Posted by Lu Barnham on March 04, 2010 10:58 a.m.
At temple one, on my very first morning as a pilgrim, I bought a conical hat, a white robe, and a staff; traditional pilgrim attire. I watched how others performed their rituals, and fumbled my way through my own, making mistakes as I went, such as bowing in the wrong direction at the gate, and visiting the prayer halls in the wrong order, but at least I gave the other pilgrims something to giggle about.
The first few days were learning days. I got lost several times. I also realised exactly how hot and humid the Japanese summer can be, and spent a fortune on exotic-looking sodas from vending machines. Twice, I was able to stay overnight at a temple, joining fellow pilgrims in simple lodging provided by the resident priest and family. This gave me a chance to attend Buddhist ceremonies. While the others chanted and lit incense, I soaked up the atmosphere, and tried my best to join in, bowing and kneeling at what I hoped were the right moments.
Tokushima, the first of four prefectures through which the pilgrimage circuit travels, was pretty, situated in northeast Shikoku island. The first temples were spread around flat countryside in the Yoshino Valley. It was the 12th, Shosanji, that came as a shock. I arrived there late, having walked alone through mountainous forests for 8 hours without seeing a soul. I was exhausted after climbing the steep path, pursued by a giant horsefly that I bravely refused to swat with my staff on the grounds that a Buddhist would not approve. The temple was gorgeous, surrounded by 800 year old cedars, but there was no lodging nearby, and I ended up unrolling my sleeping bag at a small shrine a little way down the mountain, after getting the OK from the local farmers. As I lay in the dark, listening to strange animals scampering around the compound, a storm crossed the hills, the lightening flashing over the valley below. I had packed a couple of snacks and a can of beer, and enjoyed them as thunder rumbled all around. For centuries, pilgrims have been known to sleep out (‘nojuku’) as they travel, and it is considered a good way to empathise with Kobo Daishi, who famously slept rough also. I felt lucky and thrilled, as the rain poured down around the shrine.
In the days that followed, the new routine of walking took its revenge on my feet and I got many painful blisters. My father recommended I use some ‘second skin’ adhesive pads instead of band aids. I took his advice and set out the next morning like a new woman. It was a good thing the pads worked because two tough temples were coming up, both in mountainous woodland, along perilous paths, one after the other. I arrived at the second, Tairyuji, in the late afternoon. The shadows of the tall trees made the ornate lanterns glow amber. It was so beautiful there that I lost track of time. By the time I was descending the mountain, dusk was approaching. I stopped at an inn and asked for a room. The owner hesitated. I could smell delicious home cooking. He said he was sorry but I couldn’t stay. Dejected, I walked on.
The second inn I found was closed. Night was falling as I continued down the road. Eventually, I found a service station. It was closing up for the night so I slept in the doorway. All night drivers parked up to use the bathrooms or buy a can of soda from the vending machines. I barely slept, always on edge at the crunch of passing footsteps. A resident cockroach scuttled past often, and a fat spider built a web in the doorway. At the first sign of light, I hit the road, vowing never to sleep outside a service station again. I was full of energy, probably from the excitement of the bizarre experience, but when blisters old and new surfaced, my positivity was drained. It was a long hot walk along highways between the 22nd and 23rd temples. I made a friend, Kenji-san, a kind, postman-turned-pilgrim who spoke great English and made me laugh, but when my blisters started to slow us down, i asked him to walk on without me.
Temple 23, Yakuoji, is a temple known for warding off bad luck. I hoped that it would ward off my blisters, but the following day’s walk was one of the hardest. The coastal scenery was beautiful, but my spirits were low. When I reached the hot spring town of Shishikui, it was sunset, I had walked 32km and my feet were raw. I finally cried. It was not the pain but the idea that I might have to give up the pilgrimage that broke my heart. I knew that if things did not improve, I could not continue with my adventure.