroshima, the woman evokes her past. Her personal history is marked by an incident in Nevers, on the banks of the Loire, where she suffered the painful wounds of love. Fourteen years later, that event, buried in her memory but not forgotten, is brought to light again. The present moment, lived with unusual intensity because of its brevity, revives a series of events in which the past seems to be reflected. When she mentions that episode in her past for the first time, the woman pronounces the name of her birthplace, clearly differentiating its two syllables: NE-VERS, which in French could mean ‘not towards’. The place-name could also be equated with the English adverb NEVER. Semantic word-plays apart, Nevers is a departure point now left behind her, and to which she does not want to ever return. Despite her wishes, the past insists on remaining alive in full force. This happens, for instance, through the Japanese man’s hand. While he lies on the bed, a journey is initiated back into memory, for the image is linked with her reminiscence of the hand of the German soldier killed by the French Resistance. The woman herself, as an implicit reader of her own history, mixes up both times. Moreover the search made by the Japanese lover into her past leads him, retrospectively, to Nevers during the occupation years. Just at this point his interest in her past stops. This is not accidental, because that is the point where the woman’s affective memory began to be forged. At that spatial and chronological coordinate, the close encounter between present and past time is established.

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In the same way, the French woman chooses only one point in the life of her Japanese lover: Hiroshima. These two cities represent their respective birthplaces—furusato—that is: their starting points. In both places they began to be what they really are at the moment of their meeting. Appropriating these identifications, and fusing them together with the places of their germination, each character will receive, at the end of the film, the name of their respective home-towns. The lost love on the banks of the Loire is recovered (and even reincarnated) in the Japanese figure, through the woman’s memory. Her disposition towards giving herself up to a German and to a Japanese (both enemies of her country during the war), connotes a predisposition towards reconciliation and concord. In this way, Nevers is projected on Hiroshima; the German lover on the Japanese; and the West, finally, appears to be projected onto the East. Dichotomies between East and West are usually resolved through the confrontation between spirituality and materialism; that is: wisdom against ignorance; contemplative life versus active life. This duality, often present in films and literature, comes from supposed cultural differences in reasoning, frequently discussed by Western observers. However it also comes from cyclical evidence: the sun rises in the East, and sets in the West, and Japan—Nihon, etymologically meaning ‘the land of the rising sun’— represents the East. Accordingly, the film begins with a sunrise, and ends when the sun sets. For Westerners, Japan is the receiver of light: its culture and tradition; its stoical resignation to pain; its recognition of the ignorance and shallowness of the West. Japan has also received, as a punishment for its arrogance, a devastating light, burning with the flame of one thousand suns. These flames, coming from the West, annihilated two whole cities, destroying an empire established by the Sun Goddess, and illuminating the new position which this Asian country will be allowed to play in the world thenceforth. The seven branches of the Ōta River Following the binary scheme of the film, there are two rivers flowing through the tale: the Loire and the Ōta. While the French river looks as clear and bucolic as the passion of the woman when she was a teenager, the Japanese stream moves in a corrupted and muddy manner. Its degradation corresponds to the pain which has eroded memory over the years. In the West, a river metaphorically represents the flow of time. From Heraclitus onwards, fluvial streams have been related to impermanence: fieri; panta rei (everything flows; nothing remains). The same happens with human memory, and moving water resembles the inner pilgrimage undertaken by each of us, like that of the anonymous woman of our film. Participating in this dynamism the camera moves forward through lengthy displacements, just as the river does. Some of these sophisticated movements even link two different spaces and times, that is: European and Asian cities; modern and ancient ways of life; present and past. It should also be noted that the Ōta River empties its waters into the sea, which in a context like Hiroshima’s can be seen as a fateful anticipation of death. Black ashes, after the nuclear apocalypse, represent the fate of the city together with its river’s.6

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Therefore the river’s mouth is an important location. Both the voice of the off-screen narrator as well as the film images insist on depicting the river delta as having seven tributaries. This special geographical feature reflects the woman’s journey: the seven fluvial paths allude to cyclical experience, the seven days of the week, or the seven branches of the Cosmic Tree. Also the Buddha is represented by seven symbols, while the pilgrimage to Mecca demands seven laps around the Kaaba. The number seven, magical in the most distant cultures, represents a renewed cycle of life and death. It is a sign of a moving totality, an absolute dynamism. Hiroshima is in this way represented in the seven branches of its river: a fulminant cycle of life and death identified with the fluvial cadence. As a consequence of all these vicissitudes, the whole martyred city goes forward with its geographical and historical scenario, becoming a magical place: something like a temple where oppositions come together. This appreciation is not only true for a European woman who begins her inner pilgrimage precisely in this place, but also for a whole collective: the Japanese people, and even for the rest of humankind, who will encounter in Hiroshima a tragic shrine where reconciliation with past mistakes may become possible.

Conclusion Jorge Luis Borges assured that ‘Poetry always works in the Past; Memory works in the Present’. This paper has tried to confirm his axiom through analysing a literary and cinematographic work which locates its two characters at the intersection of both coordinates. The most vivid reminiscences are often condemned to oblivion; while the need to keep memory alive co-exists with the desire to forget the painful episodes of life. And so, in a city devastated by war and fire, as Hiroshima was, two nameless lovers begin an inner pilgrimage through life and death, memory and oblivion, attempting a rebirth from their own ashes. Only at the end of the trip will destruction be fused with love. In Resnais’ and Duras’ work oblivion becomes an antidote against the pains of memory. This state has been described by the Spanish romantic poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer:

En donde esté una piedra solitaria/sin inscriptión alguna,/donde habite el olvido,/allí estará mi tumba (Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, Rima LXVI) (Where a lonely stone stands, without any inscription, where oblivion dwells, there my grave will be.)

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Notes 1 Alain Resnais’ work has not inspired a very copious bibliography. Essays which have featured his films include those quoted in the references. 2 Nagata Masaichi, President of Daiei Eiga Productions, had produced many classic Japanese films, directed by Mizoguchi, Kurosawa and others. Anatole Dauman was to enjoy his biggest professional success some years later, after producing the two controversial films by Oshima Nagisa: in The Realm of the Senses (Ai no Corrida, 1976), and Empire of Passion (The Ghost of Love, Ai no bōrei, 1978). 3 We may associate these images with Un chien andalou (Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí, 1929). 4 This idea is not strictly an original one on the part of the duo Duras/Resnais, since it had already been used by Roberto Rossellini in his 1953 masterpiece Viaggio in Italia. In the latter a married couple whose relationship is in crisis visit the ruins of the Roman city, where they recognize themselves in the remains of the lovers covered by lava. The protagonists are Ingrid Bergman and George Sanders. 5 The relationship between sex and death as a mechanism leading to insanity is a frequent topic throughout the history of the cinema. Representative examples are, The Realm of the Senses (Oshima Nagisa 1976), Excalibur (John Boorman 1981), La Carne (a failed film by Marco Ferreri 1991), Basic Instinct (Paul Verhoeven 1992) or Crash (David Cronembergh 1996), which is an adaptation of a James G.Ballard novel. 6 This is a dramatic motif also exploited by Imamura Shōhei in his film Kuroi Ame (Black Rain 1989).

Bibliography Bounoure, Gaston (1974) Alain Resnais, Paris: Seghers. Castro, Antonio (1977) ‘Alain Resnais’, Dirigido por… August (46), 30–47. Duras, Marguerite (1988) Hiroshima mon amour, Barcelona: Seix Barral. Riambeau, Esteve (1988) La ciencia y la fición: el cine de Alain Resnais, Barcelona: Lerna. Robbé Grillet, Alain (1986) ‘Lo real no es realista’, Quimera (58), 50–3. Roig, Montserrat (1993) Dime que me quieres aunque sea mentira: sobre el placer solitario, Barcelona: Ediciones 62.

Part IV The quest for vocational fulfilment

14 The ‘initiation rites’ and ‘pilgrimages’ of local civil servants in the age of internationalization Hirochika Nakamaki A man understands reason and sentiment during the three glorious moments of his life: when he celebrates his attainment of adulthood, when he gets married, and when he accepts a government post. A man also understands reason and sentiment when he is walking on the highway. (Monokusa-tarō)

Introduction It is apparent that the wave of internationalization has touched not only the big cities such as Tokyo Osaka and Kyoto, but also towns and villages throughout Japan. Even in socalled rural areas, opportunities to contact, or associate with, foreigners have increased considerably. These opportunities include: foreign workers getting jobs in Japan; Japanese men marrying women from abroad and events held on an international scale, not to mention encounters with incoming tourists. By the same token, the number of Japanese going abroad as tourists, to do business, or on official visits has increased dramatically. This has been a conspicuous phenomenon since around 1970, when a symbolic event, EXPO ‘70, was held in Osaka. Since Japan has entered an era of internationalization, the issue of how to keep up with the process has become an urgent priority for municipal governments. From their specially designated ‘international’ sections, every municipality promotes exchanges with a sister city abroad. Some local governments even have their own facilities to use for the promotion of international exchanges. Likewise, on the national level, various efforts have been made to address internationalization with the Ministry of Home Affairs, which is in charge of local administration, taking the lead. An example of such efforts is the establishment of the Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities (JIAM), which is also known as the ‘Intercultural Academy’. It was established in 1993 near Lake Biwa at Karasaki, an area famous for its view of the Karasaki Pine Tree, in the old province of Ōmi (today Shiga Prefecture). The Academy was intended to first give local administrative officials lessons

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in foreign languages, as well as lectures on foreign cultures, a more cosmopolitan outlook, and to provide them with opportunities for overseas study excursions. This chapter will analyse the training at JIAM, using the well-established anthropological concepts of initiation and pilgrimage. The purpose is to indicate that traditional ideas or customs are still preserved even in modern secular societies and institutions, even though they may not be readily apparent.

The establishment of the Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities Japan’s local public entities are broken down into two categories, namely basic local public entities such as cities, towns, and villages, and larger regional public entities known as prefectures. JIAM was established to enhance the administrative capacity to deal effectively with internationalization and to help improve the linguistic ability and overall knowledge of municipal personnel. The initial plan emphasized the following points: 1. International exchanges, including exchanges with sister cities and friendship cities. Such exchanges have increased enormously since 1985, and more and more local communities have turned to internationalization in order to ‘revitalize’ themselves. 2. The number of foreign residents, including students, working students, trainees acquiring special skills and workers, is dramatically increasing. At the same time, problems have emerged due, for instance, to the rapid increase of Japanese marrying spouses from abroad, or of Japanese children returning from abroad for higher education. 3. The number of grass-roots organizations engaging in international exchange or cooperative activities is increasing. How to co-operate with these organizations and facilitate their activities has become a major issue for the municipalities. 4. More and more cities, towns, and villages are becoming active in direct economic exchange with the rest of the world. 5. Since not only mayors and senior officials, but also municipal personnel directly concerned with specific tasks, have had more opportunities to go abroad on business and meet foreigners, negotiating skills are taking on a much greater importance than before. 6. In the current situation, most cities, towns, and villages cannot respond sufficiently to internationalization in terms of either policy or administrative practices. They have only a limited number of staff who speak foreign languages. 7. It is a big challenge to train administrative personnel and establish relevant policies in response to internationalization. Training itself should include policy-related problems, administrative practices, area studies, Japanese culture, and language. Based on the above plan, the preparatory committee and secretariat for the creation of the facility were formed in 1990. In 1991, state-owned land at Karasaki was acquired and a ground-breaking ceremony performed. JIAM opened in April 1993. It is notable that a part of the construction costs was borne by local municipalities, namely Shiga Prefecture

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and Ōtsu City. A portion of the proceeds from the annual ‘Summer Jumbo’ lotteries aimed at the promotion of cities, towns, and villages is being utilized as operational funding for the facility. It has been emphasized that public lotteries, which are said ‘to sell dreams’, are actually realizing the big dream of improving the capability of Japanese municipalities to address internationalization (Saka 1993).

Training as initiation JIAM provides various programmes with the aim of preparing municipal administration for internationalization and fostering the ability of local civil servants to deal with matters related to it. The training course types and subjects for the first academic year from April 1993 to March 1994 were as follows: Main Course A: 1. Fundamentals of Internationalization 2. Administrative Practices 3. Area Studies 4. Japanese Culture 5. Language Training (including a 12-day overseas study trip to the USA) 6. Site Inspection 7. Other classes Main Course B: 1. Fundamentals of Internationalization 2. Administrative Practices 3. Area Studies 4. Japanese Culture 5. Language Training 6. Site Inspection 7. Other classes Short-term Courses: a. Practical English Training b. Fundamentals of International Exchange c. Fundamentals of Other Cultures d. Executive Seminar for City, Town, and Village Mayors (2 days) When the training at JIAM is analysed as if it were a rite of initiation, the most significant training course is Main Course A, whose training period of three months is the longest among the three major courses. The Executive Seminar for City, Town and Village Mayors lasts only two days because participants are older and busier, thus it cannot be compared to the kind of initiation that should transform young people into respectable

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members of society. Therefore, I will identify the characteristics of initiation in the training at JIAM by focusing on Main Course A. In Main Course A, trainees are sent from municipalities all over Japan to attend 285 class-period lectures and activities. Lectures cover many subjects. The ‘Fundamentals of Internationalization’, for example, includes nations and people, intercultural communication and issues concerning foreign workers. ‘Administrative Practices’ includes international co-operation practices, international exchange practices and homestay programmed practices. ‘Area Studies’ are based upon regions and cultural areas. In ‘Japanese Culture’, a variety of lectures are given under titles such as ‘Japan in relation to the history of civilization’, ‘The Japanese way of organizational management’, and the ‘Uniqueness of Japanese food culture’. To gain an appreciation of traditional arts, trainees practise the tea ceremony. ‘Site Inspections’ consists of field trips to the National Museum of Ethnology. Working with a native speaker in the foreign language classes, trainees improve their communication skills in English. To complete the course, trainees go on an overseas study trip. These lessons and practices are comparable to the instruction and hardship endured during initiation rites. What constitutes initiation, however, varies greatly between hunter-gatherer or pastoral societies characterized by intertribal conflict, on the one hand, and sedentary agricultural or fishing villages, on the other. The former places great emphasis on making young men brave fighters, whereas the latter attaches importance to co-operative work patterns and social solidarity. What, then, do Japanese municipalities regard as most important in a society that strives for internationalization? As far as class periods are concerned, it is obvious that JIAM gives top priority to English language training. One half of the total class time is designated for English lessons. Trainees are accepted regardless of their ability in English. After taking a test and being interviewed soon after entering JIAM, trainees are divided into small, abilitybased classes. Ironically, features of JIAM’s language training progamme (such as small classes of approximately 10–20 trainees, teaching staff consisting of native speakers, and the use of computers) seem to be making up for the inadequacy of Japan’s English education in the schools. The programme is aimed not solely at further enhancing the skills of specialists conducting business in English, but also at improving the ability of officials who have little 3 nity to talk with foreigners in English. In the English class, promising local officials at first hang their heads to avoid eye contact with the instructor, a native speaker of English. However, gradually they gain confidence and can enjoy talking with instructors over a drink in the Japanese-style room or in the lounge where alcohol is allowed. These occasions help bring student and teacher closer. Full-time language instructors are paid for four extra hours a week in addition to the courses so that they can spend time getting together with the trainees. By the time the overseas study trip draws near, trainees have acquired new skills, but still feel uneasy about the up-and-coming homestay. This is what the typical trainee at JIAM is like. To improve their English-language ability, trainees perform ascetic practices and undergo an ordeal, both being steps typical for initiation rites. Successfully going through the homestay period is, at the least, subjective evidence for the trainees that they have achieved a sufficient level of English language ability. However, during the course, trainees are not examined in subjects other than English, although they are required to attend all the classes. Only the work performance of the instructors is evaluated at the end

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of the progamme.1 In this sense, the instructors, rather than the trainees, go through an ordeal. The majority of instructors work part-time at JIAM. For this reason, mutual interaction between these part-timers and trainees is limited to class time. These part-time instructors, even if they are very skilled, have little influence on trainees, unlike elders or seniors in traditional societies. One of the features of initiation rites is isolation. Novices live alone or with fellow novices, separate from the opposite sex or from relatives, and obey taboos for a certain period. Likewise, at JIAM trainees live in a dormitory with other trainees, and have little communication with the outside world. Each single room in the dormitory has a bathroom. Men and women live on separate floors. Trainees can only answer incoming calls on their room telephone, and must use the dormitory pay phone to make outside calls. They are instructed to refrain from receiving fax messages. Since televisions in the single rooms have only two channels on which only independent progammes and CNN are broadcast, trainees cannot watch ordinary TV progammes. They can receive visitors only between 17.00 and 20.00 on weekdays and between 9.00 and 20.00 on Saturdays, Sundays and holidays. Trainees must be back at the dormitory by 23.00, and must register with the office beforehand when they plan to be away overnight. Drinking is not prohibited, but trainees can drink only in the dining room, lounge, assembly room and social room. Drinking is not allowed in trainees’ private rooms. Smoking is forbidden in the classroom. Trainees must be properly dressed, polite to instructors, and always wear a name card on their lapel. Suitable clothes are required for special events. Recording and photographing opening and closing ceremonies and lectures, visiting the facility by car or motorcycle, having a car on campus, etc. are also forbidden. A trainee may be expelled from JIAM if he or she severely violates dormitory rules. In comparison with everyday life in the outside world, dormitory life has relatively harsh aspects. Trainees are ordered to stand up and bow at the beginning of a class, quite unlike the atmosphere at most universities where such orders are not given and students even chat during classes. When an instructor has finished his or her last class, trainees are encouraged to applaud. The lack of directional signs and information sheets is what most distinguishes the JIAM premises from the secular world. There is one English sign located on the wall in the front entrance, reading ‘Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities’. Moreover, only one of the signboards in the front yard is written in English, but the Japanese name ‘Zenkoku Shichōson Kokusai Bunka Kenshūsho’ [Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities] is carved in small lettering on the front gate. JIAM’s motto, LABORI NIL IMPOSSIBILE (With hard work nothing is impossible) is posted on the wall beside the reception area in the entrance hall. Inside the facility most of the signs are written in English, but newly added ones are also written in tiny Japanese lettering. The purpose of the English signs is to create an environment in which trainees can learn English naturally. Contrary to expectations, the signs sometimes also create an inconvenience, for instance, when the Executive Seminar for City, Town and Village Mayors is held and Japanese signs are written on a sheet of paper and placed on top of the English signs. Besides English, Latin names are also used to designate the bar lounge and common rooms,2 although the use of Latin does not seem to have spread among the trainees.

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Finally, just like young men who, having been initiated together, commonly form a cohort of age-groups, trainees who have completed the course at JIAM have organized an alumni association. This has its roots in the training courses held in the second year for trainees who already have finished Main Courses A or B. Thereafter, with financial support from JIAM, social gatherings of former trainees culminated in the formation of the alumni association in 1995. This organization functions as an information network based on relationships formed at JIAM and issues alumni bulletins and membership lists. So far the sense of solidarity is stronger among the trainees who have finished the same course, but it is expected that in the future alumni will be unified according to prefecture or bloc. Employing the idiom of Turner (1969), the alumni association might be considered a form of institutionalized communitas. Communitas is further strengthened through overseas training.

Overseas study trips as pilgrimage After training at JIAM in an atmosphere that resembles the liminal space of initiation, the trainees leave Kansai International Airport for the United States. Their first destination is Washington DC, the seat of US politics and administration. They visit the Capitol and the White House, and also participate in English language discussions with local people. After Washington, they are divided into groups, each consisting of about 10 people, and head for regional cities to stay with their respective host families. Why was the United States chosen as the locale for overseas training? According to Saka Kōji, the first president of JIAM, it was thought beneficial for trainees to visit America because its multi-racial nature makes it an appropriate model for the future Japan. It was likewise expected that the Institute of International Education (IIE) as well as World Learning Inc. would extend support to JIAM’s overseas training in America. The former, founded in 1919, has had experience with educational exchange students, including Fulbright scholars. The latter was established in 1932 and offers many programmes so that foreign students can experience different cultures through homestay visits. However, regardless of the sponsors’ intentions, when we consider the overseas study trip as pilgrimage it is possible to regard Washington DC, and the homestay, as a ‘sacred pilgrimage centre’. Are not Washington and the United States the supreme sacred sites for these pilgrims who happen to be local Japanese government officials, eagerly striving for internationalization? Pilgrimage is defined as the religious act of visiting sacred places, holy lands, temples and shrines in order to strengthen one’s faith. As we have seen in previous chapters, in Japan famous pilgrimages include the pilgrimage to the Kumano Shrine, the 33 Kannon temples of Western Japan (Saigoku), the 88 temples around Shikoku, and the Grand Shrines of Ise; abroad, we may think of Mecca, Jerusalem, Rome, Santiago de Compostela or Benares. In the field of anthropology, the Peyote pilgrimage by Mexico’s Uichol people, or the pilgrimage to Kataragama in Sri Lanka, are well-known examples. The three-phase theory of pilgrimage (cf. Koike 1973), based on Van Gennep’s threephase theory concerning rites of passage, and the concept of communitas mentioned

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above, are important in anthropological analyses of pilgrimage. However, JIAM’s overseas study trips to America are devoid of religious elements. How then, can they be interpreted in light of anthropological pilgrimage theory? First of all, let us look at trainees’ reports in the bulletins issued by JIAM, Kokusai Bunka Kenshū (Intercultural Study). The general impression is that Washington DC is ‘a well-ordered beautiful city’, but some reports refer to the significance of the capital as the seat of politics and administration. For instance, one trainee wrote: ‘I was surprised when our bus tour guides enthusiastically explained that Americans are proud of the democracy that they have achieved through their own efforts’. This trainee realized that each American sees democracy as a steadfast political concept and attempts to understand it from his or her own viewpoint. Another trainee wrote: ‘Whether it was the Smithsonian or the Capitol, it seemed to me that there is a specific intention to make the history of the United States appeal to everyone in a country where it is difficult to integrate all its citizens’. This trainee has begun to pay attention to how the United States politically and culturally creates among its citizens a sense of integration within a multi-racial nation. In any case, it is significant that, because of their first-hand knowledge of the Americans’ political awareness and political presentation (aspects of American culture that are different from Japanese culture), these trainees have begun to see things from a relative point of view. On the other hand, a trainee who visited Washington’s ‘underside’ downtown area reported: ‘I was impressed by a non-profit organization’s project to repair and refurbish buildings for low income housing in a downtown residential area largely consisting of African-Americans’. This trainee no longer voices the stereotyped image that the Washington DC downtown area is a dangerous place full of crime. As with destinations of pilgrimages, sacred places are places of worship. Is it sufficient, then, to describe Washington as the seat of US politics and the biggest centre of contemporary world politics? Is it not also a place that demands religious devotion? If the two aspects of Washington (e.g. the stage for actual political developments and the site of monuments and symbolic buildings erected around the Mall area) are indivisible, then Washington can be labelled ‘the holy land of democracy’. If so, it is natural that Washington is associated with feelings of pride, attachment, and passion. Intercultural Academy trainees seem to have begun to realize this. Even so, what is most noticeable about the trainees’ reports is that many wrote about their personal experiences during their homestay, rather than giving impressions of Washington or observations of the administration. One student, for instance, could not become accustomed to American food. Staying with a black career woman, another trainee was deeply impressed by the gospel music at her church. Some were impressed by the spirit of voluntary work, from gathering rubbish to the activities of congress persons. Others noted the strict discipline given to children, aspects of a ‘cashless’ society, and the flexible life-style of families with divorced parents. It is virtually impossible to list all the instances of culture shock reported by the trainees. One of the major characteristics of the reports is that they said overseas training in the United States, centring on the homestay experience and the visit to Washington, had given them a fresh view, or changed something inside them. As evident in comments such as: ‘The media provide only part of the story’; or ‘I felt that the Japanese are still company-oriented people’; they had come to see America from a new angle. Of course

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there is also the so-called model report: ‘I have recognized anew how important it is to promote international exchanges with other countries in order for us to better understand our own life-style and culture’. Another stated: ‘The phrase “Japan, an economic superpower that can compare with the United States” sounds vain and hollow to me now’. Most reports do not represent an accumulation of knowledge, but rather the trainees’ own irreplaceable personal experiences. At least to the trainees themselves, the overseas study trips were nothing less than sacred experiences having subjective values. Those reports clearly reflect the positions of the trainees as pilgrims seeking truth, even though they are not written in religious terms. The reports are all that JIAM requires the trainees to write, but some trainees have even published the records of their study trips at their own expense, which indicates that the trips were truly precious sacred experiences to them. These ‘sacred experiences’ are equivalent to the second phase of rituals and pilgrimages. What, then, does homestay mean to the host families that accept the trainees? According to World Learning, homestay provides trainees with opportunities to have a look at American culture, whereas host families expect to spend time with the trainees, learn about Japanese culture, and share their family lives with a temporary new member.3 Through exchanges, homestay certainly creates the opportunity for Japanese and Americans to understand each other’s culture. But homestay implies more. Homestay can be compared to ‘charity inns’ (free lodgings that supply rooms to pilgrims or wandering travellers). A good example of such inns is ordinary homes that receive henro, discussed in previous chapters. Accommodating pilgrims is a good deed in the Buddhist sense, as it is done in expectation of compensation in the next world. Of course, homestay and staying at charity inns are different in many ways. Nevertheless, they share several interesting features. The first common feature is that they are both usually found in areas that are neither urban nor crowded, that is, areas where residents have few opportunities to interact with other people. Secondly, both are supported by gratuitous service and a sense of the importance of voluntary work or of doing good deeds. Voluntary work and good deeds are highly valued in society as unselfish and noble. Some hosts have stayed in Japan or have children studying there and fervently wish to return the favour. It has been pointed out that in Japan to do good to religious wanderers (Yoshida in this volume) was a means of expiation and could be associated with the feeling that one’s own survival during times of famine meant neglecting weak neighbours, who subsequently starved to death (see also Hoshino 1981). While it is highly unlikely that host families in America are motivated by a need for expiation, they may still latently be cherishing a desire to emotionally restore strained relations with other countries in this age of internationalization.

Notes 1 Trainees evaluate the level of the classes and how well the classes were conducted by filling out a form. Statistical results are then sent to the instructors. 2 The bar lounge is called sol (sun). The social room is spatium (space). Eight common rooms, respectively, have Latin names meaning spring, summer, autumn, winter, north, south, east and west.

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3 One example is Hoshino Eiki’s (1981:62) definition of pilgrimage as ‘an act of leaving daily life for a while, heading for sacred places to have contact with sacred things, and then returning to everyday life’.

Bibliography Eiki, Hoshino (1981) Junrei—Set to zoku no genshōgaku [Pilgrimage—Phenomenology of the Sacred and the Profane], Tokyo: Kōdansha. Koike, Nagayuki (1973) ‘Junrei’ [‘Pilgrimages’], Oguchi Iichi and Hori Ichirō (eds), Shūkyōgakujiten [Dictionary of Religions], Tokyo: Tōdai Diagaku Shuppankai, p. 384. Koonce, Michael (1996) ‘Homusutei seikō no hiketsu’ [‘The Key to a Successful Homestay’] in Kokusai Bunka Kenshū [Intercultural Studies], Vol. 10, pp. 59–60. Otsu: Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities. Saka, Kōji (1993) ‘The Establishment of Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities’, in Kokusai Bunka Kenshū [Intercultural Studies], Vol. 1, pp. 20–21. Otsu: Japan Intercultural Academy of Municipalities. Takatori, Masao (1973) Bukkyō Dochaku [Buddhist Nativism], Tokyo: Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai. Turner, Victor (1969) The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure, New York: Aldine Publishing Company.

15 Travel ethnography in Japan Jan van Bremen Intense local study is a method of investigation, not a definition of the anthropological problem (Sally Falk Moore 1993:4)

Introduction: Travel ethnography as a method, travelogues as ethnographic records and travel as a field of ethnographic study Travel and exploration deliberately undertaken for ethnographic purposes, within the country of the observer, at its peripheries, and beyond, have been basic methods in the disciplines of anthropology and folklore studies. For some scholars ethnographic travel has been a way of life, or even a quest. Today, after a century-long, more-or-less ‘canonical’ ban in favour of long-term field-work, travel ethnography is re-emerging in European and American cultural and social anthropology (Hannerz 1996; Clifford 1997). In this essay I will argue that travel ethnography must not be regarded as a poor substitute for field-work. Research done during long-term field-work varies widely in purpose, duration, and occasion from that done during travel ethnography. Yet while travel and field ethnographies are different, they are also supplemental genres, and in fact intertwine. Even though I shall limit the exploration of travel ethnography to the meanings defined below—and in this chapter to Japan—the contention can also be made for anthropology in other countries. In this chapter, the label ‘travel ethnography’ is used as an umbrella term to cover the many relations which can be found to exist between ethnography and travel. Here I mainly focus on two domains. One is that of travel as an ethnographic method. Travel in this sense implies that research sites are visited in order to make first-hand observations and collect material and specimens that can only be had on the spot. The observer stays for a relatively short period of time and compiles the findings into records. As a method, travel ethnography has a wide range of uses. It may serve routine purposes, such as visits made to record expected events, but it also is of use in incidental or unforeseen events. Travel ethnography is well suited for recording transitory or ‘climaxical’ events such as rites, festivals, games, battles, riots, famines and disasters. The second domain that may be covered by the term ‘travel ethnography’ is travel itself. Here travellers and travels, as well as migratory peoples who lead a semi- or nonsedentary way of life on land or water, are the ethnographic field of research. In the widest extent of the term, nomadic, pastoral, and maritime societies, pilgrims and tourists, itinerants and migrant workers, military operations, anomic groups, deportees, and refugees are all included.

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As a result of regulatory constraints, long-term field-work by Japanese ethnographers is relatively rare. It is easier for a scholar to pay one or more visits to a site than to spend a long unbroken period in the field. Moreover, as travel ethnography has been a longstanding research practice in Japan, there is comparatively little criticism for using this method. For a small number of scholars, travel ethnography has even been a way of life. From the Tokugawa era to the present day, such researchers, through their long working lives, have enriched the ethnography of Japan. In every generation, it seems, persons have appeared who have found in travel ethnography a lifetime vocation, or even a lifelong quest. Their voluminous and detailed accounts, often richly illustrated (sometimes partly in colour), place early modern (1600–1800) and in particular modern and contemporary Japan high up on the list of the better described societies in the world.1 Thus travel ethnography in the two meanings distinguished above is found in Japan in institutional form. Famous examples of this are the monthly journal Tabi to densetsu (Travel and Legends), that appeared between 1928 and 1944; or, in the post-war period, the Institute for the Study of Tourism in Japan (Nihon Kankō Bunka Kenkyūjo) established in 1965 in Tokyo; the Japanese Association for Migration Studies (Nihon Imin Gakkai) organized in Kyoto in 1991 and the Tabi no Bunka Kenkyūjo (Institute for the Study of Travel & Culture) founded in Tokyo in 1994. In contrast, in Europe and America travel as an instrument of ethnography was belittled, although not ignored, by the founders and defenders of social and cultural anthropology. However it was long-term field-work based on participant observation that was exalted. The great social and cultural drifts and upheavals caused or furthered by the end of colonization; global migration, increasing industrialization and urbanization; the formation and break-up of nation-states; genocides; wars; deportations or tourism, now present a challenge to anthropologists who must find new methodologies in order to do their research. As mentioned, social anthropology has generally consigned travel ethnography to an inferior position. In the United States, the status of travel ethnography has been low in cultural anthropology as well. This was so despite the common practice of travelling back and forth between a university campus and a field site, mostly located inside the country, well until the mid-twentieth century. In orthodox thought, the highest value was invariably attached to ethnographic records obtained during a long spell of unbroken field work. However, although the status of travel ethnography was not high, ethnographers did not and could not refrain from drawing upon travel ethnographic methods. Travel ethnography is a viable tool, impossible to do without, and in certain circumstances a method in its own right. Significantly, about a hundred years ago a school of folklore studies emerged in Japan simultaneously along with the introduction of social and cultural anthropology. This school, founded by Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962) and named after him, saw travel ethnography on the one hand, and reports based on observations of long duration on the other, each in a distinct light. Yanagita considered different spheres of ethnography as the competence of different people. In his view, visiting outsiders can observe objectively a number of tangible matters in the life and milieu of a community. However, they are not privy to the mental and emotional forces which affect the actions, minds and emotions of the local people.

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To overcome this problem, Yanagita sought the collaboration of local ethnographers, who took part in the physical, mental and emotional worlds of the people and the locality they described. Under Yanagita’s supervision, detailed questionnaires were drawn up and distributed to local scholars all over the country by his staff, which also received and systematized the answers that were returned. Moreover, he dispatched research teams on ethnographic missions to different parts of the country to gather data on fishing, lumbering, farming and town communities. He made it a point to train local scholars and encouraged them to form regional associations and branches. In this way a large amount of ethnographic data was gathered, systematized and published. This work helped to rank Japan among one of the better documented societies in the twentieth century.2 In comparison, social and cultural anthropology in Europe and America devalued travel ethnography, down to a point where its scientific value was nearly denied. Its weaknesses were stressed in order to promote the idea that social and cultural anthropology were disciplines distinct from what had come before, thus long-term fieldwork and participant observation were made the bench-marks of good ethnography. However, the first three editions of Notes and Queries on Anthropology, compiled between 1874 and 1912, held nothing against travel ethnography; it was intended to help colonial officials, missionaries and travellers in the collection of data that would be of value to metropolitan ‘theoretical’ anthropologists. In the next three editions, however, from the fourth edition of 1912 until the sixth and final edition of 1951, prolonged fieldwork carried out by a trained ethnographer was presented as the true professional way. Amateur travellers were advised to do little more than to make photographs or careful drawings, ‘dealing with facts about which there can be no question, (…) the record thus obtained (to be) elucidated by subsequent inquiries on the same spot by a trained anthropologist’ (Stocking 1996:121). At first sight this instruction seems to echo the ideas of the Yanagita school. The fundamental difference is that Yanagita did not place trained anthropologists above other groups of outsiders. As noted, he believed that outsiders, trained or not, did not have enough access to local mentalities. Another difference is that Yanagita rejected the ahistoric view of an ‘ethnographic present’ and studied the origins, transformations and changes in Japanese life, society and culture. In actual practice social and cultural anthropologists have collected their data by a combination of methods. They include documentary research, expeditions, interviews, visits and field-work, made anywhere from the most peripheral to the most central locations. Some ethnographers reflect upon their methodical cocktails when presenting their work; one example is Dore (1958) in his monograph of a Tokyo city ward. Others thought about it later, as did Geertz (1995) when recalling his field-work in Indonesia and Morocco. Drawing up and distributing research guides has been a longstanding practice in ethnography. The fact that academic anthropologists tend to use a combination of methods increases the chance of a methodological breakthrough. E.B.Tylor (1832–1917), who is credited with bequeathing the armchair method to anthropology, travelled to the United States and Mexico to meet aboriginal people and visited séances in London, to sharpen his anthropological understanding (Stocking 1996:15). In 1888, Tylor published a study applying statistical methods to anthropological data, regarded as the first of its kind to appear in anthropology in England.

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Two years earlier in 1886, Tsuboi Shōgorō (1863–1913), soon to become the first incumbent of the first anthropology chair in Japan, had published his study based on findings and analyses which he had obtained by statistical methods. With the help of numerous assistants—a practice common in Japanese academic research—he collected a large amount of data giving information about the clothes and items of attire that people wore at different hours and on different days and occasions in the public spaces of Japan’s three major cities. He found that Western clothing was most prominent in Osaka, followed by Tokyo; in Kyoto, people went about mostly in traditional gear (Tsuboi 1990). The importance of this example lies in the correspondence and simultaneity of this methodical breakthrough in anthropology. In the first half of the twentieth century in America, cultural anthropologists travelled back and forth a great deal between their universities and field locations, visiting pueblos in the south-west or commuting to Greenwich Village in New York City (Stocking 1992). A small number also went abroad. W.Lloyd Warner (1898–1970) is a good example of an ethnographer who did research overseas as well as in his own country: between 1926 and 1929, he studied the Murngin in north-east Arnhem Land in Australia, and in the 1930s he also studied, with the help of a research staff of about thirty, the inhabitants of Newburyport, a city in Massachusetts.3 Warner regarded his efforts as a way ‘to obtain a better understanding of how men in all groups, regardless of place and time, solve the problems which confront them’ (Warner and Lunt 1941:3). A familiarity with a range of societies, rural and urban, small and large, non-literate and literate, simple and complex, sedentary and migratory, counts as an advantage that anthropologists bring to the field in the study of an industrialized society such as Japan (Hendry 1998:9–10).4

Travel ethnography in Japan Even though ethnography developed as an academic discipline post-Meiji, it has a long past in Japan. Provincial chronicles (fudoki), modelled on Chinese examples, are the earliest endogenous records. The oldest extant species go back to the eighth century CE. Compiled by government order, they describe local topography, customary law, legends and myths. They are based on what we certainly may call ‘travel ethnography’. In the modern period (1800-present), travel ethnography has blossomed in Japan. At first largely confined to places within the boundaries of the Japanese realm, later expeditions were dispatched to explore the peripheries and beyond. After travel restrictions fell away in the nineteenth century, Japanese ethnographers travelled to sites in Asia and on other continents. Social and cultural anthropology as disciplines were welcomed by ethnographers in Japan, appreciated for the data and insights that they yielded. In the 1930s and 1940s, as a result of the colonial expansion and the rapid growth of territories under the military administration, their acceptance was greatly helped by the authorities’ growing demand for local information (Shimizu and van Bremen 2003). This period of upsurge ended with the loss of the Empire in 1945, but in the wake of the Asian and Pacific War, social and cultural anthropology were integrated into the academic world in Japan as part of the expansion of general education. During the Allied Occupation (1945–1951) they received

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American support and encouragement. Since the 1950s they have benefited from the economic and financial prominence that the country gained during the Cold War (1946– 1989). Today some scholars hold to the opinion that in Japan travel ethnography came to an end in the 1980s with the death of Tsuboi Hirofumi (1929–1988).5 Whether this is true or not is open to question, but there have been previous hiatuses that seemed to signal the end of the method. In the later years of the Pacific War, for example, Japanese travel ethnography came to a halt. In 1943 it became difficult, in 1944–1945 nearly impossible, to work as a travel ethnographer. The military declared most of the country off-limits, while the police and public authorities everywhere were alerting the people to report on note-taking and photography by strangers as acts of spying. Children hurled stones at the travel ethnographer Miyamoto Tsune’ichi (to whom I shall return below), crying out ‘a spy, a spy!’ (Sano 1996a: 165, 193). In my view, travel ethnography in Japan is still alive, and it still exists in the form of a lifelong occupation or quest for some practitioners. The following two examples may show this. Tanakamaru Katsuhiko (1945–2000) described with great dedication and tenacity the requiem rites for, and worship of, the military war dead (eirei) as they are being carried out by family members, nationally or on a communal level. Tanakamaru received his training as a folklorist in Kokugakuin University, but in spite of being a member of leading academic associations and research groups, he did not make his living as an academic. He worked for a company in his native North Kyūshū while going about his research privately. This restricted the output, but not the importance, of his work. The other example is Fujita Shōichi (b. 1947), a contemporary example of a truly dedicated travel ethnographer. He is a graduate in philosophy and religious studies of Taishō University. Over the past 30 years, working as a freelance photographer and journalist, Fujita has sought out, interviewed, photographed and described hundreds of ritual sites and practitioners in places all over Japan. Much of his work has been published as travelogues, but it also appears in the academic press. The ethnographic archive which he began, and is still building up, is the heart of a large and growing database on religious institutions, persons, sites and events in Japan that is lodged in the grounds of the Dentsū-in, a temple in Tokyo that houses various ethnographically valuable collections. In fact, ethnographic data on practitioners of the kind sought out by Fujita—ascetics, shamans, healers and their clients—go back for hundreds of years in Japan (Hori 1971:170–1; Ikegami 1992:6–7). Records remain from the early modern period (1600– 1800) that describe the pilgrims and visitors who travelled to Ise Shrine in large numbers. In times of crises these even took the form of eschatological mass movements. In the summers of 1650, 1705, 1771, 1830 and 1867 officials of the Ise Shrines counted between two and six million visitors (Miyamoto 1975:163–5; Kyburz 1997:270). The ‘anthropology of disaster’ also features in the ethnographic travel reports of the early modern period; Takayama Hikokuro (1747–1793), for instance, who toured the north-east to report on the effects of the great famines of 1783 and 1784, gives an account in his Hokkoku nikki (1790) of social anomie and cannibalism (Plutschow 1998:13). As previous chapters in this chapter have made clear, pilgrimages to temples and shrines, as well as religious tourism in general, continue to be large-scale social happenings in modern times. On particular occasions and for certain purposes, people

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turn to religious establishments in their neighbourhoods, towns and cities, or further away. Millions travel every year from the urban centres of Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto and Nara to visit shrines and temples in the nearby Ikoma Mountains. Folklorists began to study this human traffic in the 1930s,6 and in the 1980s and 1990s research projects were carried out in these mountains. It was found that the largest centres attracted some 3,000,000 visitors per year, on an average some 8,000 persons per centre per day, reaping donations ranging from a mere cent (sen) to several million dollars (several oku yen) (Shūkyō Shakaigaku no Kai 1987). As well as being pioneers of new ethnographic territories and methods, travel ethnographers have been active as the founders of new research and academic institutions. In 1934, one year before the establishment of Yanagita’s Folklore Society of Japan (Nihon Minzoku Gakkai) in Tokyo, Sakurada Katsunori (1903–1979), Iwakura Ichirō (1904–1943) and Miyamoto Tsune’ichi (1907–1981) were among the founding members of the Folklore Society of Osaka [Osaka Minzoku Danwa Kai, renamed in 1936 as Folklore Society of Kinki District (Kinki Minzoku Gakkai)]. The society continues to meet, and its periodical Kinki Minzoku is published, to this day. Sakurada Katsunori went out to remote islands in West Japan. Iwakura Ichiro played a leading role in research in the southern island chain of Amami Ōshima and compiled five volumes on his native island of Kikaijima alone (Miyamoto 1973:200). Miyamoto Tsune’ichi was a pioneer in maritime anthropology. All three scholars published in the leading academic journals: Minzokugaku, Kyōdo Kenkyū, Shima, Rizoku to Minyō (Miyamoto 1973:173). Yanagita Kunio, the founder and leader of the school of folklore studies named after him, was well travelled too, and in a range of capacities: bureaucrat, government official, newspaper reporter, diplomat and independent scholar. Between 1901 and 1919 he travelled widely in Japan as a civil servant in the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce. The Asahi Newspaper accredited him as a special writer in 1920, free to roam the country. Yanagita came to Geneva by way of America as a diplomat in May 1921, went back to Japan in October and returned to stay in Europe from May 1922 to November 1923 (Fukuta 1984:15). It was his domestic travel that stimulated in Yanagita the desire to collect ethnographic information about the whole of Japan. Therefore, he organized the Research Group on the Southern Islands (Nantō kenkyūkai) in 1922 and founded the Research Group on Northern Civilizations (Hoppō bunmei kenkyūkai) in 1924 (Inokuchi 1992:158). He went on to enlarge the field of his research and covered the rest of the country in the next decades. Yanagita placed great emphasis on local observations as a necessary complement to the study of documents and texts, and strongly encouraged his students to go into the field. Lore has it that Yanagita travelled in white socks (tabi) in the manner of a feudal lord (Yoneyama 1985:52).7 His travelogues appeared in newspapers, periodicals, and books. Hunting Terminology (Nōchi no kari kotoba no ki), published in 1909, is considered to be Yanagita’s first important work in folklore studies. It also is a travelogue and the product of travel ethnography. This was followed by A Note on the South-Seas (Kainan shōki), published in 1925; Spring in Snow Country (Yukiguni no haru) in 1928; and A Note on Autumn Wind (Shūfūchō) in 1932. Because of his frequent use of the travelogue, a fellow

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scholar likened Yanagita to ‘a traveller more than a researcher’ (Fukuta 1984:84). Another savant saw in him the features of ‘a tourist’ (Yoneyama 1985:41). Yanagita’s emphasis on field-work was important. Between the 1920s and the end of the war in 1945, anthropology in the universities was monopolized by physical anthropology. Ethnographic research was largely restricted to laboratory, archive and library work. Yanagita’s methodology was rooted in European ethnology (Edward Tylor and James Frazer); the folklore studies (George Laurence Gomme) of the late nineteenth century; early twentieth-century field research (Bronislaw Malinowski and Franz Boas) and a variety of approaches taken by different schools in Japan. The Nitobe School of Regional Studies and the Hirata School of National Studies, which present works on Japanese folk religion, were particularly influential (Kawada 1993:109–10). Yet, all along, Yanagita held the travel ethnographers of the early modern period in high esteem.

Great Japanese travel ethnographers Torii Ryūzō (1870–1953): A lifelong travel ethnographer Over the past two centuries, political, military and economic interests, territorial expansion and wars have produced a growing demand for up-to-date and local knowledge in Japan. Much of this research involved travel ethnography. Torii Ryūzō (1870–1953) was one of the most prominent Japanese travel ethnographers of the first half of the twentieth century. Ethnographic pursuits filled his whole working life. His collected works were published by the Asahi Newspaper Company between 1975 and 1977 in 12 volumes plus a supplement. Parts of his rich ethnographic collections and extensive photographic archives have been carefully preserved in ethnographic collections, depots and museums both in Japan and Korea. Torii collected his materials between 1895 and 1951 in different parts of Asia: the Kuriles, East Siberia, Sakhalin, north-east China, Mongolia, the Korean peninsula, south-west China and Taiwan. He moved in the wake of Japanese territorial expansion, but research also took him further afield. Between April 1937 and February 1938 he travelled to Brazil, Peru and Bolivia to study remains of the Inca Empire (Nakazono 1995). Torii was appointed lecturer of anthropology in Tokyo Imperial University in 1924. In 1929 he was installed as the second incumbent of the chair for general anthropology in that university. After ten years, and finding himself increasingly powerless as the study of Japan anthropology was overtaken by physical anthropology, Torii accepted the invitation to join the faculty of the American Mission Yenching University in Beijing in August 1939, not resettling in Japan until December 1951.8 Japanese colonial as well as post-war research has contributed to making Taiwan one of the better studied places in the world; soon after the handover of the islands to Japan in 1895, anthropologists working with Torii Ryūzō and Inō Kanori (1867–1925) in the lead were given the task of the ethnic classification of the so-called indigenous peoples in the island. Their groupings, refined by the next generation of anthropologists, have become the accepted standard. Torii made four lengthy expeditions to the indigenous peoples, interspersed with periods of field-work in 1896, 1897, 1898 and 1900, leaving voluminous records and collections of artefacts and photographs.

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Torii was in the field for more than 500 days in Taiwan. He travelled to areas where people had lived free from the control of the former Chinese government. Government officials defined those people as the ‘wild natives’, in contrast to those who had submitted to Chinese control, who were classified as the ‘civilized natives’. The ‘wild natives’ were branded ‘savages without sovereignty’, and the government strove to turn them into ‘children of the Emperor’ (Yamaji 1991). This attitude spelled the end for indigenous societies and cultures who were not allowed to remain as the first Japanese ethnographers found them. The following generation of researchers, based in the Institute of Ethnology in Taihoku Imperial University established in 1928 in Taipei, recorded what was left of these indigenous societies while conducting their field-work among younger informants using Japanese. Until the end of the twentieth century, Japanese ethnographers still used this language with aged Taiwanese informants. It has been argued that in field-work physical and temporal co-existence will help people overcome differences between them. The Japanese ethnographers of the first hour in Taiwan, however, responded to the task of field-work in contrasting ways. Torii based his understanding of the indigenous peoples primarily on travel ethnography and bouts of field-work; Inō on the other hand relied on some travel ethnography, but mostly on documentary research. Comparing the public statements of the two scholars, Torii’s are found to be more ethnocentric and limited, while Inō’s are the more detached and comprehensive (Barclay 2001). Miyamoto Tsune’ichi (1907–1981): A great yet unknown scholar9 Miyamoto Tsune’ichi was one of the finest Japanese travel ethnographers of the twentieth century He was born in Yamaguchi Prefecture on the island of Ōshima in the Inland Sea, whose inhabitants would leave for migrant work (dekasegi) and often did not return for their whole working life. Miyamoto found a vocation as a travel ethnographer—walking, observing, listening and asking questions.10 In this pursuit he spent a total of over 4,000 days visiting on foot some of the most out-of-the-way places in the country (Sano 1996a: 366–7). He appeared in about 3,000 hamlets and stayed in about 1,000 houses. He took down the accounts of some 800 local scholars (korō) whom he located in even the remotest parts of the country. Miyamoto compiled hundreds of reports on social organization, material culture, and religious life. Besides his ethnographic work, he wrote on the history and method of ethnography and folklore studies. Only late in his life, in April 1965, at 58, did he receive an academic appointment, as a professor at Musashino Art University in Tokyo. Within the year of his appointment he established the Institute for the Study of Tourism in Japan (Nihon Kankō Bunka Kenkyūjo). Miyamoto kept his pioneering spirit and forward-looking vision until the end of his life. The quantity and quality of his work are awe-inspiring, and as impressive as any based on long-term field-work. His Collected Writings began to appear in 1968, and 44 volumes and two supplements have been published to date (2003), some as long as 15,000 printed pages. The complete set will come to 50 volumes plus a third supplement,11 but there is still more. His History of the Common People of Japan appeared in seven volumes between 1962 and 1993, while My Maps of Japan were published in 15 volumes between 1967 and 1976. Unfortunately, a large part of

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Miyamoto’s work will not appear at all, as over 100 notebooks, 12,000 hand-written pages, drafts of articles, numerous negatives, prints, and other materials were lost when his house in Sakai burnt down in July 1945 in the aftermath of an American air raid on Osaka (Sano 1996b: 201). Already as a young man, even before his life as a travel ethnographer, Miyamoto mixed in folklore circles. He answered that call in his mid-twenties, and it became his vocation for the next 30 years of his life. From 1933 onwards, he was away on ethnographic assignments about 200 days per year. In 1939 he joined the staff of the Attic Museum, founded in 1925 by that staunch and lifelong patron of ethnology Shibusawa Keizō, to house his ethnographic collections and to function as a research centre for folklore, folk tools, and aquaculture. Miyamoto takes his place in the small but distinguished line of vocational travel ethnographers that goes back to the early modern period. This fact did not escape a learned villager who wittily remarked, when Miyamoto sought him out in November 1940 deep in the mountains of Northeast Japan: ‘The ethnographer who came here before you was Sugae Masumi of the Edo period!’ (Sano 1996b: 145).12 Miyamoto learned what he could from the local scholars, from what they told him and from the documents, picture scrolls, objects and skills that they showed him. To record all this information, his lamp burnt deep into the night. Miyamoto was 61 years old when he finished the Epilogue to the first volume of his Collected Works with the inscription ‘Shōwa 43 (1968), the 19th of May, four a.m.’. He had begun his Foreword 13 years earlier, in September 1955, with the statement, ‘To give it a name, I shall call this volume The Way to Folklore Studies. However, it is not just anyone’s way. It is the way that I have gone. And it is the way that I intend to go from here’ (Miyamoto 1973:1). Miyamoto left a record of the 25 stages of his quest in this book. Number seventeen bears the title Scholarly Work in Wartime. Scholars continued to travel for research and to attend academic meetings in west Japan, where Miyamoto lived, almost up to the end of the war, when air raids came to destroy the cities of Kobe and Osaka. His patron, Shibusawa Keizō (1896–1977), who highly esteemed his work, besought Miyamoto to live and do his best to survive the war; Shibusawa believed that his research would serve as a link between the vanishing past and the approaching post-war days (Sano 1996b: 193–4). On a personal note, Miyamoto describes a home-coming after a long tour. Much of the city was burnt down. On a street near his house he saw a little girl whom he took for his daughter, but she gave no sign of recognition. Thinking it must be a child of another family he went home, where he found his aged mother alone and his wife away on her forced labour shift. Then the girl from the street came in. It was his daughter. She had not recognized him on account of his long and frequent absences from home. Finding his house in such a state, he felt bitter, little more than the slave of his calling (gakumon no toriko) (Miyamoto 1973 [1968]: 242). Today Miyamoto is revered as a master ethnographer. During his life, he went about his work as a great but unknown scholar.

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Japanese travel ethnography as a source of innovation Inaccuracies still mar the historiography of social and cultural anthropology, and there remain omissions in the ethnography of the twentieth century. Perhaps the largest oversight is the anthropology of war. Taking the term in the sense of ‘travel ethnography’, this refers to anthropology done during the time of war, on the one hand, and to the ethnography of war on the other. The omission from both domains is astonishing in view of the massive, frequent and long periods of war in the past century, and also because social and cultural anthropology received far more support and grew larger during eras of war than during colonial contexts. The relegation of travel ethnography as a method to a subaltern position is especially relevant to the topic of research done during times of crisis. The almost exclusive emphasis placed on long-term field-work has obscured the role played by travel ethnography, and obscured the majestic and detailed ethnographic records which generations of travel ethnographers have left behind. Moreover, the emphasis put on field-work done in colonial and imperial fringes overseas hides the fact that ethnographers also conducted research in their own countries and in metropolitan centres. In closing, I should like to focus attention on the continuingly innovative nature of travel ethnography. Travel ethnographers have been quick to use new devises and apply them to their craft, creating new methods and adding new areas to ethnography. Miyamoto Tsune’ichi, who always travelled with a camera, left a database of over 80,000 frames. He experimented with new techniques; Aerial Folklore Studies is the analysis of aerial and terrestrial photographs from ethnographic points of interest (Miyamoto 2001a). New technologies have helped to create new formats for the collection, analysis and conservation of ethnographic data; while present-day ethnographies produced in digital format can be combined easily with texts, images and sounds (Moriya and Nakamaki 1991). Travel ethnography has a wide range of uses. It serves to obtain first-hand data from remote, hard-to-reach places, high in the mountains, out in the sea, or deep in urban conglomerates. It may be used to supplement long-term field-work. It is useful for recording transient events or to respond to unforeseen situations. Travel ethnography is a typical method for the ‘anthropology of disaster’, the much neglected study of the breakdown and regeneration of social order in conditions such as mass starvation, natural disasters, industrial accidents, epidemics, genocide, or military and terrorist attacks. Kon Wajirō (1888–1973) was a pioneer in the anthropology of disaster. As a member of Yanagita’s folklore circle, this trained architect travelled the length and breadth of the country to document the construction of Japanese farm-houses in different regions. When Tokyo was hit by a powerful earthquake just before noon on 1 September 1923, Kon went into the stricken city to record the impact of the disaster on the inhabitants. After the earthquake much of the town burnt down, while landslides and tidal waves added to the toll. The loss of life was high, and more than 106,000 persons died. The injured numbered 502,000, while some 694,000 houses were destroyed. In the aftermath of the calamity, Kon continued to move about the battered city to chronicle the fragments, the resurgence and the reconstruction of social life. In the process he created a new approach

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to the ethnography of urban industrial society as it developed around him. He sought techniques capable of recording the rapid changes and the emergence of new conditions (cf. van Bremen 2002). He called his method Modernology (kōgengaku, the study of modern things) as an antonym of Archaeology (kōkōgaku, the study of ancient things) (Miyata 1996:48–9). About seven decades later, Kobe was struck by a violent earthquake just before dawn on 17 January 1995. Large parts of the city became inaccessible or could only be reached on foot. Ethnographers walked in to record the impact of the disaster. They continued to visit the city in the aftermath of the catastrophe to observe the handling of the crisis and the recovery of social life (Nakamaki and Tsushima 1996).13 Travel ethnographer Fujita (1998) has incorporated the term ‘modernology’ into the subtitle of a work containing descriptions and photographs of memorials built on disaster sites in Japan. Kon’s method entails the minute ethnography of daily life, and his approach has inspired the makers of the exhibition 2002 Seoul Style, for which the complete interior of an urban Korean middle class family’s home was collected on the spot, shipped, reassembled and displayed between 21 March and 16 July 2002 at the National Museum of Ethnology in Osaka.14 People leading lives on the move have been one of the main topics of social history and a subject of anthropological research. The displacements caused by wars, persecutions, deportations, famines, flight, natural or industrial disasters have yet to fall squarely within the scope of ethnography. Social and cultural anthropologists have given pride of place to long-term field-work over travel ethnography, not because its contributions were small but on partisan grounds. Today, travel ethnography is valued anew, but with or without academic sanction, ethnographers will continue to travel to sites, easy or difficult to reach, even for the briefest of surveys or at the risk of life.15 New social worlds and transitory communities, created by electronic means, form new ethnographic fields which call for new explorations and formats in ethnography.16 Lore has it that a little travel may go a long way.

Notes I should like to thank the convener of the conference, the participants and particularly the editors of this volume. Anonymous readers and Herbert Plutschow made valuable comments. The Netherlands Association for Japanese Studies generously provided the travel grant to attend the conference. 1 The work of foreign travel ethnographers in Japan deserves its own treatment, but space prevents this here. 2 This fact is not reflected in American and European handbooks and ethnographic data bases. Japan is largely absent from the HRAF, as are most of the Japanese contributions to world ethnography. 3 Newburyport, a place north of Boston, was incorporated as a city in 1851. In 1860 it had a population of 13,401. The population stood at 6,785 at the time of Warner’s Yankee City Project. The Yankee City research staff comprised 18 field-workers, 23 analysts, and four writers. Thirteen members were both field-workers and analysts. Three members were fieldworker, analyst and writer in one (Warner and Lunt 1941: Table 8). 4 The term ‘complex society’ is used for peasant and industrialized societies with large populations, state organization, cities, social stratification, literate, in contrast to smallscale

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societies, which lack most or all of these qualities (cf. Hannerz 1996:122–4). The term is also sued to refer to societies where civilizations mingle (Ouwehand 1965:137). 5 Remarks made by Yoshida Teigo and Nakamaki Hirochika when this paper was delivered. Still, a work such as the Shinshūkyō Jiten (1990), of which Nakamaki is a compiler, is very much a product of travel ethnography. 6 Akamatsu Keisuke (1909–) studied ascetic practices in the Ikoma mountains; Kurimoto Hideyo published his research between 1932 and 1934 in the periodical Minzokugaku, vol. 4, no. 10–11, 1932 and Tabi to Densetsu, vol. 6, no. 5, 1933, vol. 7, no. 10–11, 1934, and vol. 8, no. 3, 1935. 7 The word for white, split toe socks (tabi) is a homonym with the word tabi meaning ‘travel’. 8 In the course of the Fifteen Years’ War (1931–1945) the need for personnel and facilities in Japan grew and more means were allocated. The ethnologists formed a professional association in 1934. This was reconstituted by the government in 1942, who founded a national institute in 1943, funding research and sponsoring field stations and research abroad. At the same time (1943), the first chair for social anthropology was established in Tokyo Imperial University. It was filled by Sugiura Ken’ichi (1905–1954), who for several months each year had engaged in applied research in Japanese Micronesia. 9 The phrase Mumei no daigakusha (a great, unknown scholar) was used by the former headmaster of a middle school to describe Miyamoto who once came to visit his institution (Sano 1996b: 194). 10 Aruku, miru, kiku in Japanese. 11 The volumes appeared regularly until 1997. After a five-year gap, Volume 42 appeared in 2002. Volume 44 was published in 2003. 12 Sugae Masumi (1754–1829) was a highly esteemed, important and productive travel ethnographer of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century in Japan. 13 Popular culture in the form of tourism or films offers visits to virtual disaster and panic sites to its public (cf. Napier 1996). 14 Kon Wajirō’s ideas were explicitly referred to in the opening speech delivered by DirectorGeneral Ishige Naomichi during the ceremony on 20 March 2002 (own observation). 15 Richards (1996) describes a horrific expedition to the town of Pandebu on the Liberia-Sierra Leone border in 1989. Voyages of this kind are the rule in the anthropology of disaster (Benthall 1993). 16 A collection of studies on the impact of screens (cinema, TV, computer, telephone etc.) on social and cultural life in the present was recently published in Etnofoor 15 (1/2) 2002.

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Fukuta, Ajio (1984) Nihon minzokugaku hōhō josetsu. Yanagita Kunio to minzokugaku [Introduction to the methodology of Japanese folklore studies: Yanagita Kunio and folklore studies], Tokyo: Kōbundō. Geertz, Clifford (1995) After the fact: two countries, four decades, one anthropologist, Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Hannerz, Ulf (1996) Transnational Connections. Culture, People, Places, London and New York: Routledge. Hendry, Joy (1998) ‘Introduction: the contribution of social anthropology to Japanese studies’, in her edited Interpreting Japanese Society. Anthropological Approaches, 2nd revised edition, London: Routledge. Hori, Ichirō (1971) Nihon no shamanizumu [Japanese shamanism], Tokyo: Kōdansha. Ikegami, Yoshimasa (1992) Minzoku shūkyō to sukui. Tsugaru. Okinawa no minkan fusha [Salvation and folk religion. Folk practitioners in Tsugaru and Okinawa], Kyoto: Tankōsha. Inokuchi, Shōji (1992) [1977] Minzokugaku no hōhō [The methodology of Japanese folklore studies], Tokyo: Kōdansha. Kawada, Minoru (1993) The Origin of Ethnography in Japan, Yanagita Kunio and his Times, translated from Japanese by Toshiko Kishida-Ellis, London: Kegan Paul International. Kurimoto, Hideyo (1987) [1932] ‘Osaka oyobi fukin minkan shinkō chōsa hōkoku. Sono ichi. Ikomasan oyobi fukin yukiba no chōsa’ [Report on the investigation of popular beliefs in Osaka and surroundings I—The Ikoma mountains and surroundings]. Kyburz, Josef (1997) ‘Magical thought at the interface of nature and culture’, P.Asquith and A.Kalland (eds), Japanese Images of Nature Cultural Perspectives, Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, pp. 257–79. Mintz, Sidney W. (1998) ‘The location of anthropological practice, from area studies to transnationalism’, Critique of Anthropology, 18(2), 117–33. Miyamoto Tsune’ichi Chosakushū [Collected writings of Miyamoto Tsune’ichi], Volumes 1, 18, 31, 40, 41, Tokyo: Miraisha: 1967, 1970, 1986, 1997, 1997. Miyamoto Tsune’ichi (1973 [1968]) Watakushi no Nihon Chizu (My Japanese Map), Tokyo, Doyukan. Miyamoto Tsune’ichi (2001a) Sora kara no minzokugaku [Folklore studies from the air], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, Gendai Bunko. Miyamoto Tsune’ichi (2001b) Afurika to Ajia wo aruku [My travel [ethnography] in Africa and Asia], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, Gendai Bunko. Moore, Sally Falk (1993) ‘Changing perspectives on a changing Africa: the work of anthropology’, R.H.Bates, V.Y.Mudimbe and J.O’Barr (eds), Africa and the Disciplines: The Contributions of Research in Africa to the Social Sciences and Humanities, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, pp. 3–57. Moriya, Takeshi and Nakamaki, Hirochika (1991) Nihon no matsuri. Matsuri no sound-scape [Japanese festivals, Japanese soundscapes], Tokyo: Maruzen. Nakamaki, Hirochika and Tsushima, Michihito (eds) (1996) Hanshin daishinsai to shūkyō [Religion and the Great Kansai Earthquake], Osaka: Tōhō Shuppan. Nakazono, Eisuke (1995) Torii Ryūzō den. Ajia wo sōha shita jinruigakusha [The life of Torii Ryūzō, an anthropologist who covered the whole of Asia], Tokyo: Iwanami. Napier, Susan J. (1996) ‘Panic sites: the Japanese imagination of disaster from Godzilla to Akira’, J.W.Treat (ed.), Contemporary Japan and Popular Culture, Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, pp. 235–62. Ouwehand, Cornelius (1965) ‘De Japanse volkskultuur’, in P.Vam Emst (ed.), Panorama der Volken Deel II-Volken van Azië, Roermond en Maaseik: J.J.Romen & Zonen, pp. 137–66. Plutschow, Herbert (1998) ‘Reiseberichte der späten Tokugawa-Zeit als Dokumente der japanischen “Moderne”’, Minikomi (Universität Wien), Nr. 3, 5–14.

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Richards, Paul (1996) ‘Chimpanzees, diamonds and war. The discourses of global environmental change and local violence on the Liberia-Sierra Leone border’, The Future of Anthropological Knowledge, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 139–55. Sano, Shin’ichi (1996a) ‘Sandai no kakyaku: Miyamoto Tsune’ichi to Shibusawa Keizō’, in Bungei Shunjū Bessatsu, No. 215. Sano, Shin’ichi (1996b) Tabi suru kyojin. Miyamoto Tsune’ichi to Shibusawa Keizō [Travelling giants. Miyamoto Tsune’ichi and Shibuzawa Keizō], Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū Shimizu, Akitoshi and van Bremen, Jan (eds) (2003) Wartime Japanese Anthropology in Asia and the Pacific, Senri Ethnological Studies, No. 65. Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology. Shūkyō Shakaigaku no Kai [Group for the [study of] the sociology of religion] (eds) (1987[1985]) Ikoma no kamigami. Gendai toshi no minzoku shūkyō [The deities of Ikoma. Modern towns and folk religion], Osaka: Sōgensha. Stocking, George W., Jr. (1992) ‘The ethnographic sensibility of the 1920s and the dualism of the anthrop00ological tradition’, in his The Ethnographer’s Magic and Other Essays in the History of Anthropology, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, pp. 276–341. Stocking, George W., Jr. (1996) After Tylor, British Social Anthropology 1888–1951, London: Athlone Press. Tsuboi, Shogōrō (1990) ‘Fūzoku sokutei seiseki oyobi shinan’ [The results of a novel measurement of customs and manners] Ogi Shinzō, Kumakura Isao and Ueno Chizuko (eds), Fūzoku Sei, Nihon Kindai Shisō Taikei, Vol. 23, 93–105. Tokyo: Iwanami. Tylor, E.B. (1888) ‘On a method of investigating the development of institutions, applied to laws of marriage and descent’, Journal of the Anthropological Institute, 18, 245–72. Warner, W.Lloyd and Lunt, Paul S. (1941) The Social Life of a Modern Community. Yankee City Series Vol. I, New Haven: Yale University Press. Yamaji, Katsuhiko (1991) ‘“Mushu no yabanjh” to jinruigaku’ [‘Savages without sovereignty’ and anthropology], Kansei Gakuin Daigaku Shakaigakubu Kiyo, No. 64: 47–71. Yoneyama, Toshinao (1985) ‘Yanagita and his work’, Victor Koschmann, Ōiwa Keibō, and Yamashita Shinji (eds), International Perspectives on Yanagita Kunio and Japanese Folklore Studies, Cornell University East Asia Papers, No. 37, 29–52.

16 A Japanese painter’s quest Suda Kunitarō's journey to Spain Rosalia Medina Bermejo

Introduction On July 1, 1919, a Japanese art historian and artist, Suda Kunitarō, arrived in Spain from the French border town of Hendaye; it was the end of a long journey from Kobe begun in May of the same year. Since his time as a student of Kyoto University Suda had been interested to know why the East and the West had followed two different paths in the development of art. Had not art in the West changed to represent more and more realistically man and nature, while in the East the idea of realism was not pursued very far? Suda had focused his studies on German philosophy and thought—very common in Japan at that time—and in 1916 graduated from the department of Aesthetics and History of Art in the faculty of Philosophy with a thesis entitled Realism. In his thesis he reached the conclusion that Japanese painting in Western style was lacking something, its development and future therefore being in danger. Suda stayed in Spain for most of the four years of his visit to Europe, a choice that set him apart from the majority of painters of his time. Why choose Spain, a country that— although it had remained neutral in the First World War—was in a deep social, political and economic crisis? Suda’s journey to Spain was based on his conviction that it was essential to study oil painting. For this it would be necessary to seek a deeper understanding of the important collection of oils in Madrid’s El Prado Museum that had chosen the colour and style of the Venetian, and not of the northern European, masters.

Suda’s Spanish diary In the Municipal Museum of Art in Kyoto there are more than 17 notebooks, some of them pocketsize, comprising the diaries of Suda’s Spanish period. It is doubtful that Suda was exhaustive in his notes, and there were long periods where he did not write anything. However, reading what he did register provides us with most interesting information about his time in Spain. Suda’s visits to the Prado Museum were nearly a daily event while he was in Madrid. On July 5, 1919, only a few days after he had arrived in Spain, he made his way to museum for the first time, initially trying to get in through the wrong door. Suda notes, ‘I was surprised by the extraordinary quality of the works I saw’. The visits to the Prado resulted in the 13 copies he painted of works by the Venetians: Tiziano, Tintoretto and Palme el Viejo. His interest, however, was not limited to the

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Italians, and he also copied Goya, el Greco, Morales and the French artist Poussin. Why he chose these artists and not others is difficult to say. The Venetians were an obvious choice, being the reason for Suda’s journey to Spain, while also El Greco had interested him for his personal style was not without Venetian influence. The genius of Goya does not need justifying, and Suda’s diaries mention on different occasions that the object of his visits to the museums was to see some of Goya’s work. Moreover, Luis de Morales, 20 years older than El Greco, is one of the best representatives of the meticulous detail and that certain note of sadness associated with the Spanish—in contrast to the Italian— style, and this aroused Suda’s interest with regard to mastery of technique and expression. But why didn’t Suda pay attention to Velazquez, possibly the greatest representative of the golden age of Spanish artists and at the same time an admirer of the Venetians (as proved by the works of Tintoretto and others he brought for Felipe IV from Italy in 1649)? For Suda the copies he made were a useful medium through which to study the techniques of oil painting and of realism that were to guide him in his career as an artist. His work, moreover, was not limited to copying the paintings in the Prado; he also painted Spanish landscapes and some portraits. The visits to the Prado were possibly his main activity during the four years that Suda lived in Spain, but he also visited numerous other places, mainly choosing sites with historical monuments. These visits took him away from the typical tourist routes (if you can talk of tourism in Spain in the early twentieth century). While studying medieval architecture and art he searched for new themes for his own painting; it should not be forgotten that at this time Suda was mainly an art historian, and that is how he thought of himself still for many years to come. During the first year of his studies in Spain Suda visited Granada and Sevilla, but he did not record anything about these cities. On the way back to Madrid he passed Toledo, where he visited El Greco’s house, the cathedral, and St Bartolome’s church with its impressive work ‘The funeral of Conde Orgaz’. Unfortunately, none of the works painted during this journey have survived. In late 1919 Suda travelled to Castilla, Leon, Galicia and Asturias. The diary for this journey starts on October 11 in Avila, where he stayed a few days. He notes visits to the cathedrals of San Vicente, San Pedro, Santa Domingo, San Nicolas and Santo Tomas. One of his paintings from Avila survives, and this was the first painting that Suda sold in his first exhibition in Tokyo in 1932. ‘Avila’ is very interesting because it shows up Suda’s own style, and, for the first time, the recurring theme of houses. Suda stood outside the medieval city’s wall and represented the city as a waterfall of rocks crowned by the church and its tower, which is exactly in the centre of the painting. A foreground of dark tones contrasts with the reddish tones of the background, a characteristic probably due to Suda’s contact with the Spanish baroque. These tones are found not only in his Spanish period, but also in his later work. The journey continued from Avila to Galicia, passing through Zamora, Benavente and Astorga. In Toro he spent a day exploring the village and the college. In Zamora he visited the historic centre of the city and painted two works, ‘Zamora’ and ‘Outside of Zamora’. In Astorga he tried to paint the cathedral and other Roman churches there but without success, although he liked the sketches he made in Betanzos.

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Reaching Galicia, he mentions going for walks after dark in Coruña and enjoying the nighttime views of the city. He also went to the theatre to see a comedy, and to the dentist. In Santiago de Compostela he obviously visited the cathedral, the San Francisco convent, the Royal Hospital (now the Hostal of the Catholic kings) and the Santa Maria de Sar church. From here he continued to Pontevedra, where he painted a port scene, and to Vigo, where he walked around and visited the cafes. Although the typical red colour of the Castillian soil impressed him (in fact he adopted it as one of the tones that he used most), he also admired the beauty of the green landscapes in Spain, as we know from his diary. On October 10, 1920, he writes from Vigo: ‘In the morning a walk, it is very good weather. At 12 o’clock I got onto the train for Orense, along the river Mino the view is very beautiful, it reminds me of Japan’. At Orense Suda visited the cathedral, the museum and various cafes. Afterwards he went to Celanova and Santa Combat de Bande and returned to Orense. The fruit of this short but intense stay in Galicia is the work ‘Church of Galicia’, about which he noted in his diary: ‘Santiago church, gained a certain success’. Now in Leon Suda visited the cathedral, the square, a museum and Santa Maria del Camino. He took some photos and painted ‘The Cathedral of Leon’. Continuing to Asturias he went to the cathedral of Oviedo, and afterwards to Santullano, Naranco, San Miguel de Lillo, Gijon, Aviles and Lena. This journey is reflected in the painting ‘The San Miguel church in Oviedo’. Afterwards he continued to Palencia, Valladollid and Burgos. In Valladolid he painted a view of the buildings of the city and its supports. His diary shows that he stayed at Burgos on December 3 and 4, 1920, and it is almost certain that on these dates he painted his ‘Gothic church tower’. The next notes about his stay in Spain appear in Suda’s diary in November 1921. The first place mentioned is Soria, where he stayed two days visiting many Roman churches in areas like San Nicolas and San Juan de Rabanero. He also went to the Nemantino Museum. The beautiful and sad atmosphere of the ruins, like those of San Juan of Duero, left a particularly deep impression. Suda’s interest in medieval buildings is reflected in the landscape ‘Mountain of Castilla’, which is probably the church of Nuestra Senora de Miron in Soria, a small village situated where the river Duero divides. 1922 was a particularly creative year. Suda not only travelled through a large part of the country, but also completed a considerable number of paintings. In Caceres he did a view of a typical row of houses crowned by a church. In March he travelled to Aragon, the land of Goya, passing through Alhama and Calatayud, where he visited Santa Maria and painted ‘Calatayud after a storm’. On his second visit to Zaragoza (about the first visit there are no details, but at least it is known that he visited the museum because on his second visit he notes that the guard remembered him), he visited the Church of Pilar and was interested in the altar piece and the frescos of Goya on the ceiling; however, he notes that he could not see them properly as the ceiling was too high. In the museum at Zaragoza, which contained much of Goya’s work including various self-portraits, the director let him copy some of the paintings. In June Suda resumed his travels with Toledo as destination. On this second visit to the city he stayed five days visiting El Greco’s house and the museum, and also completed the picture ‘Outskirts of Toledo’. In June he set out on a journey that would last nearly two months and take him to the east of Spain, starting with Valencia. There, apart from visiting the cathedral and some

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churches, he went to the ‘splendid and surprising’ museums and also saw various works by Sorolla. From Valencia he journeyed to Tarragona, passing through Encina, Mogente—where he painted two landscapes—‘Higuera’ and ‘Sagunto’. In Tarragona Suda notes that he did two paintings in a garden situated on the outskirts of the castle. In Barcelona he stayed two days but did not make any notes. Afterwards he visited Vic and Ripoll, then Terrasa and Lerida. From the train he writes: “The train is full, I can see the Montserrat Mountain, (it) is very beautiful in the sunset”. Montserrat Mountain was particularly attractive for Suda who frequently painted bare rocky mountains, for instance in his ‘Pena Maura’. In Lerida Suda visited the museum and then continued to Monzon in Aragon, where he painted the castle. He was interested in the typical white Aragonese houses with their characteristic tiles, ‘like those of Goya’, as he writes. In Huesca he remarks about the altar in San Pedro cathedral: ‘The light falls on the altar piece so that I can see it in detail, it is a great work of art. The painter is the same one who did the altar piece in Zaragoza; these are the only ones that he did. It is true that two are more than enough work. I am envious’. In Jaca Suda painted a view of the mountain, then he went on to Biescas and Panticosa. In Sabinanigo he visited and painted the lake. He arrived at Zaragoza on August 9, visited the museum again and mentions the altar piece of Damian. Next day he was in Bilbao, did some further paintings, and continued to San Sebastian, where he noted, ‘I do not really like what I have painted here; I want a painting that is sad and dark with conflicting colours’. In Pamplona he visited the Sarasate and Archaeological museums, at the latter contemplating the Roman and Gothic mosaics. From here he carried on to Sanguesa, where he painted and took photos of the entrance door of San Salvador. Trips to Tafalla, Estella, Olite and Caseta did not satisfy him from the point of view of his creativity, as we can see from his note of August 26: “Tomorrow I am going to destroy all the drawings done on this journey”. Guadalajara, Zaragoza and Huesca are the last destinations of his travels in Spain, and three landscapes were completed, ‘Daroca’, ‘Daroca castle’ and ‘Monton’.

Suda’s work during his years in Spain To explain the differences between East and West from the point of view of painting, Suda used the example of a chestnut tree branch. Through the branch without any type of ornamentation around it, as it is represented in oriental painting, you come to understand that it builds its own universe and does not need anything else to justify its existence or to complement it. In the West this would be unthinkable; elements like a source of light that creates contrasts, perspective, distances or a scene that frames the branch: all tell a story. This is directly related to the phenomenon of empty space which the oriental artist leaves in his work; in the East, you can’t consider a work of art without its blank space. In the West, however, this would have to be filled in so as not to create the impression that something is missing. A work appearing unfinished would reduce its value and the genius of its painter. This in turn leads to the excess of decoration which has its raison d’être in horror vacui, the fear of empty space. Suda, both from his oriental point of view and

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through his knowledge of Western art, tried to join these to worlds together. He was an intellectual type of artist rather than bohemian, and generally his works speak less of his expressive than of his intellectual quest. His studies of the works of the Baroque style led him to attempt in his own painting dramatic effects playing with light and shadow, and later also of movement and stillness. The source of light is ignored in oriental painting, but exalted in the Baroque. Suda used this tension to create the dramatic effects present in his work, for instance in ‘Avila’, ‘Daroca’, ‘Monton’ or ‘Mogente’. In these pictures light and dark colours are strongly contrasted, with hardly any graduation between the tones. In Suda’s work the light source is not defined, nor does it emanate from a single source; it is just a light that illuminates part of the painting and leaves other parts in the dark, creating strong contrasts which quickly catch the eye of the spectator. Suda continued this style of painting after 1923, the year in which he returned to Japan, in works such as ‘Excavation’ (1930), ‘Pena Maura, a Spanish village’ (1932) or ‘Study’ (1937). With regard to perspective, Suda presents the onlooker with close-ups in dark tones and strongly lit scenes in the distance, again without any graduation of colour. Suda’s intention presumably is to take away the middle ground in terms of perspective and prevent the objects’ colour getting lost in the background as happens in Baroque works. Suda’s predilection for a series of concrete motives that are frequently repeated can be observed in the themes of his years in Spain. Above all, what happens with light, shade and perspective remains of central interest in Suda’s personal style until his last works. The houses that appear in ‘Avila’, ‘Mogente’ or ‘Caceres’ bear witness to this, as do the reddish tones used in the mountains in ‘Daroca’ or ‘Monton’.

Conclusion Suda’s view of artistic development in East-West contrast was that in the East the idea of realism had not been pursued very far. This problem had interested Suda since his student days and motivated him to travel to Spain. But what did realism actually mean for Suda? Does his work respond to objective realism; is it a true representation of the ‘outside’? I think his work easily answers this question: Suda’s realism represents his personal vision of things, but we can say that it is not a reality that depends on ‘facts’; it is a reality that is subjective and introspective in what it represents. It is not possible to elaborate this point in detail only by looking at the work from his Spanish period, but there can be no doubt that this period was the starting point that decisively shaped Suda’s career. Would his painting have been the same if he had not gone to Spain? Almost certainly not. Suda’s themes, the tonal variations he used, the treatment of light and shade and possibly his entire vision of European art would have been different. When Suda returned to Japan, he was still more an art historian than an artist. However, when he had his first personal exhibition in 1932—although it was not a success—he began to be considered an artist and, importantly, also began to see himself as such. From then on, he divided his time between teaching History of Art at Kyoto University and painting. He mentioned on more than one occasion that he intended to return to Spain, but sadly he died before he could fulfill his wish.

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After returning to Japan in 1923 until his death in the University Hospital of Kyoto in 1961, Spain had been present in much of Suda’s writing. We can imagine that Spain was like his second home, for which he felt a degree of nostalgia. We must acknowledge his role in introducing to Japan to many aspects not only of Spanish art, but also of its culture and history. This he did through books like ‘Goya’ (1937), ‘Spanish art from the XVIII century, starting with Goya’ (1951), ‘Spanish art’ (1957), as well as a great number of newspaper and magazine articles in which can be found many references to historians and philosophers such as Ortega y Gasset, Unamuno and others. One of Suda’s last works, ‘Portrait of an architect’ (1956), is a tribute to Antonio Gaudi. For Suda as an artist Spain served as the starting point of a quest to understand more fully what before had been an abstract notion. Spain served to fine tune the role of this art historian as an artist in his own right. At the same time, Suda’s studies in Spain were one of the first attempts by a Japanese artist to analyse Western art and bring forth, at the end of a long journey, a synthesis of East and West.

Bibliography Harada Heisaku (1985) Suda Kunitarō no tōyōteki suibokuga seishin to sono tenkai [The spirit of Suda Kunitarō's Eastern style ink drawings and their development], Yamaguchi: Yamaguchi Kenritsu Bijutsukan. Kawakita Tomoaki (1991) Suda Kunitarō Ten [Exhibition of Suda Kunitarō], Kyoto: Kyōto-shi Bijutsukan. Okabe Saburō (1979) Suda Kunitarō shiryō kenkyū [Research on materials left by Suda Kunitarō], Kyoto: Kyōto-shi Bijutsukan. Suda Kunitarō isakuten [Exhibition of works left by Suda Kunitarō] (1965), Kyoto: Kyōto-shi Bijutsukan. Tanaka Atsushi (1994) Realistic Representation—Master Paintings in the 1930s, Kyoto: The National Museum of Modern Art.

Pilgrimage and experience An afterword Dolores P.Martinez

Introduction The anthropology of tourism emerged as a separate sub-discipline in the 1980s, and it was dominated above all by one question: is there a difference between a traveller and a tourist? In addition, we could ask, into what category should the pilgrim be put? Various typologies were created, all reliant on MacCannell’s (1976) notion that the modern tourist is on a quest for the authentic, that is, that the modern tourist seeks, by travelling to other places, what is missing from modern life. One of the more interesting of typologies was proposed by Cohen (1979a, 1979b), refining an earlier typology he had created in 1972. Cohen argued for two main divisions: between the mainly recreational tourist who cared little for authentic experiences, and the experiential tourist, who was interested, as the label suggests, in learning from the experience of travel itself. This typology opened the way for a phenomenological approach to be taken in tourism studies, conceding that tourists might be on some sort of quest, searching, almost as pilgrims do, for a ‘meaningful’ experience. It was not long before critiques were made of the very concept of authenticity itselfwas it at all useful for understanding tourists and travellers (Wang 2000)? While the examples of commoditization in tourism focused on the concept of the authentic as part of the way in which tourism was marketed and as part of the ways in which modern tourists enacted difference in relation to social status (cf. Bourdieu 1984), was this really the dominant discourse of post-modern tourism? Suggestions were made that tourists were quite happy to, and moreover often did, indulge in non-authentic experiences for their own sakes, that tourism was essentially ludic. Other scholars, such as Baumann (1996), saw the distinction as encapsulated in the way that pilgrim identity had evolved into tourist identities: pilgrims had a specific goal which was attained through the pilgrimage experience. Hardship, penance and prayer were key elements of the pilgrimage experience, during which, ideally, social statuses were erased. The pilgrimage goal—rather than material souvenirs or the this-worldly benefits of modern tourism—was other-worldly, related to the development of the person’s spirit. This goal has been reconfigured by Ackermann in the introduction to this volume as part of a more general spiritual quest. This reconceptualization develops the issue of identity which Baumann pinpoints as crucial to his discussion: however a person who travels is defined, whatever categories might be created, in the end, all travellers are enmeshed in processes of making identities. Why focus on the issue of identity, another theme of 1990s anthropology? One answer to this question is that this collection of papers—on subjects as disparate as history, art, music, film, anthropology, pilgrimage in Spain and/or Japan, theme parks, international

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training courses, ritualized state building and some theory on strangers—all share a concern with the creation and re-creation of identity. As Ackermann argues in the Introduction, what is important to understand is that the authors of these chapters are attempting to come to terms with how, both diachronically and synchronically, human beings are able to supersede the everyday and mundane to learn new things, to discipline minds, bodies and spirits; in short, to achieve insights and have experiences that accrue as either spiritual or social merit. That is, to have experiences which can be profoundly rewarding and, often, even life-changing. Such processes become the very means by which human beings create their own identities and carve out a sense of self in society as both Ackermann (Chapter X) and Guichard-Anguis (Chapter III) point out. The very large general category of spiritual quests, then, serves well to encompass the variety of work included in this volume. The link to travel in these different sorts of spiritual quests is an important one to understand. For MacCannell (1976), the experience of the tourist shared many features with that of the pilgrim understood in terms of Van Gennep’s (1960) theorizing on rites of passage: by leaving their own society, both pilgrims and tourists become liminal, enjoying or suffering a variety of experiences in other places which require their reintegration upon the return home. This is a generalization, of course, one that has been added to by scholars who have used Turner’s notion of communitas (1974) as another way of linking the experiences of modern mass tourism and pilgrimage. While Eade and Sallnow (1991) have questioned whether the experience of group solidarity was as pervasive as Turner argued, other writers, such as Moore (1980)—neatly critiqued by Hendry (Chapter IX) in this collection—have used Van Gennep as the point of connection. The tourist’s and the pilgrim’s experiences share commonalities because they take place elsewhere; both feel as if they are out of time and, perhaps, out of place. Thus the difference between the two modes of travel lies not necessarily in the contrast of pre-modern religious societies to modern secular societies, as we might expect, but in terms of emphasis. Modern travel is dominated by the culture of consumption that is a key feature of late capitalism, and while earlier travellers also ‘consumed’, they did so in less commercialized ways. It is also true that premodern travellers took longer on their journeys, and the possibility of never returning from a long trip or pilgrimage was much higher before the advent of mass air travel in the twentieth century; nonetheless, many of the objectives were similar. That is to say that travellers in the past travelled for different reasons, as do the tourists of today. Some people travel for business reasons; others need a break from the routine of work or time to recover from the strains and illnesses of life; others go for educational purposes and because it is an accepted and expected part of the life cycle within their class; many go just for ‘fun’ and treat such travel very much as part of a hedonistic time out; others go as part of a regular routine—the same place every year—and others want to change their lives. As has already been argued, it is this last category of traveller that enables us to link modern movement with pre-modern pilgrimage in a way that allows for cross-cultural and diachronic analyses.

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Spain and Japan One of the important features of this volume is that it compares—and comparison is, as Evans-Pritchard (1965) noted, the anthropological tool, impossible to discard, much as a post-modern anthropology has questioned its viability—pilgrimage in two societies not often thought of as similar: Spain, mostly in the pre-modern era, and Japan both past and present. There are obvious differences in the two societies, especially in the pre-modern era: the pilgrimage to Santiago was part of a pan-European pilgrimage route, while Japan, particularly during the Tokugawa era, was closed to outside travellers. The movement of various classes of Europeans, as González Valles notes in Chapter II, meant that pilgrimage was in some ways an experience that exposed the people along the pilgrimage route to all sorts of different languages, influences and ideas. This might appear to be a huge difference from the Japanese pre-modern experience, yet the regional differences before the Meiji Restoration in Japan were large enough that the experience of locals must have been rather similar to that of pre-modern Spain. Yoshida (Chapter VI) points to this when he argues that the stranger and the pilgrim are analogous, potentially dangerous beings who need both to be looked after and yet sent promptly on their way, and this notion of hospitality is also wellknown within the European context where various aphorisms such as ‘guests and fish are alike, they both stink after three days’ encapsulate some of the host experience. Pilgrims, travellers, guests and strangers all brought the possibility of the new and different with them. In both societies guides with experience of the route, local customs and food came into their own, as did various services such as hostels and inns; and it can be argued that guides became important gatekeepers, while specialist hostels and inns acted to ‘contain’ the strangers. More important than these structural similarities, obviously, were the larger religious contexts in which these pre-modern pilgrimages took place. There are many ways in which Buddhism and Catholicism are dissimilar; in the main their theologies are very different, yet, again, structurally, there are many similarities. The hierarchy of monks and priests, the very existence of monasteries and the practices of penance and prayer as well as that of going on pilgrimage are very alike. Moreover, both religions were deeply embedded within the political construction of their particular medieval realities, and politics effected pilgrimage. As Guichard-Anguis (Chapter III) and González Valles (Chapter II) in this volume note, the Santiago pilgrimage rose to prominence when the trip to the Holy Land became more hazardous, while the very regulated nature of the Japanese journey arose out of Tokugawa government legislation (cf. Kouamé, Chapter V). What both types of journey share, however, is the sense that, while on the road, various unexpected freedoms also arise; as Graburn (1983) has so neatly argued in his long piece on Japanese pilgrimage, the aims of such journeys could be summed up as: to pray, pay and play. Thus, along ancient pilgrimage routes there were not only places to eat and rest, but also shops to buy souvenirs to take home: in modern Santiago this can range from amulets, to conch shells (the symbol of St James), to the famous queso de tetilla (breast-shaped cheese); while in the Japanese case there are o-mamori (protective amulets), and the food o-miyage (gifts) that represent regional specialities—maple-leafed shaped an (red bean curd) buns being just one example. Inns, brothels and an idea of

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entertainment are all present along pilgrimage routes in both societies, secular as these services may be. These, however, are just structural similarities and, to the anthropologist, not necessarily as interesting as another question: what does travel offer the traveller in terms of experience?

Travel experience As Clifford notes in the prologue to his book Routes: Virtually everywhere one looks, the processes of human movement and encounter are long-established and complex. Cultural centers, discrete regions and territories, do not exist prior to contacts, but are sustained through them, appropriating and disciplining the restless movements of people and things. (1997:3) Such a broad definition of travel or movement would appear, once more, to place under the same umbrella tourism and pilgrimage. Yet is this the case? The examples in this book of individuals who travel for very personal reasons to do with the arts, who hope for encounters and experiences that are profoundly life-changing, we might say, appear to have very different expectations than do many tourists. Then again, we have del Alisal’s example (Chapter VIII) of how tourism and pilgrimage continue to be combined in Japan; while Hoshino describes (Chapter VII) modern Japanese pilgrims who claim no religious beliefs or affiliation, but just appear to enjoy the journey. How are we to combine all these under the category of spiritual quest? What we need to consider, perhaps, is a continuum of travel in which the spiritual, or religious (however this is defined), dominates at one end and the secular at the other. That is to say, that a few pilgrims might neatly fall into either end of the spectrum, while their pilgrimage experience occurs somewhere in-between. In short, pilgrims know they have to pay for their journey and services along the way, hope to pray and gain merit or comfort at the other end, and want a bit of relaxation and fun too. Learning something new is not a bad bonus either and some pilgrims might actually do a little business also. The contrast, and other end of the spectrum to this, might appear to be those individuals who want an experience that is profound, creative, moving, and, possibly complete but not religious. Some pilgrims definitely belong in this category, but, interestingly enough, it is the artists who travel in search of inspiration and/or knowledge who seem to best fit into this part of the spectrum. Anthropologists, whether we travel occasionally or frequently to our field-work sites (van Bremen, Chapter XV), are somewhere at the knowledge end of things, but frown on any typecasting of the process as ‘fun’. The experience, then, of the very journey itself becomes important as we see in the case of Hoshino’s (Chapter VII) modern Japanese pilgrims who deny any religious dimension to their journeys. What is important to note, however, is that the journey as a long arduous process has long been seen to be as important as the arrival at the other end (or the circumambulation made at the pilgrimage centre). The shift of focus to being

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solely on the journey itself is not such a radical shift after all. Thus the typology that focuses on the liminal aspect of the journey, that is, of the traveller’s sense of separation from the norm which is as applicable to serious religious travellers as it might be to modern tourists heading into Disneyland (Moore 1980), could be said to be crucial to our understanding of the essays in this volume. Some would critique this similarity as too facile and perhaps falling back on some notion of the authentic experience as opposed to a completely recreational or diversionary experience (Cohen 1979a). However, what many of the chapters in this book demonstrate is that we cannot make such neat categories: the recreational seeps into the serious authentic spiritual quest as much as a sense of discovery creeps into the purely selfish individual quest as depicted in Santos’ (Chapter XIII) discussion of the film Hiroshima mon amour. As many of the authors in this collection point out, spiritual quests are not self-contained. In fact it is the engagement with the other during travel that might well be the key to the spiritual, creative and individual growth they describe. This experience, as Clifford—among others—argues, is not new nor necessarily modern or post-modern. The world today and its various societies, and the people within those societies, have long had experience of what their movement and the movement of others through time and space can bring: danger as well as adventure, new ideas as well as encounters with older traditions, new forms of art, as well as an emphasis on what we do at home. However, the dynamism of such encounters, so well documented in the first part of this book, appears to have given way, in the twenty-first century, to uncertainty. Movement, change, permanent migration as opposed to temporary visits all inspire larger political concerns to do with identity, national belonging and issues of security. Travel may broaden the mind and expand the soul, but it is also fraught with danger, thus Yoshida’s use of Simmel’s (1950) ideas about the stranger, is important as a corollary to the excitement generated by such spiritual quests. Not everyone is happy to see things change and, ironically, some ritual travel, as Beillevaire (Chapter XI) describes, is used to uphold the status quo, or to refer nostalgically to the past, rather than to explore new and other possibilities. In short, Clifford’s point that travel, movement, and that which Ackermann labels spiritual quests, all expand and reify our local identities is an extremely important one. To journey involves an interaction of people at various points along the way: travellers with each other, or locals with the travellers (Nakamaki, Chapter XIV). Such interactions can be used as part of the learning experience, as van Bremen (Chapter XV) argues for travel anthropologists.

Conclusion The artist Miró, the subject of Cabañas’ Chapter XII, is quoted on the walls of the Fundació Pilar i Joan Miró in Mallorca as saying that ‘it is the experience of art which is more important than the work of art itself’ (my translation). I have been arguing, in this short afterword, that the same is true of pilgrimage, travel and tourism. It is the experience that is more important than the label we might put on the journey. All the chapters in this book, as Ackermann notes, are precisely undermining facile distinctions: what the pilgrims/travellers/students/anthropologists/ artists hope to gain is something spiritual, not necessarily always defined as religious, but they aim for a change in

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themselves. What is striking is that it is through the encounter with the other while travelling, as well as the focus on the self as distinct, and through the interactions with locals, that the journey becomes valuable for an individual. To put it another way: both the experience of communitas with one’s fellow travellers along the way, as well as the distinct experience of the individual self, are a kind of encounter during the journey that allow for quest to unfold and, perhaps, be judged as successful. The pilgrim, however defined, lives and learns while away. It is no surprise then that this book, a collaboration between journeying others and local selves, journeying selves and local others, has produced such a diverse and yet mutual enriching set of essays.

References Baumann, Z. (1996) ‘From pilgrim to tourist: or a short history of identity’, S.Hall and P.Du Gay (eds), Questions of Cultural Identity, London: Sage, pp. 18–36. Bourdieu, P. (1984) Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Richard Nice, transl.), Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Clifford, J. (1997) Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century, Cambridge: Harvard UP. Cohen, E. (1972) ‘Towards a sociology of international tourism’, Social Research 39, 164–82. Cohen, E. (1979a) ‘A phenomenology of tourist experiences’, Sociology 13, 179–201. Cohen, E. (1979b) ‘Rethinking the sociology of tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research 6,18–35. Eade, J. and M.Sallnow (eds) (1991) Contesting the Sacred, London: Routledge. Evans-Pritchard, E.E. (1965) ‘The comparative method in social anthropology’, The Position of Women in Primitive Societies and Other Essays in Social Anthropology, London: Faber, pp 13–26. Graburn, N. (1983) To Pray, Pay, and Play: The Cultural Structure of Japanese Domestic Tourism, Aix-En-Provence Cedex: Centre Des Hautes Etudes Touristique. MacCannell, D. (1976) The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class, New York: Schocken Books. Moore, A. (1980) ‘Walt Disney World: bounded ritual space and the playful pilgrimage center’, Anthropological Quarterly 53(4), 207–18. Simmel, G. (1950) ‘The stranger’, in K.H.Wolff (ed.), The Sociology of Georg Simmel Glencoe, Ill.,: Free Press, pp. 402–8. Turner, V.W. (1974) ‘Pilgrimage and communitas’, Studia Missionalia 23, 305–27. Van Gennep, A. (1960) The Rites of Passage, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Wang, Ning (2000) ‘Modernity as tourism of authenticity’, in her edited Tourism and Modernity, London: Pergamon.

Index anthropology xv, xxi, 89, 147, 150–5, 157, 159–60, 172–4 architecture 12, 23, 46, 166 art xx, 6, 8, 11–12, 14, 120–8, 158, 165–70, 173, 175 inspiration i, 11, 130 techniques 14, 98, 120, 127 traditions xxi, 5, 14, 23, 120, 124, 144, 165, 170, 176 treasures 11–12, 32 artist xx, 34, 120–8, 165–70, 176–7 ascetics 7, 38, 47, 50, 54, 79, 155 see also yamabushi belief xvi, 3, 13, 25, 33, 46–7, 49–52, 55, 67–9, 71, 82, 89, 107, 119, 175 folk 100, 111–12, 117, 163 bikuni (nuns) see Buddhism, nuns Bodhisattvas (Buddhist saints) 9, 14, 28, 31, 32, 33–6, 40, 45–6, 90, 97, 107 Fugen (Samantabhadra) 34, 35 Jizō 31, 54 Manjusri 30, 34 Miroku 34 Monju 29–30, 34–5, 36 see also Kannon Buddha, the (Sakyamuni) 5–7, 14–15, 27, 28, 31–4, 36, 38, 51, 68, 70–1, 97, 112, 136, 162 Buddhism (bukkyō) xiii, xvi–xvii, xxii, 27, 29, 32, 37–8, 50, 61, 62, 67, 104–6, 111, 149 almsgiving (fuse) 47, 56, 59, 149 ascetic practices 5, 7, 14–15, 43, 45–6, 51, 61, 66, 145, 155, 161 belief in xii, 28, 33, 67–9, 72 books 8, 70, 123 and Christianity 31, 35, 81–2, 174 concepts xvii, xx, 3, 7, 9, 20, 100, 104–5 devotees 28, 34–5 Enlightenment xx, 4–7, 9, 14–15, 32–6, 71 see also pilgrimage, aims esoteric 7, 14, 31, 33, 37, 54, 78 images xvii, 27–9, 31, 33, 36, 51, 78 institutions xiii, 4, 32, 33, 81, 106 Japanese 3, 14, 16, 29–38, 66 journey 4–5, 7, 9, 13, 28–9, 30, 32–4, 36, 40–2, 47 Kegon sect 33–5 Sutra, 28–30, 32–6 law (truth) xvi, xxi, 4–5, 31, 35, 98, 105 merit 56, 175 monasteries 79, 174

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monks 5–6, 19, 28–32, 34–6, 47, 68, 81, 174 Nichiren (Pure Land) sect 13, 28 nuns (bikuni) 7, 28, 32–4, 52, 59, 79 paradise 7, 28, 31–6, 77–8, 90, 108–9, 111–12 priests 5–7, 19, 33, 50–3, 72, 75–6, 108, 174 rebirth 5, 28–30, 71 rituals 35, 52–3, 58–9, 154 sacred places of 29, 34–5, 51, 66, 79, 154 scriptures xviii, 27–9, 32, 35, 53 Shingon sect 14, 27, 33, 50, 61, 112 Shinto, relationship with xxii, 3, 9, 16, 33, 45, 68, 82, 106 as State religion 33, 79, 106 sutras 13–15, 35, 37–8, 123 teachings xiii, 4–5, 7, 9, 28, 30–5, 54, 66–7, 75 temples xiii, xvii, xix, 6–7, 13–15, 19, 27–8, 30, 32–3, 36, 39, 43–5, 48, 51–2, 58, 65–6, 75–6, 78, 85, 90, 99, 104–6, 147, 155 Tendai sect 28, 33, 35–6, 51 training (shugyō) 5, 9, 34, 51, 59, 61, 68, 71, 105 see also pilgrimage, Buddhist; power, Buddhist card 13, 86, 145 fuda 46, 48, 58 ceremony xiii, xx, 17, 33, 81, 110, 143–4, 162 see also ritual children 32, 50, 53, 55, 57–9, 89, 109, 142, 148–9, 154, 157 China 14, 28–30, 33, 35, 61, 109, 111–13, 117, 157 civilization 30, 157 institutions 33, 35, 111, 157 language and literature xviii, 14, 28, 32, 35, 61, 153 chokusenkei (linear pilgrimage) see pilgrimages, types of Christianity xiii, xv–xvii, xxi, 3, 10, 13, 17–20, 22, 31, 35, 81, 89, 174 Buddhist associations with 31, 35, 81–2 in Japan 31, 38 Jesus Christ 10, 15, 31 monasteries 11–12, 21, 174 pilgrimage xv–xix, xxii, 10–11, 15, 16–22, 31, 82, 174 relics xvii, 17–19, 88 saints xvii, xxii, 10–12, 17–19, 86–8 see also Santiago de Compostela Confucianism 9, 107, 111–13 culture xiv–xvi, xxi, 3–4, 6–7, 12, 47, 72, 74, 84, 104, 108, 117, 120, 125, 135–6, 142, 144, 146, 148, 152, 157–8, 162, 170, 173 see also Japan, culture; pilgrimage, and culture; Spain, culture Dainichi-nyorai (Vairocana) see Buddhism: Shingon Sect

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Daoism see Taoism dead, the 52–4, 58, 117, 132–3, 154, 163 memorial service for (kuyō) 53, 58 see also life-cycle, death deities see kami Edo, period, (1603–1867) xviii, 8–9, 14, 17, 19–20, 22–4, 39–48, 50–1, 53, 57, 60, 74–6, 99, 105– 6, 159 city (Tokyo) 82, 98 education xiii, 39, 85, 142, 144, 146, 154, 174 ethnography xxi, 51, 86, 128, 150–62 Europe xi–xii, xv–xvi, xxi, 10–13, 20–4, 31, 51, 76, 82, 89, 91, 121, 125, 130, 136, 150–2, 156, 161, 165, 170, 174 film i, xx, 132–7, 162, 173, 176 food 11, 16, 20, 22–3, 32, 45, 50, 52, 56, 59, 86, 91, 114, 144, 148, 174–5 gense riyaku (this-worldly favours) see this-worldly gods see kami Heian Era (794–1192) 8, 16, 19, 24, 51, 79–80 henro (pilgrim to the 88 Holy Places of Shikoku) see pilgrims, terms for Hiroshima xx, 58, 130–7, 176 hoito (begger) see pilgrims, terms for identity xvi, xviii, 3, 5, 16–26, 80–1, 122–3, 130, 148, 172–3, 176 income xiii, 16, 45, 47, 147 India 27–35, 60, 69, 72, 87 gods 28–31, 33, 90 initiation xi, xx–xxi, 141–9 international xv, xix, xx, 18, 20, 89, 121, 141, 173 Ise Shrine xvi, xviii, 5, 8–9, 16, 18–22, 24–5, 39, 48, 51, 57, 76, 84, 98, 147, 155 see also kami, Amaterasu Ōmikami; Shinto, shrines Japan xiii, xiv, xvi–xvii, xxi, 3, 14, 20, 34–5, 43, 56, 76, 85, 112, 117, 121–6, 141, 144, 146, 149, 152, 155–8, 167, 169–70 architecture 23, 144, 160 art 5, 34, 165–71 artists xxi, 14, 20, 120–9, 165–71 chronicles of (Nihon Shoki) 16, 24, 27, 33, 38 colonialism 151–2, 154, 157, 159, 162 culture xiv, 3–7, 23, 26, 47, 61, 66, 74, 104, 108, 122, 124–5, 135, 142–4, 147–8, 152, 157–8 dance 6, 33, 50, 99, 105 emperors xvi, 7, 8, 16, 33, 79–80, 157 folklore 62, 151, 155–6, 158–60 government xvi, 17, 19, 23, 30, 34, 40, 42, 75, 80, 111, 120, 141–4, 147, 153, 156–7, 162, 175 history xvi, xviii, 3, 8, 13–14, 36, 77, 79–80, 134, 144, 153, 158, 170, 174 identity 3, 80–1, 122–3, 130, 148 interpretations of xv–xvi, xx–xxi, 9, 45

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language 107, 110, 112, 122–4, 142, 145–6, 157 literature 6, 33, 82, 87, 120–9 marriage xiii, 55, 88, 141, 142 music 5, 6, 33, 50, 99, 106, 173 people xiii, xvi, 3, 5–8, 31, 36, 39, 43–8, 51, 66–7, 74–6, 104, 124, 136, 148, 158 rural xix, 39–40, 49–62, 80–1, 97, 141–4, 146 society xiv, xviii–xx, 3, 9, 19, 36, 39–47, 60, 65, 72, 74–83, 90–1, 152–3 and Spain xx, 10, 120–9, 130–7, 165–71, 173–5 theatre 5, 6, 9, 98, 105 tradition xvi, xviii, 5–6, 23, 32, 39–41, 43, 46–9, 51, 56, 60, 65–7, 72, 74–5, 77, 79–81, 98, 120, 122–5, 127, 135, 144 travel in 3–6, 8–9, 21, 34–6, 43, 52, 65, 74, 76, 150–64, 174–5 and the west 130–7, 142–8, 165 western concepts of xiv–xvi, 37, 40, 42 youths xiii, 50, 56, 78, 90, 101, 112 see also pilgrimage, Japanese journeys i, xi, xvii, 4–6, 9, 11–13, 19, 44, 79, 85–6, 88, 97–8, 108–10, 165–71, 173–7 pilgrimage as xvii–xviii, 13, 16, 19, 27–38, 40–2, 47, 59, 66, 69, 76, 79–80, 108 spiritual i, xvii, 3, 7–9, 13, 104, 133, 135–6 Zenzai’s 30, 32–4, 36 see also pilgrimage; tourism junrei (circular pilgrimage) see Buddhism, journey; pilgrimage, terms for Kamakura 76 Era (1192–1333) 7, 13, 79 kami (gods) xvi, xviii, 9, 16, 19–20, 31, 34–5, 45, 49–51, 60, 68, 77–9, 88, 97, 99, 103, 106, 107–9, 110–14, 116–17, 127, 162 Amaterasu Ōmikami (sun goddess) 8, 16–19, 135 see also Ise Shrine Four Guardian Gods of Heaven 77–8 Seven Gods of Good Luck (Shichifukujin) 50, 57, 77–8 stranger-god 58, 60, 77, 84 see also India, gods Kannon xvi, 7, 27–31, 33–6, 78 33 Holy Places of xvi, 7, 13, 27–30, 36, 79, 147 see also Bodhisattvas Kō (associations) see pilgrimage, associations for Kobe 155, 159–60, 165 Kōbō-daishi (774–835 CE) 14, 27, 39, 40, 43, 46–8, 50–2, 68–71, 90 88 Holy Places of xviii–xix, 7, 13–5, 27, 32, 39–48, 51–5, 57–60, 65–72, 75, 77–9, 90, 147 see also Shikoku Island see also Buddhism, Shingon Sect; pilgrimage Korea 30, 33, 35, 87, 157, 161 Kūkai see Kōbō-daishi Kumano xix, 6–7, 31, 39, 74, 76, 79–82, 147 see also pilgrimage kyokusenkei (circuit pilgrimage) see pilgrimage, types of Kyoto 13, 33, 61, 79, 98, 141, 151, 153, 155, 165, 170

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life xx–xxi, 3, 5, 8–9, 14, 21, 28, 32, 34, 56, 59, 61, 68, 70–1, 74, 85, 87, 99, 103–5, 107, 111–13, 121, 127, 131, 133–6, 141, 148, 151–2, 156–61, 172–3, 175 everyday xiii–xiv, 13, 19, 42, 46–7, 91, 104, 145, 149 normal 89, 91, 100 pilgrim’s xviii, 40, 42, 47 life-cycle 5, 99, 105, 136, 174 birth xiii, 14, 28, 53 death 5, 20, 32, 45, 47, 49, 52–3, 57–8, 79, 90, 133, 136–7, 149, 154, 170 marriage xiii, 55, 89 rebirth 5, 28, 30, 71, 134–7 Lotus Sutra 27–8, 30, 52 see also Buddhism, Nichiren sect mairi (humble approach to a palace or temple) see pilgrimage, types of marebito (divine visitors) see kami, stranger-god Meiji Era (1868–1912) xxi, 17–20, 34, 76, 104, 153 Restoration (1868) xvi, 33, 174 mōde (going to pray at a temple or shrine) see pilgrimage, types of Muromachi Era (1336–1573) 8–9, 51, 79 Nara 7, 22, 33, 61, 98, 155 Era (710–794) 13, 16 nature xvi, xx, 4–7, 14–15, 16, 22, 70, 80–1, 83, 99, 101, 103, 105, 108, 165 and Buddhism 4–5, 33 human 104–5, natural disasters xiii, 12, 150, 160–1 nuke-mairi see pilgrimage, clandestine o-rai tegata (circulating ticket) see pilgrimage, laws associated with Osaka 7, 20, 74, 78, 126, 128, 141, 153, 155, 158–9, 161 pilgrimage xi–xii, xiii–xxi, 7, 10, 13, 16, 22, 30, 39, 43, 45–6, 52–3, 55, 59, 62, 83, 85, 89–93, 107, 147, 155, 175 accommodation 11, 39, 43–5, 47 aims 7, 15, 97, 147, 175–6 associations for 8–9, 19, 56 begging 51, 56 Buddhist xvi–xvii, 7, 13–16, 28–32, 36, 39–48, 51, 55, 57–8, 65–7, 75, 82, 97–100, 155 centres 88–9, 97 in China 35 Christian xv–xviii, 13, 15–21, 174 clandestine 8, 24, 41, 48 clothing and paraphernalia 11, 13, 58, 80 communitas 49, 59–61, 88, 146–7, 173, 177 concepts of xv, xviii, 3, 27–38, 75, 85, 89–91, 97–106, 107–8, 142 and culture xv–xvi, 6, 12, 74, 120, 146 and experience 148–9, 172–7 Indian roots of 28–31 Ise xvi, xviii, 8–9, 16, 18–24, 39, 48, 57, 61, 76, 84, 98, 147, 155

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Japanese xi, xvi–xx, 3, 7, 13–15, 18–20, 27–38, 39–48, 49–62, 65–83, 90, 97–106, 147, 173 laws associated with 11, 40–1, 20, 59, 62, 40 liminality i, xiv, xx, 6, 58, 85–6, 147 modernity 74–81, 130–7, 141–9 motivations for 57–9, 67–72, 85, 97 routes 10–15, 17, 27, 41, 43, 102, 175 Ryūkyūan 107–19 Shintō 8, 13, 16, 18–21, 82, 98–9, 155 terms for 3, 8, 13, 29, 51, 57, 86, 107 tradition 74, 76–81, 98 travel as 3, 146–7, 175 types of xvi–xvii, 16, 28–9, 51, 65–6, 74–83, 87 see also Kannon, 33 Holy Places of; Kobo-daishi, 88 Holy Places of; Kumano; pilgrims; quest pilgrims xvi–xix, 7–8, 10–14, 17, 19–23, 27, 29, 35–6, 39–48, 49, 51–60, 65–73, 76, 80–1, 86–7, 108, 114, 126, 147–9, 155, 175–6 experience 65, 72, 172 hospitality 44–5, 47–8, 50, 60, 71, 174 inns 11, 21, 39, 42–5, 47, 50, 55–6, 59 motives 22, 59, 67, 69 records xviii, 23, 40–1, 43–7 sacred nature of 47, 58 terms for xviii, 13, 27, 39–48, 51–2, 55, 58–9, 65–72, 75, 78, 149 and tourists 76, 89, 91, 150, 172–3, 175–6 power xiii, xvi, 6–8 14, 53, 88, 90, 110, 112, 117, 123 Buddhist xx, 79 magic 5, 54, 85, religious 72, 100 state 17, 18, 79, 148 supernatural 54, 58, 60, 89, 105 prayer 13–15, 52, 80, 88, 90, 110, 116, 172 quests i, xi–xvi, xviii–xxi, 3–4, 20, 33, 89, 98, 150–1, 154, 159, 165–170, 172–3, 175–7 Religion i, xi, xiii, xiv, xvi, xxi, xxii, 35, 72, 80, 88, 91 and Buddhism 3, 31, 67, 79, 82, 174 concept of xiv, xxiii, 37, 69, 72 definition of xiii–xiv, xxi–xxii folk 49, 82, 83, 156 in Japan xiii, xv, 3, 31, 43, 49, 91 Judeo-Christian xiii, 82, 108, 174 organization of xiii, 79 and the State xxi–xxii, 17, 33, 41 Religious xiii–xiv, xvi, xix, 3, 8, 10–17, 21, 45, 52, 66–7, 72, 76, 78, 80–1, 112, 115, 117, 127, 147–9, 158, 173–7 activity xi, xiii, xx–xxi, 16, 45, 47, 74, 90, 147 belief xiii, xvi, xix, 13, 11, 22, 67–72, 89, 111, 148, 174–5 ceremony 17, 22, 66, 125

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178

images xix, 14, 54 institutions xiii, xxi, 4, 8, 16, 33, 48, 60, 74, 76, 79, 81, 90, 104, 106, 107, 111, 155 purpose 11, 22, 51, 67, 74, 77 tradition xxi, 5, 7, 24, 43, 46, 82, 154 worship 74–5, 79–80, 111 see also Buddhism, priests; pilgrimage; pilgrims, ritual; Shinto, priests rites of passage 58, 86, 88, 90–1, 141–9, 173 ritual xiv, xx, 18, 22, 35, 49, 85, 87–8, 91, 107–8, 110–15, 117, 125, 149, 150, 154, 176 see also ceremony rokubu (pilgrim travelling with the 66 volumes of the Lotus Sutra) see pilgrims, terms for sacred xiii, xviii, xix, xxi–xxii, 13, 23, 90, 147 concept of xv, xix, 13, 90, 112 experience of xviii, xxi, 85, 107, 148 objects 13, 16, 20, 51, 90, 110, 114, 123, 149 pilgrims as 46–7, 51, 58–60 places xiv, xviii–xix, 6, 13, 16, 21–3, 29, 33–5, 51, 61, 65–6, 76, 79–80, 85, 90, 98, 104–5, 107– 8, 110–11, 113, 115–16, 147, 149 and profane xiv, xix, xxi, 45, 85, 88, 91 strangers as xix, 49, 60 tourism as 85, 90, 147 see also Buddhism, sacred places, of; pilgrimage, religious, sankei (visit to a sanctuary) see pilgrimage, terms for sanpai (paying respects to a sanctuary) see pilgrimage, terms for Santiago de Compostela xi, xv–xx, xxii, 10–13, 16–18, 20–4, 51, 81–2, 88, 147, 167, 174 see also pilgrimage; Spain Second World War 17, 18, 65, 120–1, 123, 125, 131, 135–6, 151, 154, 156–7, 159, 161 self xiv, 15, 32, 51, 68–9, 85, 87, 89, 173, 177 Shikoku Island xviii-xix, 5, 13–14, 27, 32, 39–48, 51, 55–60, 65–72, 75, 77–9, 90, 147 see also Kōbō-daishi, 88 Holy Places of Shintō xiii, xvi, 16, 24, 68, 108, 111 belief in xiii, 25, 68 Buddhism, relationship with xiii, 3, 9, 16, 33, 45, 68, 82, 106 and nature xvi priests 19, 50 rituals 18, 49, 112–13, 154 shrines xiii, xvi, xviii, 5, 8–9, 16, 18–22, 24–5, 39, 48, 51, 57, 76, 79, 84, 88, 90, 98, 106, 147 as State religion 9, 17, 106 see also Ise Shrine; kami; pilgrimage shugyō (ascetic training) see Budhism, training shūkyō see religion, defintion of society xiv, xvii–xix, 3, 19, 32, 36, 39–40, 43, 47, 60–1, 65, 72, 76, 90–1, 109, 142, 144, 148–9, 152–3, 155, 160–1, 164, 173 see also Japan, society

Index

179

souvenirs 8, 23, 77, 87, 92, 172, 175 see also card, fuda space i, xviii, xx, 4–5, 7–9, 16–26, 91–2, 97–8, 100, 104–5, 108, 130, 132–4, 146, 149, 161, 169, 176 see also sacred, places Spain xv, 18, 21–3, 120–9, 165–71, Christianity 10, 17 culture xv–xvi, xxi, 12, 170 identity 18 and Japan xi, xviii, 10–24, 173–5 pilgrimage in xviii, 10, 173 tradition xxi see also pilgrimage, Santiago de Compostela spirits 28, 49, 107, 114, 173 see also kami State, the xiii, xxii, 9, 112, 142, 151, 161 Japan as xvi, xxi rituals 107, 111–12, 173 strangers xix, 49–62 images of 49–50 nature of 47 as sacred 49, 58–60 Taoism (Daoism) 28, 77, 104, 111 temples xiii, xvii, xix, 6–7, 13–15, 19, 27–8, 30, 32–3, 36, 39, 43–5, 48, 51–2, 58, 65–6, 75–6, 78, 85, 99, 104–6, 147, 155 see also Budhism, temples; Kannon, 33 Holy Places, of; Kōbō-daishi, 88 Holy Places this-worldly, xiii, xiv, xx, 5, 35, 77, 105 see also Buddhism Tokugawa see Edo Tokyo 8, 40, 50, 58, 84, 121, 124, 128, 141, 151, 153, 155, 157–8, 160, 162, 166 tourism i, xi, xvii, xix–xx, 13, 21, 24, 46, 74–6, 80–1, 84–91, 151, 155, 158, 162, 166, 172–3, 175, 177 tourists 47, 76, 80, 86, 88–9, 91, 141, 151, 172–3, 175–6 see also pilgrims, tourists uchi (inside) 86, 117 United States xxi, 84, 88–9, 125, 143, 146–9, 150–4, 156–8, 161, yamabushi (mountain ascetics) 7, 50, 54, 79–81 see also Buddhism, priests zatō (blind priests) see Budhism, priests