Where the Dead Pause, and the Japanese Say Goodbye: A Journey (16 page)

In some cases, as in one of my favorite spas in Ky
t
, Hanaikada, there is just one bath, the water having been mixed precisely so in a simple square tub, shaped like an enormous
masu
, the square-shaped cup used to drink sake. The deceptively simple experience is offered up with the finesse of a master who can do great things with just one gesture. You leave feeling that the very best, most refined part of your inner nature has been touched.

Other spas offer
onsen
as a form of entertainment, the way an amusement park or a cinema multiplex cuts across class and occupation.
Stores sell regional treats and toys for children, and other rooms offer video games and karaoke machines. There is usually an assortment of baths—as many as a dozen pools. Some are hot, some are shallow, and some include water jets to help massage sore muscles.

Our spa on the Oga Peninsula was a happy medium between these two extremes. We stayed in a tatami mat–covered room and slept on futons. There was one large indoor pool and one outside in the snow. It was a wonderful thing to slog through waist-high snow and then end the day sitting in a warm bath, looking out at the snow country. The only danger with an outdoor
onsen
, called a
rotenburo
, is that a wild monkey might have beaten you to the waters, as these intelligent animals are known to warm their bodies on the coldest days by bathing.

The following evening, we dressed in snow boots and down coats and set out to see the Namahage, or the demon festival. The path to the shrine was lit by red lanterns, which glowed under blankets of snow. We climbed up a set of stairs, freshly swept, and toward the sound of drums. Up ahead, there was an old shrine made out of wood, where men were beating
taiko
drums on an elevated wooden stage. There was also a massive bonfire in the middle of the shrine grounds, which were rectangular in shape.

The drumming went on for a long time. The night grew darker and darker, and the shrine felt encased in a globe of light generated from the little red lanterns strung along the shrine’s perimeter, and fueled by the bonfire. Beyond the protective bubble, the snow continued to fall, sticking to the tall conifers on the hills overhead. Within the bubble of light, the adults drank and ate, and the children ate too. It became darker and colder, and people drank to stay warm and stamped their feet and laughed nervously. All of a sudden, a light appeared up on the hillside. Everyone stopped to look.
The light was a torch, and it was coming down the hill. Another light bobbed behind the first.

One of the adults exclaimed, “It’s the Namahage!” It was the demons.

One by one, the demons lumbered toward us. Their faces were red or blue, and they had exaggerated features, with wide, grimacing mouths, protruding teeth, angled eyes, and enormous, bulbous noses. They also had horns. Because demons are not civilized creatures, their hair was long and matted. They wore boots and capes made out of straw. They growled as they came down the hillside, shaking their axes and swords. The children were terrified and a few cried, which only made the adults laugh because they, too, remembered crying at the sight of the demons when they were young. “If you are good,” they said, “the Namahage will not harm you. Remember to always be good.”

The Namahage came down from the wilderness to the bonfire. The
taiko
-drum masters drummed so hard, the ground shook like a throbbing heart. The demons marched around in a circle, brandishing their torches. Incredibly, the demons seemed to recognize some of the children. They seemed to know which children were disobedient, and they were able to extract a promise from those children to listen to what their mothers told them to do.

When the dancing was over, some of the demons removed their heads. Or rather, their masks. The demons were actually members of Oga township who had volunteered to act as demons for the night. They handed out sesame seeds and rice cakes, foods that would bring good luck for the coming year if eaten. In the spirit of modern Japan, they happily posed for photos. One even lent me his mask to wear for a picture.

Oga is the most famous place to see Namahage, but as you travel through T
hoku, you will see these demon masks decorating inns, restaurants,
and museums, as they are a mark of the culture of this region of Japan. The original Namahage festival takes place on New Year’s Eve and is just for the residents of Oga. Then the demons go from house to house, extracting a promise from children to behave in the year to come.

Nobody knows exactly how the Namahage tradition began. Some say that the demons in Namahage are an exaggerated representation of foreigners who crossed the Japan Sea from China. There is also a legend that the emperor of the Han dynasty came to Japan with five demons, who made off with the villagers’ wives and children. Quick-thinking fishermen outwitted the demons, though, and now the Namahage festival carries traces of this mythological story.

I
N T
HOKU, MANY
other famous snow festivals pay tribute to the power of winter. My mother and I have visited many together. One of the most famous of these festivals takes place in the little town of Yokote, which is about sixty miles southeast of Oga, in Akita Prefecture. Though winter there is cold and harsh, residents have long known that the snow is necessary for their rice crops and for their sake. And so they honor the sleeping water god deep in the riverbed, in the hope that he will wake up in the springtime refreshed and full of vigor.

In the middle of February, schoolchildren build igloos out of snow. These igloos, called
kamakura
, come in all sizes, with the largest ones big enough to house a tatami mat–covered floor and a table that can seat four. Each
kamakura
is lit with candles, and in the back there is a little altar to the river god. Children dressed in traditional clothing made of indigo-colored cloth sit in the large
kamakura
. They serve
amazake
, a warm, sweetened sake, and
mochi
, or rice cakes. My mother and I walked from igloo to igloo, and as we ate and drank, we became warmer and warmer.

In some places, children covered the fields with tiny igloos and placed a candle inside each one. At night, with a field of snow lit up like this, it felt as though we were being reminded that although it was cold, the earth still had a warm heart. Sometimes people placed the candles into the shape of letters and spelled out words like “Life,” “Hope,” “Luck.”

FIVE

S
PRING
B
LOSSOMS

I
N THE SPRING OF
2013, I was in a car driving up the T
hoku coast with a Zen Buddhist priest whom I will call Taniyama. A friend of my temple family in Iwaki, Taniyama was genial and warm, with a seemingly permanent half smile on his face. We were on our way to see his temple, Ry
daiji, located in Tomioka, in the nuclear exclusion zone. Physically Taniyama reminded me of a
tanuki
, the Japanese badger, in that he was stocky with a round body, round head, and squinty eyes. He did not move with the dartlike precision of the Zen priests I had met so far. Taniyama’s gestures were smooth and contained, with a slightly depressed quality, though his alert eyes let me know that he was always watching everyone and taking everything in. I couldn’t help but wonder if his prolonged absence from the temple had rendered him a little bored and sapped of energy, or if he had always been so mellow.