Blog 13.
No, today‘s blog is not about the wide variety of Kitkats in Japan. Although I must tell you the one I tried – matcha chocolate with double berry and almond sprinkles – was delicious.
My mentor Dirk‘s advice to me regarding breaks on the henro was sound: short ones only, or your body will find it hard to get up again. How true that is. Sometimes just a standing break for a drink is best, however much you‘d like to sit. Other times, a bit longer is needed, or you won‘t recover enough to continue.
Getting up after any length of break, it always takes me a few minutes of stiff hobbling to warm back up to the walk.
Today I‘d like to tell you about some of the interesting breaks I‘ve taken. It‘s no wonder it takes me all day to walk 22 km, but you‘ve got to stop and smell the roses outside of the temples.
The other morning, on that gorgeous coastal road – my alternative to the mountain – there isn‘t a coffee shop in sight. Just when I am flagging, a man steps out from nowhere and offers me a coffee: a means to a chat. I cannot refuse, grateful to sit a while in his garden and make small talk in return for a fresh hot coffee and some peanut chocolate.
Later that day I stop in a fishing port at a souvenir shop with cafe to rest my legs. An unusual sight greets me at the entrance. It looks like a large waxy bamboo shoot, about 3 feet tall, bigger than any I’d seen in the bamboo groves. After my drink, I ask the staff what that thing at the door is. What thing? he asks me. I walk him over to it and touch it: this, what is this? Oh this, whale penis! he laughs. I remove my hand promptly. Not so lucky for the whale, who is still very much on the menu in Japan. No, I did not take a photo of it.
Another day, I pause in a chicken coop! A man on a country lane tells me „mo san kiro“ – another 3 km to the temple, and appears keen to show me his beautiful hens, clucking around their enclosure. Look, they‘ve laid eggs, he wants me to see. Go in! So I go in, rucksack and all, to admire the eggs. As I emerge and thank him, he tries to give me the eggs as an osettai. Thank you, but I cannot carry them in my rucksack. He tries so persistently to give me the eggs that I feel bad I can‘t take them. Ending our encounter with a photo, I bow and move on, in wonder at all my unusal experiences.
Just today a woman runs out of a small fish shop to give me an orange. She offers me a chair in the front of the shop to sit, which I gratefully do. I offer her some snacks, she pours me a tea and then she sings happily to herself at the back of the shop, making me some sushi rolls, no less.
I told you about henro huts, the typically open wooden shelters where a pilgrim can rest. These huts seem to be placed at the most opportune times on the trail when the going is hard, or when you need to change in or out of rain gear, for example. They are well looked after, with a book for pilgrims to write a few words in on their journey. One hut I was in even had a fresh vase of freesias on the table.
One particular hut is more of a trap, though. A man is sitting there on a cushion at the coffee table, waiting for passing henro. He beckons me in. Can you speak English is his bait. He‘s a local. He offers me an orange and tells me to sit. There is even a carpet in here, it‘s spotless, and there are photos of him with other pilgrims on the ceiling. I guess this hut is his property, and his man-cave. Wait a sec, he says, and comes back with his corgi dog and 2 cans of extra strong beer. It‘s mid-morning. What the heck, in for a penny, kanpai! He is glad for some company. He calls a local American friend of his up and puts me on the phone to him, trying to get me to attend a concert today. But I have to move on. The last attempt to keep me there drinking beer longer is a ceremonious one. He brings out a hand imprint, supposedly that of his Holiness Kobo Daishi, whose pilgrimage I am doing. Place your left hand on it. Say cheese. He snaps another photo for his hut. As a parting gift, he plucks some blossoms off the tree by the hut and showers me with them. Surreal.
Another morning, another choice about the route. There’s either a steep mountain in the blazing heat, or a tunnel of over 1700 m, through said mountain. I can‘t decide. So I take a break – for breakfast actually – to mull it over before crunch time.
My eyes need a moment to adjust from the sun to the dark smokey cafe where all the clients seem to be enjoying a cigarette after their „morning service“ breakfast set. Laughter errupts as the landlord converses with me in broken English. I am sure they don’t get many blond pilgrims in here.
My order arrives with much more food than the picture in the menu. „Osettai“ says the landlord, a gift from the man in the corner, to help you up the mountain. Amazing! The man in the corner is a big, muscly guy in a tight sweater and trilby hat, smoking. Matching handbag and shoes. He might belong to a certain organisation. I write my thanks on a henro nameslip and bring the paper over to him to say thank you in person and bow. He nods back. I seem to have been accepted in this place.
The woman he is with tells me the mountain in „taihen“ – terrible, and advises me to go through the tunnel. The landlord, in the meantime, brings out his old photo albums and shows me pictures of his pilgrimage. He even made it into the local newspaper, for reasons I‘ll never know.
Making coffee is his craft, and he gets to work on some apparatus to make me one of the best „drip coffees“ I‘ve ever had.
Donning my rucksack again, I head for the door, thanking all in the room for their ganbatte‘s to encourage me. An old man rushes past me and quickly returns with a good luck charm to attach to my pack, a little wooden rattle. I emerge into the glare and fresh air truly humbled.
Up ahead, how to decide? Fumes waft out of the tunnel. But once near the entry, the path up the mountain seems the greater of the two evils as I imagine the descent. I put on a surgical-looking face mask, switch on my trekking pole lights, and go in, trying not to breathe through my mouth as I pick up a swift pace for the next 20 minutes or so. The decision saves me a good 3 hours, but I am nauseous the rest of the morning.
My last break is a longer one. After a few days of mountains, I arrive in the city of Matsuyama with a swollen ankle. A 2-day rest with sight-seeing, in „civilian“ clothes. I bathe in the famous Dogo-onsen spa, the oldest in Japan, and visit the castle. Friends from Osaka visit me and we arrange to meet on my last night in Japan, which is difficult to think about at this stage.
As good as this break is, it is just not the henro. I am reminded of „real life“, but it is clear I am not ready for it yet. My itchy feet are keen to get moving again. It‘s now the last third of the pilgrimage.
I intend to relish every moment!
X
Marion Gibson 