LOOKING FOR WORLD PIECE(S) OF MUSIC
Dr. K Sees Japan, 4. finale
Bunraku in Kyoto, Exploding Fishheads
I’m taking a side trip to Kyoto. In Tokyo, I’d seen Noh theater. I’d seen two kinds of Kabuki. I had even had a koto lesson — all this in service to upping my game as a professor of World Music courses. Now, in this part of my voyage I planned to see one of the more historic cities in the nation, top off my theater experiences with bunraku (classic puppet theater), and ride the shinkansen (the famed Japanese high speed bullet train). Little did I know that I would have unexpected adventures as well.
First, the shinkansen. The gleaming white train glided into the station, floating like a feather with a jet engine. Talk about beautiful! It reminds me of the time an engineer buddy of mine let me drive his coveted ’63 Corvette. I had always lightly ridiculed his obsession with that car until I felt the power of that engine jumping at the chance to race a 747. My apology was suitably humble (so humble it stayed inside my head).
Back in Japan, I grabbed a packet of rice/seaweed crunchies on the train and found my seat. Then I was floating on a fast train, the sun brightly shining, and the Japanese countryside shimmering with the brilliant green of rice paddies. I was entranced until . . .
AHHHHHH! EWWWWW!
The snack packet I had gotten had a picture of a big-eyed mini fish’s profile on it. Cute, I thought. Since I’m okay with fish-flavored snacks (a useful trait on an island nation), I had been munching, crunching and looking out the window. When I got down to the last handful or so, I glanced down and what did I see but dozens of big-eyed mini fish heads staring at me! I was horrified, as my startled exclamation and the fish heads scattered all over the place might have made clear to surrounding passengers.
Turns out the kangi print that I couldn’t read must have said something about real dried fish included. You see, I’m one of these meat eaters who likes to pretend that meat (including fish) magically transforms into neat little cellophaned packages found in your grocer’s refrigerated shelves. I don’t like food staring at me. Call me a hypocrite if you like.
Anyway, as I cleared up the detritus of my surprise, bowing apologetically to my fellow passengers, this was soon put out of my mind when an apparition emerged before my very eyes.
Fuji-san! Mt. Fuji, one of the most celebrated mountains in the world, pictured in Japanese art for centuries. What a wondrous sight, so majestic, and yet eerie in a spirit-bound way. It was one of the fairly rare days of a foggy summer when the mountain could be seen. Fuji-san then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared as the shinkansen streaked away.
When I arrived in Kyoto, I found the correct bus and used my map to get out at the correct stop. Kyoto is much more user-friendly than Tokyo, despite both serving great volumes of tourists. More businesses accept credit cards and the bus intercom system repeats all the Kyoto stops in English. Since I had arranged for my housing on the internet before leaving the U.S. (another user-friendly Kyoto trait), I headed for the craftsman house where I would be staying with a (somewhat) English-speaking Japanese couple who rents the ground floor to short-term guests. My Lonely Planet guide book had recommended a website for finding authentic Japanese experiences and it spoke no more than the truth.
My room was lovely, in the ryokan style, meaning a tatami on the floor, a low table with floor cushions, and a futon for sleeping. Breakfast the next morning was a rich miso broth with vegetables and little rice block triangles dressed in seaweed jackets, all accompanied by pickled cucumbers and hot tea. I enjoyed this much more than my first traditional English breakfast with its cold toast, sauteed mushrooms and tomatoes with baked beans and sausages.
Next day, remaining headquartered in Kyoto, I put my plans into action and was off to nearby Osaka for bunraku. Since I had bought a transport pass allowing me to take any train, bus or subway in the Kansai region (a great deal, by the way), I was good to go. It took a bus, two trains, and the subway to get to the theater, but I finally managed it.
After picking up some Fish McDippers with wasabi (hot horseradish) sauce at the local McDonald’s (this is Japan after all; no Chicken McNuggets), I headed to the theater.
Bunraku was gorgeous. The first thing I noticed was the side stage with beautiful lacquered black music stands on short wooden pedestals, adorned with thick cream tassels. All the stagehands wore black, including black veils.
Now, bear in mind that puppet theater in Asia is mostly intended for adults. Serious business. The puppets are about a third of life size — American. The main puppet master, the omozukai, who handles the head and right hand, is aided by one or two assistant masters who handle the left hand (hidarizukai) and both feet (ashizukai), respectively. The master is on view from the waist up, but the assistants are veiled.
The performance, with its elements of kyogen, kabuki, and noh, was quite impressive, but with the English summary I had been promised nowhere in evidence, three and a half hours was a bit trying.
Back in my room in Kyoto, I was hot and tired. Time for my next new adventure, the communal Japanese bath.
Most guest houses only have a toilet and a wash basin for guests. If you want a more comprehensive bathing experience, you have to go to a public bath house, so here I go. My hosts loaned me a towel and a plastic pail, so like Jill with no Jack, I went out the back and up the hill of experience.
First you pay your fee (¥ 350 at the time) and then go to your gender area (women/children or men). You put your valuables in a locker and strip down. The clothes go into your designated plastic basket. Women all around are doing the same thing. Then you go into the cleaning area with faucets and shower heads, all near the floor. You clean yourself completely, while sitting on the tiny upturned plastic pail that has room for only one standard American cheek. After thoroughly soaping, shampooing, and rinsing, you go to the thermal hot tubs and soak as long as you like.
It was okay, relaxing, but at the time, I thought it wasn’t something I’d take on as a habit. However, the moment I got promoted at work a few years later, I redecorated my bathroom to include a new shower and a jacuzzi-style tub. No pails.
Next day I visited scenic Aranishiyama, a section of Kyoto filled with mountains, parks and beautifully-moving water. After walking for hours and visiting numerous shops, I decided to turn back. It was hot (and this comes from someone who had lived in 100°, 100% humidity Houston for ten years); I went back to the guest house.
I had brought a wooden 18th-century flute with me (the closest thing I had to a Japanese flute sound), so I relaxed and played a few traditional Japanese melodies I knew by heart, and then went to sleep. The following morning, my hosts timidly asked if I had been playing. As I quickly began to apologize for disturbing them, they smiled broadly and said, no, they had enjoyed it. In gratitude for my music, they showed me their side hustle.
This industrious young couple uses computers to update the traditional craft of textile design. Creating beautiful pictures of cranes, mountains and sometimes abstract patterns, they have connected the computers to the looms, producing fabrics that are then used for traditional high-end wedding clothing and other expensive garments. Traditional Japan becomes modern. Modern Japan respects tradition.
Heading back to Hayama on the shinkansen, I began to say sayonara to the land that served as step one of my master plan to visit all the countries I teach. Next stop? The Australian Outback.
Thanks to all of you who have shared this adventure with me. Arigato gozaimasu [Thank you very much].
