My eyes snapped open as the second in a long series of sharp thumps emanated from the wall beside my head, orange lamps were still glowing visibly through the mesh canopy in the early morning light. It was 5am and time for the monks to do their rounds at the temple, including swinging the heavy wooden doors open and latching them into place. Not knowing whether someone would walk around the corner and discover a foreigner sleeping in a tent next to a holy site or what their reaction might be I came quickly to life and rapidly packed away my tent, sleep still clouding my thoughts. The night had consisted of strange, mixed dreams of coding web pages interspersed with fits of tossing and turning, not the most restful of of evenings but it would have to make due.
Beside the subdued sounds of the few monks hustling about it was completely silent. The tall cedar trees in the ancient forest around me was filled with a thin mist that swallowed all sound. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, moss, cedar, old rain, and freshly burned incense. Above me floated a small flotilla of gray clouds within a brilliant blue background. I slowly chewed my blueberry flavored Soy Joy (energy bar) savoring the flavor while taking in the sights and sounds (or rather lack of) around me. I was surrounded by thousands of gravestones covered in old moss standing where famous, wise men had once stood (and were buried), men who had changed the course of a country.
Many tourists have tromped through this place, listening in rapt attention with their mouths open as a guide shouted out canned facts and herded them around. How many had taken a moment to just stop and take it in, to listen and feel the place where they were standing? I have witnessed it countless times around this country. Up come the tourists to a famous site, out come the cameras, snap a few pictures, toss some money into a religious collection bin, say a quick prayer, then off to the next place, chattering the whole time. Total elapsed time maybe five or ten minutes. Another box ticked off on their checklist of things to do.
I sat for a while, composing some simple thoughts on a small notebook I carry with me. Sights, smells, sounds, feelings. Inside the main temple morning chants began and three monks clad in full regalia did what they have probably done every morning for years, read from their holy books tracing the words with a finger and calling out in sing-song voices. I stood at the back for a while with some rays of the early morning sun warming my back just listening. Time was moving forward and as the first tourists of the day began to arrive I decided to take my leave.
The rest of my day was interesting, but not noteworthy. I walked around the town from site to site with kilometer after kilometer passing under my feet. I saw wooden buildings that were hundreds of years old, relics that hold great cultural value, learned interesting bits of culture and spent time sitting at the foot of Tokugawa Ieyasu and Tokugawa Hideyoshi’s mausoleum where their spirits are enshrined marveling at the things they had done. So much history, so easy to access, so simple to touch yet so often ignored.
However, it is the early hours of that day dominate my memory and give meaning to the time I spent there. Something about Mt. Koya was different. In the crazy always moving Japanese society and twenty-four hours a day culture it has managed to stay (mostly) the way it was. It too has succumbed to the sirens call of commercialism but in a reserved and respectful way. I don’t know how long that will last though…
Only in Japan.
