Posted by Lu Barnham on March 01, 2010 01:52 p.m.
When I first started telling people I was planning on walking a 1200km Buddhist pilgrimage, alone, on a Japanese Island, reactions ran from amused to confused. Everyone asked the same questions and were stumped by my answers—no, I’m not Buddhist; no, I don’t speak Japanese; no, I’m not a long distance walker. Some asked why I wanted to do something so obscure. To me, it was obvious—to have an adventure. I needed to know that it was still possible to have one, that they did not belong only to the pages of books. I’d always been fascinated by Japanese culture and have admired the peaceful nature of Buddhists. To take on such a challenge, I would have to get fit, and I would have to get tough. When you’re female and embarking on a journey like this, people suspect you are being careless, and that you don’t realize it can be unsafe for a woman to do such things alone. The more I raised eyebrows, the more I wanted to do it. I had been to Japan twice before, and I trusted its people and its character.
I knew it would be hard to face such a long journey alone in a strange land, crossing mountains, forests and rivers, not to mention navigating vast metropolises and endless suburbia. I needed to equip myself with maps, guides and as much knowledge as possible, and for months before I left, little packages covered in neat Kanji and Kana script arrived at our Oxford house, containing academic titles, route guides and histories.
The 88 temple circuit runs in a loop around the island of Shikoku, a place still rich in the countryside, which is gradually disappearing in other areas of Japan. Pilgrims have been walking to the temples for hundreds of years, following in the footsteps of Kobo Daishi, the eighth century saint who brought Shingon Buddhism to Japan from China. Due to the demands of modern life, as well the conveniences it brings, most pilgrims—or henro, as they are known—now travel to the temples by bus, train or car. I wanted to travel the traditional way, on foot, discovering for myself a lesser known Japan—one of village and valleys—as well as high-tech cities. I vowed I would not step foot on any form of transport from the moment I arrived at temple one to the moment I planned to return to it, completing my sacred circle.
My parents were wonderful, if a little concerned. My mother worried that I would be lonely; my father worried that I had not had enough physical training for such an arduous trek. Friends, used to my mad ideas, were supportive, and Seth, my husband, had mind-blowing levels of faith in me. I knew that if I failed, it would be a very public affair, but I also knew that such things shouldn’t stop me from trying.
It is tradition for a henro to travel to Kobo Daishi’s mausoleum on beautiful Mt. Koya before embarking on the pilgrimage to receive the blessings of the saint. It was a hot July afternoon as I stood before his tomb, my eyes closed, my hands together. I felt a little lost and anxious. Behind me was a large wooden hall, full of lanterns and candles. Monks were chanting softly inside. As I walked back through the sacred cemetery, in the shadow of tall cedars hundreds of years old, I felt the weight of my decision on my shoulders. It was time to head for the island.