Miyajima: The Shrine Island
07/09/2007
I got delayed at the peace museum. By the time I came across the guest books near the exit, it was already half past twelve. But I had to write what I had to write—and I kept it brief—before dashing off to Miyajima Island for a Zen Buddhist tea ceremony.
It struck me that rushing from a peace museum to a tea ceremony was a very Japanese thing to do.
Not that I ever stood a chance of getting there on time. The streetcar map included travel times, and I would be late. But that didn’t prevent me from trying. I walked so fast that I almost broke into a run, and when I arrived at Dobashi station, I was panting and red in the face. There were no vending machines anywhere in sight. With a start, I realized that I didn’t have any change for the fare, only 1000¥ bills. I rely on vending machines to procure change whenever I needed it. Rooting through my pockets, I found a 500¥ coin. They would probably not let me pay with that.
No time to think; the streetcar arrived and I got on. When it pulled up at the train interchange ten minutes later, I decided to stay on. Maybe the driver would be more understanding if I travelled beyond the flat-fare zone and accept my 500¥ coin. But the journey would take a good forty-five minutes, and I realised that I would miss the start of the tour that preceded the visit to the Daishoin Temple. No matter, I could always try to catch up. The monks might be understanding and allow me to attend the tea ceremony afterwards.
It rankled, to be sure. Being invited to one of the once-weekly tours, which are free to foreigners, is a privilege. Numbers are limited to twenty, and I’m sure that the ladies at the tourist information didn’t just hand out these invites to everyone. Thankfully the organisers didn’t know that I was coming and wouldn’t be waiting for me. Unless of course the lady at the counter had phoned ahead…
I banished the thought. She had smiled placatingly when I gushed (“Oh yes, please! I like to go! Can I still book? Can I? Do I need to sign up?”) and told me to just turn up on the day. So as the streetcar jerked back into motion, following in the shadow of the fast train, I settled back in my seat—and discovered a changing machine at the back of the carriage.
While we trundled along the twenty stops en route, I reflected on my morning at the peace museum. The history of Hiroshima as a military garrison town, the decisions which led to the dropping of the bomb and its aftermath were laid out in detailed exhibits covering three floors. I mulled over the effect the visit had on me. I’m familiar with the horrors of the bomb, but this rammed it home somehow.
Who said the cold war never got hot? It was American anxiety about Russian involvement that led to the bombing of Hiroshima, and Stalin’s unilateral declaration of war on Japan on August 8th 1945 that led to the bombing of Nagasaki.
Politics, all politics.
The streetcar pulled into Miyajima-guchi station where I discovered that the fare (270¥) was payable at the exit. At the terminal across the road, the ferry was just leaving. Now hopelessly late, should I do the same?
No, I was almost there. I wasn’t going to give up now.
And I’m elated by that decision. Never mind that got lost in the woods on the way to the temple because I used the wrong pagoda as a landmark: Miyajima is amazing, an unexpected highlight that would have passed me by completely if it wasn’t for the invitation to the tour.
The island looks like a film set.
The scarlet O-torii of the mighty Itsukushima shrine was visible from afar, and I had to blink a few times as the ferry drew near, realising that I was about to arrive in some sort of fairyland.
On Miyajima, the gods dwell among the people, and for centuries nobody was allowed to be born or to die on the island. Even with the modern crowds around, some of the old magic lingers.
Deer walked among the people on the pavement which led up to another torii gate framing the view of the Itsukushima Shrine. It was almost as if I’d arrived in paradise, although I noticed that the deer molested people eating biscuits or ice cream, nipping their shirts if they didn’t surrender their goods, and even trying to impale them with blunted antlers.
For a while, I walked around dazedly, surrounded by ancient temples, shrines and buildings, trying to find my way to the Daishoin Temple but—misled by the five-storied Pagoda instead of the farther Tahoto Pagoda which should have been my landmark—I ended up on the nature walk instead, which would have been nice if all the wildlife hadn’t sought refuge from the heat and it didn’t go constantly uphill.
With yet another bend of the road leading deeper into the woods, I realised my mistake and turned back.
The Daishoin Temple was half-way up the opposite hill. Golden prayer wheels were embedded in the railing which divided the stone steps leading up from the imposing entrance. I ascended with bated breath: there was nobody around.
After a quick peek through the gate, I descended the steps around the back, flanked by hundreds of knee-high statues, each depicting a different aspect of the Buddha. After the bustle on the streets, the silence of the forest and now the ancient temple was eerie, and I hurried back without exploring the temple grounds themselves, almost eager to be back among the tourist crowd.
Denni