The island of Shikoku, Japan, Sunday, the 10th of June, 2001

Last nights accommodation was at a traditional Henro rest stop last night, at a small rural temple on the coast road at the top of the island. There is only a room, in poor maintenance with spare facilities, but adequate and extremely welcome at the end of a long hot day’s walk. There was already someone there, resting on the tatami in the cool cross breeze when I arrived, so I didn’t make conversation or too much noise. Next to them lay a stack of Manga comic magazines, some of which were as thick as phone books, and an ashtray overflowing with butts and ash. I settled in, found the bedding, decided not to use it, and then salvaged what I could from some squashed rice balls that were buried in my pack. That is when the other figure spoke to me and I realized that is was a woman, not a man, and an old woman at that! She didn’t have a tooth in her head, nor as much hair as I have, but smoked like a chimney! I figured if I could keep her smoking through the night, mosquitoes wouldn’t worry us at all! You could tell by her hands that she had worked in the fields all of her life, and her feet were as wide as mine are long. In the evening light, she looked like an old burnished piece of wood with knuckles for knots and sinews in her arms like chords of rope.

She had a four-wheel cart as her Henro vehicle, which are very common here. In fact, you often see them parked in the doorway of a home, rarely bigger than a stroller, and designed to be a stable walking or pushing frame with a seat should the owner need to sit and take a rest or store the shopping. She disclosed that her age was eighty-three and that she had been at the rest stop for two days already. We talked Henro talk about the various temples that we liked, or thought were a difficult walk, or of special places along the way. We even said the Heart Sutra together, with her laughing over my mispronunciation and lack of lungpower to get it out without losing some syllables. I felt numb though. Lately I seemed to have been meeting a lot of people in their seventies and eighties that are walking the pilgrimage circuit, alone. Her cough could intimidate a V8 engine, and her laugh was so salty that most Sailors would be in awe. We shared some food, especially some sweet tomatoes that she had been gifted. I contributed candy and some really well melted chocolate that we both licked off the silver paper it came in, giving ourselves moustaches and dots on the ends of our noses in the process while throwing all protocol and manners out the door and just having a really good laugh. It was fun, and definitely a girl’s moment.

Later that evening a couple came by to say prayers. The smell of incense wafted through our quarters, and they gamely poked their heads in to see if anyone was there. I couldn’t tell who was more startled; they or I, when they realized that there was another. But we made small conversation and they quickly left. I did notice that they were studying my fellow roommate intensely though, but thought nothing more of it.

She liked to sleep with the light on, and seemed to wake and take a cigarette every hour or so, accompanied by a round or two of coughing and hawking. There were no mosquitoes for sure. It was like sleeping in a train station though, but I didn’t want to be impolite. Instead, I just hunkered down with my black skullcap on over my eyes to try and trick the brain into believing that it was dark enough to sleep. Every so often I would ask if everything was OK — did she need something like some water, but she always replied that she was ‘genki desu ka.’ Everything was fine!

Finally in the cool of the early dawn we both dozed off through what would have been a couple of smoke breaks. Shortly after five, three tiny ladies from the local village came by. For some time they were busy lighting candles and incense, and muttering mantras and prayers. None of them were taller than my hips, so when I went out to greet them, I had to double over to make eye contact with their bent forms. It was another fun and unexpected moment when they realized that I was foreign, very tall, a woman, and from another land which they had heard of! Australia!! They couldn’t believe the size of my nose or my feet!! We all bowed and bowed some more and they shuffled on up the small hill out of sight. Before departing though they also looked in on the incumbent guest, chattering amongst them in what sounded like a dialect. I could see the worry in their brows, but really didn’t know what to make of it all or what to do. I thought that it was just perhaps, normal local curiosity. It would be the same in the small town where I grew up.

The next visitor was the Meter Lady, in her pretty mint green coveralls, with her space age gadget for pointing at the meter and taking the reading. She also looked in and clucked seriously, but was polite enough to nod at me, and make the usual enquiries. By now, I was ready to hit the road and still my roommate had not stirred. I cleaned my teeth one more time, just to make ‘going away’ noises and at that point she rolled over, lifted her head and propped up on one elbow. While she was talking to me, she was reaching for her Henro jacket that was draped on her cart. I helped her with the reach, then she grinned at me, and I could smell her breath. It was the smell of death. I froze. Her skin had blanched out during the night and the whites of her eyes had turned dark yellow. I was frightened, and trying to think what to do.

I asked her if she was going to walk today and did she need her hat and rosary beads as well. Her reply was ‘no, she will rest for one more day’. She kept shooing me away, making sure that I moved on. I wanted to ease my own conscience by ensuring that she was comfortable somehow, leaving a full bottle of water next to her, and all of the food I had been carrying, along with candy and other small snacks, and some of the matches I had for my own candles and incense. I wanted to linger, but instincts were pushing me away. She seemed happy enough, having already lit another cigarette, and who was I to judge on what I had seen. Was it my imagination toying with my senses, or had I seen the truth?

I lingered again, fussed and finally she vigorously waved me away with a hearty laugh. I said “Sayonara” and wished her well as all Henro do, slowly walking out of the compound. By then, I just knew she was dying and there was nothing I could really do. Quickly I turned, went back to the temple steps, and lit my last candle and some incense, loudly asking Kobo for help in English! I could hear a growing rattle in her breathing but hoped it was just the early morning wake up call of an extremely heavy smoker. I felt terrible. Like I was walking away from the scene of something I might be able to prevent but the reality is I couldn’t prevent it. I knew I didn’t have the language skills to be valuable in the short term for summonsing help, nor did I know where to go to find help immediately. Sometimes people just decide that they are ready to leave this world, and that is all there is to it. I had to quickly come to terms with it all.

As I shuffled double time up the small hill, still hoping that I might think of a quick solution, sitting at the top of it, on their walking carts, were the three old ladies that had come by earlier. I felt a huge sense of relief. There was something communicated between us all, that defies language. It was a human thing. I could only hope that they were either waiting for me to leave to return to the temple for something that required privacy, or they also had a sense of the inevitable and didn’t want a stranger in the way. Country wisdom has a way of knowing these things. They see death and birth in the events of each day. We all bowed to each other again, and I kept walking, with all of us saying more with our eyes and souls than any dictionary could ever clarify. When I reached the main road, I looked back just in time to see the last one pushing her cart back down to the temple. Kobo had answered me! My eyes welled up and I couldn’t help but be grateful once again. That small hour had drained me of any energy though. I could barely walk at a reasonable pace and felt lost and disoriented and very distracted. What should have taken me a couple of hours to reach, took three times as long, as if the walking was an unconscious daze.

Hunger and the gaining heat were taking their toll. Finding a place to eat is not as easy as it seems when the language is factored out. The walking path took me through a small fishing village that has changed with the times. A guy in an English language t-shirt was standing outside a shop front, so when I asked him if I was on the right path, my voice croaked and he laughed, inviting me in for some tea!

His shop really belonged to his wife and was a boutique for coffees and teas, along with delectable sweets and goodies. And it was air-conditioned! It couldn’t have been more perfect, and immediately she produced a wonderful cup of coffee and some cakes that could only add calories to the wrong places. There was enough English and Japanese between us to have a conversation, and I quickly learnt that their shop, in all of its reincarnations has been a traditional stop for Henro for centuries! There were some recent photos on the wall, including one of the author of the map book I am using and another of an Old Sage in Henro gear. When I asked about that photo, they told me his story. He has done the pilgrimage by foot more than one hundred and fifteen times and plans to keep doing it until he dies! I really wasn’t sure if she said 115 or 150 as I still struggle with the numbers when they are referring to different types of non-flat objects. In the photo he has a long white beard and new Henro clothes, but his hat must have been the original model purchased more than thirty years ago. On the reverse side of the photo was a shot of him with the newly born first grandchild of my hosts. I was stunned. Given the manner in which the day had started out, again I didn’t quite know what to do with information presented to me. They talked so freely about whether or not he will be by again in a few more months. I focused on the coffee, conversation and delicious sweets.

My hostess loaded me up with so many goodies that I had to comment that I would have to walk around the island again to lose the extra kilograms. She told me I might see the Old Sage! It was another girl moment as she hugged me and said in English — “don’t worry, be happy — your eyes tell stories!”

Feeling decidedly rejuvenated walking on to the next temple, I kept thinking about a mere twenty-four hours earlier, when I had visited Ishiteji Temple, the Temple of the Stone Hand. There is a legend that tells the story of how a rich and stingy man named Emon Saburo had lived nearby. One day a pilgrim (Kobo Daishi) came to the village on his Henro circuit and stopped at Saburo’s house begging food and Ossetai. The stingy master refused him and pushed him away abruptly. The next day the pilgrim asked him for food in the same way, but the master treated the pilgrim in even worse fashion than the day before. The same thing happened for seven days. On the eighth day, the short-tempered master threw the pilgrim’s bowl into the face of Daishi. The bowl was scattered into eight pieces on the ground. The pilgrim walked away. From the day the accident happened, the eight sons of the rich, stingy master began to die one after another from an unknown disease. All of his sons passed away in the eight days following that day. The father of the eight children took reflection and repented of all he had done to the Henro visitor. Then he made up his mind to chase and meet the pilgrim to make apology and repentance for all the sins that he had committed before.

The converted man took the Shikoku pilgrimage and pursued the Daishi for twenty-one circuits. Finally a humble Henro met the Daishi at the foothill of the twelfth Fudasho, Shosenji Temple, but was dying by that time. Kobo Daishi gave him a small stone and placed it on his palm. Saburo died peacefully grasping that tiny stone under the compassion of the Savior Daishi.

I decided to halve my plans for the day, asking the Priests’ son for help in finding some accommodations. Like finding food, it is not always easy as some places close without notice, and reservations a day ahead of time are always the best guarantee. I needed nutrition and rest. The tally of sleeping sheds was also taking its toll. We chatted in both languages for some time, laughing about my computer and ‘internetto’ schedule and the fact that he does email and goes surfing every day, along with reasons why you do such a pilgrimage, how difficult it can be, and the beauty of lightening bugs and dragonflies. Together we found a place that had a spare room, and he took me to the guest inn. There seemed to be a bit of a big fuss and a lot of bowing from the Lady Owner, and it wasn’t until after he left that she told me he had gifted me the nights stay at the Minshuku! Again, I was stunned over such unexpected graciousness and generosity. It was as if every point had been countered by something else to bring balance at the end of the day. When I had asked for help, it had appeared, and when I needed to eat and drink and find a place to stay, that also manifested.

At dinner that night there was a very well tanned Henro to share conversation with. He has abbreviated the routine down to a bare minimum so that he can crank out his obligatory forty or forty five kilometers each day. No candles, no incense, no bell ringing, no multiple repetitions of certain mantras. “Just the basics ma’am.” In and out in ten minutes. I take an hour at most temples, if not longer, with thoughts, sometimes sketches, photographs, just sitting and watching, making observations or just chatting with the other visitors or staff in the temple. When I told him I have a computer and do email once a week, he sighed. He said he was doing the circuit as a form of break from his normal life in Osaka and was disturbed that his wife keeps sending him email through his mobile phone each day. I was surprised he had time to answer his phone.

The next morning I headed off early enough, relatively rested and well fed. At the penultimate temple for the day, the one I had originally planned on staying in the previous day but cancelled, I entered through the gates in the traditional manner to discover Kosaka sitting there eating his McDonalds Happy Meal! We greeted each other like long lost buddies, which in many ways we are having not seen each other for more than two weeks. Quickly we pulled out our maps and shared war stories, only to discover that he had slept not far from my rest stop the night before. He had also stopped in the evening before I arrived and had noticed the person already there. Without any prompting he said that he thought that person was dying, so he kept walking! I couldn’t believe his comment and asked him to repeat it. Which he did, with pantomime to ensure that I understood, while I tried to tell him in my lousy Japanese that I did sleep there and had thought the same thing. We just looked at each other, waiting for the other one to change the channel of conversation. I had the perfect excuse – I was on my way up the long stair climb to the temple, where as Kosaka was on his way down, so we bid farewell again, knowing we will see each other again soon.

When I reached that temple, with its panoramic views over the bay I had just walked up from, the temple helper immediately started chatting to me, wanting to know where I had come from, and what did I do for a job. All of the usual questions, that in many ways are very comforting. I went up to the main shrine and started the prayers and mantras. He stood quietly beside me, and when I was finished, he handed me an Osame-fuda, the visiting card that you leave for Kobo Daishi at each temple and numerous other places. It was of brocade, which is not seen very often as it denotes someone that has done the pilgrimage more than one hundred times. When I turned it over, stamped on the back was the number 115! I think he told me that the Old Sage had visited a few days before and that I might see him in the next week or so if I walk fast!!

As I left the temple, Kosaka was writing in his diary and enjoying the sunshine. We both knew that rain was forecast within the following twenty-four hours so he was deciding where to camp. I just wanted to get back on the walking path and be alone with emotions and thoughts in my head. I resolved that first thing tomorrow morning I would see if there is an internetto phone nearby. I already know who is talking to me in thought mail some nights and still wonder if he ever received the Osame-fuda card left with my hotel hosts so many weeks ago. And there is always time to talk to friends and even many strangers.

Zen