Why would anyone be interested in the spectacle of immensely fat men trying to throw one another to the ground in the middle of a straw-bale ring? A strange sport, sumo, so an American friend and I headed down to Osaka last week to see what might be going on at the March Grand Sumo Tournament, starring Japan’s favorite wrestling elephants. I’ve seen sumo before and was prepared for the immensity of the combatants—they range from 5’8” to 6’6”, and few of them weigh less than 300 pounds, with the really big guys tipping the scale close to 400. I mean, they’re BIG. And they’re immensely strong, too, despite all the (consciously induced) flab—they eat 20,000 calories per day, much of it in beer. And they are intensely disciplined by their years of training in the “stables” (yes, that’s what they’re called) where they live and work—they have exceptional balance, quickness, and lateral movement, rather like the huge offensive and defensive linemen in American football.
A sumo match begins with the opening ritual of a ring official calling out the next wrestlers’ names—the two men, naked except for a loin cloth and thick silk belt—climb up onto the platform (which is square) and enter the ring (which is round), then squat opposite one another, staring intensely into one another’s eyes. At the highest levels, they then proceed to their corners, where they raise each leg high and stamp the dirt floor (to purify the ring), then sprinkle salt on themselves and fling some into the ring (also a purification). They take a sip of water from a corner attendant, rinse their mouths and spit (more purification), then return to the ring to squat and stare again, twice, with more salt-flinging, before the referee (who has been gesturing ritually with his wooden fan throughout this process) gives the signal to fight. Sumo used to be a temple ritual, not just an entertainment, so the purification seems a natural part of the sport.
The actual bout, which commences after the final squat and glare, can last from about a microsecond to a couple of minutes. The two men, separated by about a meter, charge at one another (there is no signal, it just happens) and collide with astonishing force, the tachiai which aficionados tell me determines the outcome of most matches. Sometimes one of the men steps aside with incredible grace (for such a huge lump) and the other falls flat on his face, helped by a push from above. Sometimes both men get grips on the other’s belt, and they proceed to micro-maneuver, sometimes for quite a while, before one of them busts a move and tries to overpower his adversary. Sometimes they slap (no punching is permitted, but slapping is), sometimes they attempt judo-like throws, and sometimes one just picks the other up by the belt and carries him out of the ring. The loser is the one who touches outside the ring or touches any part of his body (other than his feet) to the ground. There are eighty or more officially recognized ways to win a sumo match, and each has a name. The current Grand Champion, a Mongolian who uses the sumo name Asashoryu, has won sixteen of the past twenty tournaments (there are six tournaments a year)—each tournament consists of fifteen matches, fought on fifteen consecutive days, against fifteen different wrestlers. That is consistency.
Intrigued? Maybe it’s not just elephants in a ring after all.
2007年3月26日月曜日
A Perfect Coffee Moment
Japanese folks, contrary to stereotypes, love coffee and drink lots of it, despite its high cost (a single cup, no refills, of a high-end blend might run you more than $6.00). Kyoto has had coffee shops for well over a century, and the old ones downtown have exquisite wooden fixtures and tables and silent, almost religious decorum. We love coffee, too, so we’ve visited quite a few shops around town (including our favorite, which advertises a “perfect coffee moment”), but we hadn’t found one close to home that we liked until a couple weeks ago, on a walk, we spotted an odd-looking building a few blocks away, in our residential neighborhood. Modern in form, it had a small sign indicating that it sold coffee and had an art gallery within. Also, it permitted no smoking. Since it happened to be closed that day (we have noted before that Japanese businesses close on apparently randomly chosen weekdays, always the same one day per week per business), we peered through the window and saw a small, high-ceilinged space, wood paneled, with things hanging on the walls, a counter with maybe six seats, and two tables. Both tables were irregularly shaped wood, a small single log seating two and a large solid-top table seating six or seven.
It looked imaginative and fun, so on a bike ride yesterday, I stopped to check it out. As I opened the door, four middle-aged women came out—there was much bowing and apologizing (“forgive us for going first,” “no, forgive me for rudely keeping you waiting,” and so on), and I figured that in our suburban neighborhood, with its commuting men and high incomes, such folks would be the regulars of the shop. I ordered a cup of tea from the solo proprietor (also a middle-aged woman) and prepared to enjoy my book for an hour or so at a cost of around $3.50. The tea arrived, lovingly prepared in a blue and white porcelain cup, with a tiny packet of sugar and an equally tiny pitcher of cream, and I gazed admiringly at the beautifully polished wooden slab of a table at which I sat. It was altogether a satisfying coffee house.
Then the door opened and in walked three old men (at least 70+), in muddy work boots and old grungy clothing, all talking loudly and simultaneously (very not cool in Japan) in thick local dialect. They plonked themselves down at the large table, greeted the (very proper) proprietor in most informal language, and continued their conversation while they waited for their order. I guessed, without hope of verification, that these were fathers and uncles of families who had purchased large lots in the neighborhood and sought to reduce their taxes by having older retired relatives farm their yards (farmland is taxed at a much lower rate in Japan than residential plots)—that is, our local agricultural workers had joined me for a high-end break. They seemed so entirely out of place in that modern, polished-wood space, and yet they did not find themselves incongruous at all. The proprietress brought their tray, accompanied by precisely the same politesse that had brought me mine—three exquisite porcelain cups of steaming hot coffee, each prepared with the same care that I’m sure was lavished on the women who had preceded me. There’s something wonderfully democratic about Japan, at the same time as it is a very status-conscious, keep-up-appearances sort of society, and I hope we spend more time in that coffee house in the coming month. I was so intrigued by my fellow customers that I never even looked at the art on the walls.
It looked imaginative and fun, so on a bike ride yesterday, I stopped to check it out. As I opened the door, four middle-aged women came out—there was much bowing and apologizing (“forgive us for going first,” “no, forgive me for rudely keeping you waiting,” and so on), and I figured that in our suburban neighborhood, with its commuting men and high incomes, such folks would be the regulars of the shop. I ordered a cup of tea from the solo proprietor (also a middle-aged woman) and prepared to enjoy my book for an hour or so at a cost of around $3.50. The tea arrived, lovingly prepared in a blue and white porcelain cup, with a tiny packet of sugar and an equally tiny pitcher of cream, and I gazed admiringly at the beautifully polished wooden slab of a table at which I sat. It was altogether a satisfying coffee house.
Then the door opened and in walked three old men (at least 70+), in muddy work boots and old grungy clothing, all talking loudly and simultaneously (very not cool in Japan) in thick local dialect. They plonked themselves down at the large table, greeted the (very proper) proprietor in most informal language, and continued their conversation while they waited for their order. I guessed, without hope of verification, that these were fathers and uncles of families who had purchased large lots in the neighborhood and sought to reduce their taxes by having older retired relatives farm their yards (farmland is taxed at a much lower rate in Japan than residential plots)—that is, our local agricultural workers had joined me for a high-end break. They seemed so entirely out of place in that modern, polished-wood space, and yet they did not find themselves incongruous at all. The proprietress brought their tray, accompanied by precisely the same politesse that had brought me mine—three exquisite porcelain cups of steaming hot coffee, each prepared with the same care that I’m sure was lavished on the women who had preceded me. There’s something wonderfully democratic about Japan, at the same time as it is a very status-conscious, keep-up-appearances sort of society, and I hope we spend more time in that coffee house in the coming month. I was so intrigued by my fellow customers that I never even looked at the art on the walls.
Spring Really Arrives in Kyoto
We went to Taiwan for a week, and while we were away, spring came to Kyoto. (I know we've been celebrating spring for weeks, but now it's really here.) Branches that were bare when we left, or hosting only a tiny bud at the end, now flaunt sweet yellow or white blossoms. Daffodils bloom. The tennis players on the public courts behind our apartment have removed jackets and run about in short sleeves. The sun shines, and the air smells sweet.
Also while we were away, the official campaign season for governor of the prefecture opened. Elections are April 8. The campaign season began March 22. Can you imagine--does it make you giddy with pleasure to imagine--a 2-1/2 week (WEEK!) campaign season? Most messages are delivered via loudspeaker from vehicles that comb the streets from sun-up to sun-down. Spring is good for them. Windows are open. People are out and about on the streets. It is very loud. And very soon it will be all over.
By the time it is over, cherry blossom season will be upon us, and we will be inundated with 10 million visitors, 9,800,00 of them Japanese.
Also while we were away, the official campaign season for governor of the prefecture opened. Elections are April 8. The campaign season began March 22. Can you imagine--does it make you giddy with pleasure to imagine--a 2-1/2 week (WEEK!) campaign season? Most messages are delivered via loudspeaker from vehicles that comb the streets from sun-up to sun-down. Spring is good for them. Windows are open. People are out and about on the streets. It is very loud. And very soon it will be all over.
By the time it is over, cherry blossom season will be upon us, and we will be inundated with 10 million visitors, 9,800,00 of them Japanese.
2007年3月15日木曜日
Welcoming Spring Photos III
Taken at Nara. First one is Japan's biggest Buddha. Second is the fire ritual of Ozimutori.
Welcoming Spring photos
Well, it seems that I've been taking pictures at too high a resolution, and I can't currently reduce that, so here are a series of posts with one or two Welcoming Spring photo(s) each. Sorry about that. I'll get it figured out.
Welcoming Spring
Friends from California were just here for six days of intense tourism. Timing was perfect as this area comes alive in spring—too early still for lush foliage, but the plum trees are blossoming and the city is celebrating.
One day, after we had already toured the temple grounds at Ginkakuji, walked the Path of Philosophy, shopped for kimono and been instructed in tea ceremony, we strolled downtown through dusk and a light rain into the opening evening of a Lighting and Flower Arrangement festival. In Maruyama Park, one thousand bamboo lanterns marched down the creek bed. Throughout Higashiyama district, ikebana displays fronted temple gates. Floodlit pagodas sprang up above the darkened tree tops. Lanterns lined walking paths. Children dressed in red costumes paraded, beating drums and clanging gongs. Unfortunately, we didn’t know about this festival when we set out in the morning or I’d have taken a tri-pod with me. The few photos on the accompanying post may convey some of the excitement.
The next day, we took a train to Nara, Japan’s first “permanent” capital established in year 710. The temple Tôdai-ji is the largest wooden building in the world and also houses Japan’s largest statue of Buddha. The festival we attended here, Omizutori, has taken place every year since 752 without break. Crowds gather beneath the high veranda at Nigatsu-do (worship hall at the top of the hill) where, beginning just after dark, monks carry huge pine basket torches—eleven of them, one at a time—up a stairway through the crowd, then further up steps onto the veranda. The monk then runs from one end of the veranda to the other, swinging and twisting the torch to release as many sparks as possible. The visitors ooh and aah and try to position themselves so that some of the thousands of sparks land on them, thus bringing good fortune for the coming year.
And that covers two of the six days. The others were equally full and magical, but that’s another story (or several).
One day, after we had already toured the temple grounds at Ginkakuji, walked the Path of Philosophy, shopped for kimono and been instructed in tea ceremony, we strolled downtown through dusk and a light rain into the opening evening of a Lighting and Flower Arrangement festival. In Maruyama Park, one thousand bamboo lanterns marched down the creek bed. Throughout Higashiyama district, ikebana displays fronted temple gates. Floodlit pagodas sprang up above the darkened tree tops. Lanterns lined walking paths. Children dressed in red costumes paraded, beating drums and clanging gongs. Unfortunately, we didn’t know about this festival when we set out in the morning or I’d have taken a tri-pod with me. The few photos on the accompanying post may convey some of the excitement.
The next day, we took a train to Nara, Japan’s first “permanent” capital established in year 710. The temple Tôdai-ji is the largest wooden building in the world and also houses Japan’s largest statue of Buddha. The festival we attended here, Omizutori, has taken place every year since 752 without break. Crowds gather beneath the high veranda at Nigatsu-do (worship hall at the top of the hill) where, beginning just after dark, monks carry huge pine basket torches—eleven of them, one at a time—up a stairway through the crowd, then further up steps onto the veranda. The monk then runs from one end of the veranda to the other, swinging and twisting the torch to release as many sparks as possible. The visitors ooh and aah and try to position themselves so that some of the thousands of sparks land on them, thus bringing good fortune for the coming year.
And that covers two of the six days. The others were equally full and magical, but that’s another story (or several).
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