Four Days in Kyoto

 I had three days in a hostel booked, during one of the busiest weeks of the year for Kyoto (the others being Japan's Golden Week in April and the week of Obon in August) assuming I’d get my fill easily in that time.  For all I've seen, and for the night extra I pulled off, I can promise you that I woke up this morning in an air of regret, because four days in Kyoto could never be enough.  I count myself as fortunate for the time I had anyway.  Kyoto is a city unlike any other, and I happened to be there at the turning of New Years.

The train that took me to Kyoto passed through an area that had been hit with snow, and so I saw the white stuff for the first time this winter.  The fields and houses were covered with a fresh blanket, and it ran in veins down the mountains where it had settled in the deeper crevices and tree shadows.  I was so excited to see it, living in the snowless realm of Shizuoka city, but in a matter of minutes, due to the speed of the shinkansen (bullet train) and the climatic variability in Japan, the snow was gone; replaced again by the regular green and brown and red of winter here. 

Arriving in Kyoto, excited despite having done almost no research on the city, except for knowing that it was a cultural heartland filled with exquisite architecture, I walked down the massive entrance of the station, the city spread coming into view in front of me.  The first thing I saw, oddly enough, was Astro Boy; an 80s anime that showed up in North America in time for my mother, as she had told me before, to watch while in the hospital with me.  After some crisscrossing, my friend Sandy, an employee with the same company as me, and I finally located each other.  No one else was getting in until later so we decided to go get some food.  Sandy and I both like the same food… which is to say just about anything Japanese, so it was easy to decide on scoping out a nice Ramen restaurant.  She had only arrived a few hours before and had never been in Kyoto before either.  Walking down the street away from the station—an amazing, yet seemingly out of place structure filled with natural light which stretches via stair and escalator amazingly high to an open air garden atop with a view of the city—we searched for a restaurant.  Within minutes an enormous temple entrance came into view, leaving me agog.  It was just sitting there off the street.  Later, we would stop and watch a heron perch itself atop this structure, statuesque against the ashy winter sky above.   Sandy and I soon found a great ramen restaurant; as authentic as they come and utterly delicious.

The next thing that happened was that two more friends arrived in fairly quick succession after we finished eating.   The sun was going down by now—a drawback to visiting in winter when it sets so early—but even still, most temples and shrines close at 4 or 5 anyway because, well, monks actually have to pray and complete their meditative duties sometime without a flow of sightseers about.  We all split for the night to hotel or hostel (I’m an avid hostel user, as on this trip, though I don’t shy away from a cheap hotel when necessity or poor planning dictates). 

The hostel was a great place, big and busy, pretty much completely full.  The Japanese staff were young, friendly and hospitable (the latter two come with the territory), so without further ado we were up to our room.  There were six beds, two of which were occupied by an Argentine girl studying Japanese dance in Tokyo, now on vacation, with her sister.  There were also two Brits, a guy and a girl, travelling on vacation too and we all fell into a conversation about what to see.  They told us about a seemingly fantastical mountain they had discovered, where wild monkeys run free and from the top of which you can see all of Kyoto.  They showed us hazily on the map where this place was, and I decided that this would need to be slotted into our schedule somewhere.

We slept in a bit the next morn and then were up.  We headed out for Kinkakuji, also known as The Golden Pavilion, for reasons which will soon be evident.  After being up streets and down streets and on the subway, hoping that we were suddenly going to see something golden come into sight, I stopped and asked a guy where it was.  Moments later we were on a city bus, which dropped us off near the entrance to the temple.  On a mountain side in the near distance, the Kanji symbol for ‘big’ or 'great' （大）is scraped out of the vegetation and lined with stone mounds.  This is one of five characters on five different mountain sides in Kyoto.  In August, during the week of the dead (Obon), they are lit on fire in the night to guide spirits the spirits back to their world after the annual visit.
                                                                         

Walking into the temple grounds we were greeted by more beautiful architecture.  We bought tickets and were soon walking down a wide forested path with a ton of other sightseers.  Then, through the trees we glimpsed it:  Kinkakuji; the golden temple.  That’s right, the Golden Temple— the entire thing, shining in the sunlight, is covered with gold leaf and seems like something out of an elaborate fantasy.  We came around the corner and the temple, sitting on a pond in a way that makes it seem to float upon it, came into view.  The sight was one of those unforgettable moments.  The waters of the pond ripple lightly, reflecting the temple upon it.  Despite the masses of people sightseeing at your side, no human moves within the confines of the sight.  The garden around it creates a feeling that you might be looking in upon paradise, and so the uncountable cameras start to snap madly.  Yes, it was amazing.  The path takes you around to the other side of the temple so you can see all angles and then continues on through the gardens and landscape higher up through the hills.  In 1950 the temple burnt down by a novice monk and had to be rebuilt, thus a golden phoenix adorns the top of it.  This like many things I have seen Shizuoka and the rest of Japan, and like many things I would continue to see in Kyoto, was so beautiful that I again marvel at the minds that have created such sights in times long past, and continue to maintain and create them anew in the present. 

                                                         

Leaving the Golden Pavilion, my only real goal for that day, me and the friend I was with at the time continued walking down the road hoping that we would come upon something of interest.  We soon came to a place called Ryoan-ji (meaning The Temple of the Dragon at Peace).  ‘What is this place?’ we asked ourselves.  We looked in the guide book we’d been toting along, mainly because it contained a vaguely detailed map of the city.  We looked up this Ryoan-ji, the entrance of which currently stood before us, just off the road.  Contains the most famous rock garden in all of Japan, said the book.  We stop for a moment. 

“Wait a minute,” I said, a bit incredulous at this prospect.  “We were really just walking down the road and we’ve suddenly come across the most famous rock garden in Japan?”  

My companion seemed equally shocked.

“That’s what it says,” she replied.  We read further.  This was not just a Zen rock garden (known as karesansui, or dry landscape garden) but The Zen rock garden.  If you ever happen to be flipping through a tourist book of Japanese sights, you’ll be likely to come across a photo of Ryoan-ji karesansui .  Besides being the most famous rock garden in Japan, it is considered one of the masterpieces of Japanese culture, and an ultimate expression of Zen Buddhism.  We went in, giddy with excitement (at least I was).  As we headed towards the rock garden itself, we passed a beautiful pond, once the home to many mandarin ducks, some of the descendants of which are still paddling around on its serene waters.  In fact, ducks were so prominent here that Ryoan-ji was once known as Oshidoridera, “The temple of Mandarin Ducks”.   I had to stop and take it all in, because it’s another one of those sights—the ones that command your feet to stop moving and take in what's before you for a moment.  I saw that we would go around the other side of the pond on the way back, so we went ahead and entered the main temple.  In here we removed our shoes; it was mostly quiet: something ahead was inspiring people to keep their voices down for the most part.  We walked into the presence of the Garden.

The rock garden can easily be described physically, and pictures can only show you the same, but it is hard to convey what the place is really like.  There are fifteen stones, which sit on small beds of moss, seemingly at random, in a sea of raked white gravel.  From any angle you stand, only 14 stones are ever completely visible; wherever you move, one will always come to block another.  The garden is surrounded by earthen walls of clay and oil, the leaching out of the latter over many years has created interesting patters in the walls.  An old cherry tree looms behind the back wall, its hanging branches skeletal in the chilly winter air.  The garden was made by a man named Soami, a painter and gardener who died in 1525.  No explanation for the garden was ever given by the creator, but since then the Japanese and many in the outside world alike have pondered the meaning.  Many think that the garden is a riddle of some sort.  Japanese universities have classes in which the meaning is debated and discussed.  Traditionally it is held that only a person who achieves enlightenment will be able to see all 15 stones.  I sat and stared at the garden, and I wanted to stay for hours, for days.  Behind us a room which we couldn't enter, where monks sit, meditate and ponder the garden, as I imagine has been done for hundreds of years, and as I stared at it, I understood how.  I moved to different angles, I counted the rocks, only ever fourteen, but that only scratches the surface of the garden.  There seems to be so much here, beyond the initial view of random rocks laid out in a sea of gravel.  It is a beautiful sight for sure, but just as the pamphlet we received reads, the more you stare at it the more your imagination runs on.  Does it mean that all things in this world are unwaveringly connected, in the way that one rock always blocks another, no matter what physical position one takes?  No one will ever know for sure. 

                                            

Leaving the rock garden, we came around to a simple stone was basin at the back, into which runs water from a hollow piece of bamboo, the tsukubai.  I left Ryoan-ji feeling a calm sense of wonder.  It gives me a better idea of what Zen Buddhism is all about, having now sat before the garden for myself.  The sun was well on its wane, and we decided that we wouldn't make it to the monkeys that day… still I walked on in a state of content contemplation at what I had just seen.

A small stone stairway, leading far away from the street we were on, into the woods, intrigued us.  We walked up it.  At one point, a path through the woods could be seen leading to a set of torii gates (the stone pillars with the two cross beams).  These always indicate the entrance to a shrine, which houses a kami ( a god, in the Shinto religion.)  Beyond the torii gates, in the gathering gloom, we could just make out what appeared to be a grave, but what was probably indeed a small shrine to one of the kami.  Kami, as I said, are gods, which in Shinto are believed to live within many things in nature: trees, rocks, mountains, waterfalls, etc.  It was special to see one of these sacred places out of the way, down a little forest path, but I have found such things in other places as well, and shrines can be found in the most unexpected, out of the way places, because the kami, of course, live all throughout the natural world.  I did not go down to the shrine but finished climbing to the top of the stairs, where we discovered a  graveyard in the woods, which ran down a hill but which we could not see the ends to because of the trees.  We were both stopped in our tracks before I explored a bit further.  I took no pictures here, because this did not feel like such a place to do so.  I have been to quite a few graveyards so far, but my friend had not been to any, so she was amazed, as I was the first time, to see that fresh flowers were kept in vases and cups at so many of the graves.  In Japan, family members regularly bring fresh flowers and sometime fruit to the graves of their family in a gesture that, in this busy world, I find fascinating and beautiful.  The sun was setting and there was a red glow cast over the entirety of this place, where stone monuments stood quietly amongst the trees and fallen leaves. 

It took a lot of walking and one subway ride to get back to our hostel.  We dropped our things, met up with two more friends and got some dinner and then drinks at a foreigner geared British pub called the Pig and Whistle.  Such places aren’t my usual choice of haunt, but it seemed like the popular place to go on vacation at least.  Before the pig and whistle though, we explored the Gion district, which is the traditional area of the Geishas.  Traditionally this was a place where Geisha would entertain their well-to-do, male ‘guests’ in special rooms and buildings, including dances and instrumental performances.  Maiko and Geisha were well trained in these arts.  But of course, this is MODERN day.  In modern day, the Gion districts is a place where Geisha, well… would still do pretty much the same thing.  Huh?  That’s right; Gion is the district of excesses.  I unfortunately have to tell you first that no, in all this time I did not see a real Geisha.  This is a more common sight in the summer than the chilly dead of winter.  Around the city, it is regular for many women to go about in Kimonos, which are also lovely, and I saw many of them, but no geishas and no maiko.  Walking down Gion was hilarious; a constant assault of club and gentlemen’s entertainment spots with names, often in English, such as, and I’m not joking, Club Laid.  That is but one example of what basically that whole area is like.  Girls in Kimono , well styled hair, and precisely applied make up stand in the doorways at many places, calling out to passing men.  As funny as all of it was, it was a cool experience, because this is a strong and lasting vestige here of traditional culture in Kyoto.  The strip of gentlemen’s clubs may be lit with neon these days, but parts of it are still serving largely the same purpose it did hundreds of years ago.

Okay, skip ahead, Next day.  We woke up, ate our respective breakfast’s from nearby convenience stores, the four of us in this party all dead set on getting to the Magical Monkey Mountain, which by now had evidently mutated in my mind to something bordering on a wonderland.  The monkeys in question were indigenous Japanese macaques.   We took a bus to a destination called Arashiyama—a short bus ride, but when we got there we were suddenly out of the city.  A massive river filled with canoers and small boats ran between mountains before us.  I suddenly felt I was in a place more akin to Cape Breton, or Newfoundland, not Japan, but there I was.  We crossed a bridge that took us across the river, and after asking around were directed back to where we started.  Here we found the entrance to the monkey mountain, as unassuming as could possibly be.  There was a picture of some cartoon monkeys and steps leading up into the trees.  That was all.  But people were making their way up it and so did we.  We found a gate and some little buildings, where we paid to get in and were given a pamphlet saying what NOT to do with the monkeys.  Then we were climbing up, up, up.  To the left was a steep water carved crevice in the earth along which our path runs, to the right only woods.  Families descended around us, some with crying, scared looking children.  Maybe not so fun for everybody. 

Suddenly, there was movement from the corner of our eyes and all heads shot to the left as a monkey, having leapt from an impossible height, landed on a branch over the crevice.  The branch bent down like a spring and then shot back up.  The monkey was perched there, watching us.  Someone gasped something between a scream, squeal and an “OH MY GOD”.  The monkey stayed in the tree, then leapt onto the path in front of us and disappeared into the trees again.  Wow… just, wow.  Call me untraveled, but that was probably the closest I'd ever been to one without a cage between us.

The path opened up and a mountain rose before us.  Somewhere up ahead another monkey could be seen.  Monkeys—I still could believe it, we were going to walk with monkeys.   The pamphlet said something like ‘here, people are the ones in cages’ and it’s true.  This was the monkey’s habitat and we were the strange ones in their home.  The path continued to wind up, but the monkeys appeared to elude us.  Then, as we began to climb another hill, I saw one sitting on the path.  I handed off my camera and told my companion to get a picture of me with the monkey, violating rule number 1: Don’t take pictures on the way up the mountain.   I slowly walked towards where the monkey was sitting and eating something.  I crouched down beside it and it stopped to stare at me.  Then, because I couldn’t help it, I violated rule number 2: Do not make eye contact with the monkeys.  I do anyway.  I stare it right in the eyes because it’s impossible not to.  Suddenly the monkey’s eyes changed from questioning to something else—anger, fear, some combination of both.  It attacked… well, not really.  It didn’t really have claws because it’s a monkey, but it paddled its hands against my pant leg.  I moved back quickly, admittedly freaked out a bit, in case it was panicked enough to bite.  I left it to return to scrabbling with its pebbles, its territory established, and walked back to my friends a little bit ashamed of my naivety but trying to play it cool, as if I work with wild monkeys all the time or something.  

                            

We went up the mountain further there were suddenly monkeys gathering around our little group, in the trees and on the rocks above.  Michael Chrichton’s Congo came fleetingly to mind.  Are these guys planning something?  More and more monkeys surrounded our group, many of them just staring straight at us.  There were two girls walking close behind us and one of them said “This would NEVER be legal in America.”  Nope… it probably wouldn’t be.  But hey, everyone walks onto this mountain of their own free will.  Some big monkeys leapt into our path and walked grunting across it…and suddenly we reached the clearing at the top, and up here monkeys and people were walking around communally.  I turned here, opposite to the direction in which we'd scaled the slope, and saw the view: all of Kyoto was before us.  Incredible.  Monkeys were everywhere now, it seemed.  Cleaning each other, playing, eating, wrestling for dominance.  It’s true; we were the ones in the cage.  We could go a little further after that and kept walking amongst the monkeys going about their lives.  By the time we left and made our way back down the hill, the sun is once again on the wane.  We ate and caught a bus for home.

That was December 30^th and I was originally planning to go home the next evening for New Years in Shizuoka, but on the bus ride back my three travel companions convinced me not to go and spend New Years alone there (Japanese spend it quite dedicatedly with their families—an equivalent to Christmas eve/ day in Western countries).  It didn’t take a lot of convincing, and Kyoto had already shown me that IT was the place to be on New Years, and how true that was.  Because this was a last minute decision, I didn’t have another night at my full hostel reserved, but two friends agreed to give me their hotel room floor to sleep on that night, though we were planning to stay up till sunrise, so it would be more like next morning (later we had a fun time sneaking my bags and then myself into the hotel, but that’s a slightly unrelated story for another time.)  Today we had two big sights on the list.  The first: Toji Temple, with the tallest pagoda in Japan, at five stories.  The main tower was breathtaking in itself, but the whole temple area was simply a wonderful experience.  It was New Years eve, so the grounds were filled with Japanese praying.  Shrines, as I mentioned, are Shinto, while Temples are Buddhist.  Think of Shinto being the religion that covers the living, wherein the kami assist with our lives and are prayed to for health, harvest, protection from the environment, etc, while Buddhism widely covers aspects of the next life.  Buddhism is not so much a religion as it is a philosophy.  The purpose of this entry isn’t to delve into the details of this though. 

We walked quietly through the halls and grounds of Toji, being as respectful as possible.  In the buildings here –massive, ancient and wooden—we were not allowed to take pictures.  The exact reason is unknown to me; whether it is a matter of sacrilege or not, but I respect this for the most beneficial outcome of all: the atmosphere and grandeur of the temple’s interior is not detracted from by the constant flashing of cameras.  Many of the statues contained here were ancient, all were spectacular and commanded a sense of awe as well as respect.  Around us, in the muffled late morning quiet of the interior, Japanese were praying.  This was another one of those priceless moments, because New Years is such an important time in Japan; a time to pray for health and peace and a time to connect with what matters on all those levels deeper than the day in day out of monetary exchange and train times.  I am glad I could not take pictures in these places, because it let me absorb the experience so completely, and because once I entered the place I realized that I would not want to clash with what I considered a certain sacredness occurring around us with the obnoxiousness of my camera anyway.  I saw many of the national treasures of Japan in this temple, and I guess it’s something you just have to come to Kyoto to see for yourself.  As far as ancient Buddhist relics go though, the greatest was yet to come.

The last stop for me before New Years:  Sanjusangen-do hall.  Here, housed inside the longest wooden building in the world are the 1000 thousand armed kannon statues, life sized and facing the visitor coldly in their ranks.  Nothing can quite bring on a sense of awe in the same way this does.  Here, once again, no pictures were allowed to be taken, but I am fine with that.  I wish I could show you this place, but in a way, it needs to be experienced.  The place dates back to 1164.  In the centre of the 1000 kannon statues, halfway through the hall, is the massive, jaw dropping Thousand Armed Kannon, carved in 1254.  The intricacies are beyond any description so I won’t even try.  Bordered as it was by 500 kannon statues on each side, just as intricately carved, and each nearly identical, the whole experience was mesmerizing. 

Okay, wrapping up:  NEW YEARS EVE.  Looking at a guide book we found Chion-in Temple, with the largest gate in Japan and a huge bell.  I’ve known for awhile that on New Years Eve the temples ring their bells 108 times, and figured this was simply the place I needed to go for the penultimate experience.  We arrived at about a quarter to midnight (I wanted to get there earlier, but I was in company and they weren’t as driven to get there an hour early as I was).  Walking in with a crowd up into the temple grounds we were greeted by the sanmon—the gate—lit up completely in an orange glow for New Years eve. 

The air was electric with the coming of New Years.  The crowd was flowing like a river past this monolith and up the mountain to the side, we joined the shuffle, which a friend likened to pilgrims travelling towards Mecca.  Just bodies and bodies heading towards some destination that I was not sure of, until in the distance we heard the *DONG* emanate from ahead and above.  One of the biggest bells in Japan was tolling atop the mountain and I knew that the 108 rings had begun, the ones that would stretch right through midnight.  We came to another open space and the crowd continued to file though a low orange light that permeated the air everywhere.  This had quickly become an almost surreal experience, and I felt part of a living river that ran up mountains to some destination of utter power.  People drifted into the cleansing smoke that drifted beside this river and that smoke caught the orange light and added to the special atmosphere of this midnight procession. 

Off to the side, on the steps of a smaller building, we caught sight of some other gaikokujin (foreigners) drinking a bottle of wine, laughing drunkenly, and carrying on visibly in the gloom with loud voices.  The four of us were disgusted, though I felt it wasn’t my place to say anything—perhaps in many other countries, someone would have at least told them to get the hell out of the temple grounds.  Still, it is morons like this that give foreigners a bad name, and I hoped that not many of the people around us would notice that group.  

My focus left them, and went back to the procession, where we were now heading up a hill, the dongs getting louder ahead.  Up, up, up and then, finally, the bell came into view.  At first I’m not sure I comprehended what I was seeing.  Still, that orange glow was the only light, and now it shone on a bell of enormous proportions.  Every thirty seconds or so, it tolled with another deep reverberation, but I couldn’t see who was doing this.  The river of people flowed around the bell and as I moved with them, losing my companions eventually, I saw how it was being rung.  Seventeen monks stood in the area around the bell.  About ten in the very front, each one holding a rope attached to a huge caber, like a log.  In silence or chanting, they pulled on the ropes, swinging the caber with more and more force until finally, a monk with a rope up in front would call something out and then pull down with all his force to bring the swinging caber into contact with the bell.  The toll made the air resonate.  Around the bell more monks, on their feet or their knees, prayed.  I do not know exactly what they were praying for, but I know the bell is rung 108 times for each sin that man is prone to.  If I had to guess based on what I know, I would say the monks pray on New Years for peace in the world.  It was overwhelming.  Like so many things that have happened so far, this was a moment that I will never forget for the rest of my life: watching the monks toll the bell at Chion-in, in Kyoto at New Years.  I did not know when they would end, but the final two tolls were done in quick succession with a sudden burst of energy from the monks on the rope—the caber hit the bell and then the monks cried something and gave another huge tug on the rope to bring the caber back for the successive, and loudest, toll of the night.  The crowd cheered and it was officially new years.  The monks gathered around the bell and chanted for a little while, before leaving and making their way in a line down the mountain.  The public went down a separate path and we made our way to a very nearby café up on the hill where we all drank sweet sake for New Years.  After that we wandered the food stalls back down the hill, where everything was akin to a carnival, got some food and then wandered amongst the crowded streets until we went to a little bar for a drink and then decided to head home. 

In the end we didn’t stay out until sunrise.  I was sleeping, as I said, on my friend’s hotel room floor and we all conked out at about 5… a bit too early.  That was okay though, as it was we were exhausted and slept until almost 3 in the afternoon.  I had to take the shinkansen home at 6:05 that evening, as that was apparently the last one running to all stations (therefore Shizuoka) that day.  I was sad to leave.  I came home, slept for a long time, then got up and started writing this.  I would love to see more of Kyoto, but it was also kind of nice to come back to my city, which was quiet and felt almost deserted that night.  A string of lanterns glowed in cold, clear night air at the empty ground of the shrine near my apartment building, and I was happy to return home in such a tranquil half light, walking alone in the fresh air of a new year, down the familiar streets of my Shizuoka.