Copyright Pepi Ronalds 2011
THIS ARTICLE MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION OF PEPI RONALDS.
I am lured by the promise of fresh mountain air, the tranquillity of a spiritual town, beautiful gardens, centuries of history and the opportunity to sit inside a lotus flower – though I am certainly not the first.
Koyasan (Mount Koya, Japan) has been the chosen destination of those seeking a spiritual realignment for around 1200 years. The plateau is surrounded by eight mountain peaks and the district’s founder, Kukai Daishi, likened its geography to the eight petals and concave form of a lotus flower.
When Kukai petitioned Emperor Saga for control of the mountain in 816, there were no rattling trains or steep cable cars to deliver one to the township some 979 metres above sea level. Instead pilgrims walked the mountain (a few days journey on foot from Kyoto) and at the towering red gates (the Daimon) they bade farewell to their womenfolk (who were banned from Koyasan until 1872), passed under the ominous wooden deities guarding the town and burrowed into the temples of the mountain for some solitude, contemplation and meditation. Koyasan has been known for nothing else since.
While my intention is similar my approach is a little different. With my wheelie suitcase confidently clickity-clacking at my heels I transfer after a four hour train journey from Nara to the comfort of a cable car. Here I stand in close quarters with those around me, marvelling at the angle of the route and the beauty of the lush green forest. I am then spewed into the transit terminal in a confusion of frustrated American tourists– where I will board a bus (seat included this time) and mark every turn in the road with the thwack of my neighbour’s suitcase on my legs. It is here that I say my first prayer: ‘Oh Budda, please don’t put me in the same temple as these people.’
A stay in Koyasan is inseparable from a dip into Shingon Buddhism. Practically all accommodations are shukubo (temple lodgings) where guests can participate in the cuisine, prayers and general coming and goings of temple life. There are over 50 shukubo in Koyasan and over 100 sub-temples all becomingly nestled into this small plateau.
Perhaps the intensity of spiritual focus in the area has helped… I am soon gratefully making the approach to my shukubo, the Shojoshin-in, alone. The quiet assurance of the immaculate gardens, temple architecture and the forested mountain behind it make my shoulders drop and my mind clear. I leave my haggard shoes at the door and seat myself on the floor while my host orientates me to the ways of the temple.
At this stage all I’m really interested in is my stomach. The opportunity to indulge in Buddhist fare Shojin ryori (devotion cuisine) is one of the main attractions of a stay in Koyasan. The 100 percent vegan cuisine is served for dinner and breakfast at all shukubo (included in the tariff). Guests are bound to join the morning service at 6.00am and to eat at the time allocated by the monks: dinner is served at 5.30pm and breakfast at 7.00am. I am soon led through the dark wooded space of the temple, shown the shared shower area and taken up three flights of steps, and three significant increases in temperature to a charmingly sparse and swelteringly hot room.
This is traditional Japanese accommodation replete with tatami mats and a futon. A floor-to-ceiling window opens onto a small balcony, which offers a view of the west side of the mountain. A few mod-cons are included: a telephone is hidden under a handkerchief and there’s a wall-flower like television sitting uncomfortably in the corner. There’s a pretty tea set in a round lacquer-ware box on a low table by the window. It’s exceedingly hot and I’m rather sweaty but it’s a few hours until the showers will be available. So I brew myself some green tea and sit at the table to take in the cosy view.
When Kukai first began visiting this spot in 816 he noticed something uncanny about its geography: Koyasan is a table surrounded by eight mountain peaks. Drawing on the Buddhist mandala Kukai likened the peaks to the petals of a lotus flower, then chose the plateau as its heart. Perhaps in the white of winter Koyasan’s peaks do belie a lotus-like hue, but in the heat of July the town is a pallet of deep greens, dark browns and grey slate-like streams. These are nowhere more evident than in the cemetery Okunoin where I have started explorations. Here over 200,000 Buddhists have been memorialised over Koyasan’s history. The moss-covered statues and stone lanterns creep up the mountain until overtaken by the forest.
Inside Okunoin is the warm orange and incense scented space of the Torodo. Thousands of paper lanterns hang from the ceiling – some rumoured to have been burning for over 900 years. I see a family, rosaries and prayer books in hand, humming to a rhythmic chant outside Okunoin Gobyo, the mausoleum where Kukai Daishi is enshrined.
Leaving the pilgrims in peace I set out to explore Odawara Street in search of refreshments. Thankfully there are no Starbucks in Koyasan, but there are certainly a number of outlets geared entirely toward the international tourist market. ‘English Speakers Welcome’ is a popular sign. There are also many stores selling Buddhist artefacts and crinkly packets of one of the region’s specialities, Koya-tofu (dried tofu). You can take your pick of several restaurants, coffee-shops and even a few convenience stores.
At the far end of Odawara Street is the Garan. Halls and pagodas dating back to Koyasan’s inception are dotted around this sacred precent. The oldest building is the Fudodo – which has remained since 1198. The Daito is said to be the centre – the stamen and seed pods – of Kukai’s lotus flower. This two-story pagoda was rebuilt in 1937 after a fire, which is reflected in the orangey-red colour of its outer walls. Like a dragonfly I dart around, pausing to admire the Daito, Fududo and treasures nearby from every angle.
The town is practically closed as it is now 4.30pm and close to the monks’ sanctioned meal times. Taste-buds in a heightened state of anticipation, I return to the Shojoshin-in. Both anxious and deferential I await the call for dinner. The preparation of Shojin ryori is very much a part of the devotional ritual for these Shingon Buddhists. While the tenzo (a zen chef) cooks, an apprentice chants the sutra. Each meal is prepared to provide six tastes – delicate, sour, salty, hot, bitter and sweet.
Seated on a tatami mat with a simple screen separating me from other diners, I watch while an apprentice delivers me fifteen carefully presented dishes across three short trays. Apart from an assurance that there is ‘No meat. No fish.’ I have little idea of what exactly I am eating. The food is as enchanting as its presentation and a delightful assault on my tongue. It helps me to remind myself that I am in a temple, on a mountain, in Japan. Which is something I need, because I am book-ended by camera flashes and international voices expressing similar glee in the dining hall around me.
I am yet to discover that there is an entirely international clientele at the temple. My moment of truth will be at the morning service where I will be surrounded by 30 other earnest westerners. Some will sit in lotus position. Others will close their eyes. Others still will rock their heads to the sound of the monks’ chanting. Several will manage all three, giving the occasional impression that we are not in a temple so much as somewhere like Woodstock. A breakfast of not-too-salty tofu miso soup, pickled things, rice and barley tea will help me to realign myself.
I soon come to the conclusion that the Japanese pilgrims (whom I missed on the bus and in the dining hall, but saw in the hundreds around Kukai’s mausoleum) have probably – and rightly – been separated from the tourists.
So for now I wander the beautiful temple grounds – my belly close to bursting – and ignore the ‘We’re y’all from?’ conversations echoing through its halls. I don a pair of wooden slippers then teeter and clop the outskirts of the pond and climb up the little hillside on which my room looks. A stream running through the pond ensures a constant sound of babbling water. An evening calm envelops the mountainside as the others retire to their rooms. Night birds trill and frogs start their nocturnal croakings. Perched on the steep incline in my rocking-chair shoes I feel the heat drawing away. I take deeper, cooler breaths.
Back inside I sit like an audience by the window. A little gecko stands just above the flywire, indulging in the attractions the light of my room brings. The evening slowly becomes night and the moon moves over the horizon. The water trickles below me and by 9.00pm I am slipping into a reverie and finally to sleep. I am woken only by the occasional croak of one very loud frog, and my own impulse to sit up and take in the beauty of the scene before me.
It is here, by the blue-washed mountain and under the star-dropped sky that I finally sit like Budda himself: in the flower, on a mountainous stem, high above the pond-mud of my everyday life.
