Fire and water

‘What kind of camera do you have again?’ Tom asked giving me a hand up.  ‘A digital Rebel XT, why?’  ‘Well, the body isn’t water sealed but you should be okay, probably.  Just give it a few days to dry out.’  Everyone around was staring and those closest to us were asking, daijoubu (are you okay)?  Another friend, Jason, walked up.  ‘So that sound was you.  Everything good?’  I looked at my dripping camera, soaked pants and soggy arm, ‘Yeah, I think so.’

October 22^nd, the valley village of Kurama, about an hour North of Kyoto city, you need to be there.  On that day starting around 6pm when the sun sets the whole town, all one long house laden street of it, holds a fire festival whose origins date back a thousand years or so.

Many houses display heirlooms such as wall scrolls done by famous calligraphers, suits of samurai armor, and shoji (painted walls) in front rooms for all to see.  Others have giant torches (and I mean big, some up to 25ft tall) laid out waiting to be burned.  Small piles of wood in metal stands line the street ready to be lit and light the way for the procession.

I arrived two or three hours before the festivities began but even still the streets were lined with people saving the choicest of spots and as the sun quickly set the numbers increased exponentially.  I wandered up the narrow road taking in the sights and atmosphere.  It was charged with anticipation and everyone was ready to begin.  The smell of oil and cut wood was inescapable and intoxicating.

About the mid-point I started up a conversation with an American tourist, Jason, sitting by the side of the road waiting for things to begin.  A local of Kansas City he was enjoying a nice two week vacation wandering around Japan.  We talked of this and that and soon the police came by unraveling yellow cordoning tape telling everyone to get behind and make way for the first torch bearer.  It was also about this time we picked up a third member of our group, Tom, a local of Philadelphia and dedicated photographer (judging by the size of his camera bag and number of different toys he kept pulling out).

It all started with a single young man clothed in white carrying a burning torch shouting welcome as he walked up the street.  From then on it was a intermittent procession of young children carrying small to medium sized torches assisted by family members, all shouting saireasairo(not sure of the translation).  The ages of children ranged from those just able to walk to about 12 years old and all were dressed in traditional era clothes.  The adults participating in the procession wore a little less modest, though traditional, fundoshi(kind of like a cloth diaper) small grass skirt and shoulder pads.

Soon the small torches disappeared to be replaced by larger twenty to twenty five foot long/tall ones carried on the shoulders of grown men, all moving in rhythmic dancing step.  At first they only had a small flame flickering dully, easily outshone by the burning stands on the side of the road. However, they soon grew into roaring flames sending clouds of smoke high into the air.  Helpers carrying big ladles dipped them in conveniently placed buckets of water and splashed them on the torches to keep the flames from roasting the bearers alive.

Up and down the street you could see flames from torches and stands bathing the town in a smoky orange and yellow haze.  The calls of torch bearers rang out and echoed off the steep valley walls.

My new friend Tom turned to me breaking the spell, ‘Let’s move down a little that way for a different angle.’  ‘Sure,’ I said turning around and stepping right into the foot deep stone ditch filled with running water.

As I tipped forward my other foot searched for purchase only to be placed on a metal plate which suddenly slipped into the gap creating an angled surface that my knee slammed into.  My arm darted out grabbing for anything that would slow my fall.

My arm found something all right, one of those conveniently placed buckets of water.  Gripping the edge my downward momentum pulled the bucket over dumping its contents down my front and right side, all over my digital SLR camera (which had just smacked into the pavement).

I should get into TV here.  My slapstick humor would wow the Japanese masses.

I stood up dripping water, and started to laugh.  After all, what else can you do in a situation like that?  The ludicrous nature of what had just happened left room for no other reaction.

We finally did move down the road, all the way to where the main procession was gathering (despite cops insisting that this was a one-way and we were going the wrong way).

What happened next I can only begin to describe.  Hundreds of people all yelling and shouting carrying enormous burning torches  down a narrow road to the primal pounding of huge drums and unearthly jangle of bells, it was awesome.  You could almost feel yourself transported back to those long gone days of old except for the constant strobe of people trying to get that perfect picture (me included).

After they passed I checked my watch.  Everyone from friends to locals I had talked to recommended that I should head out as early as possible.  If you waited too long there would be hours of tortuous waiting behind throngs of people who had decided ‘now’ was the time to go home.

I grabbed Jason, Tom wanted to stay for more pictures, and headed to the station.  As it were we still ended up in line behind hundreds of people who wanted to avoid the crowds (ironic, heh?).  We were lucky though.  As the first train prepared to leave we were let through the gates and found ourselves packed in like sardines.

A small price to pay for getting home at a decent hour.

Only in Japan.