Takamatsu and the Ekaiwa

When you think of Japan, if you don't first think of mob members beaten foreigners in back alleys, automated dog washing machines, or Godzilla being badly dubbed, you might think zen. Maybe the wise and calm sayings of that karate instructor in that movie (series of movies, I suppose) come to mind or your inner peace begins to crave the solace of a sculptured garden enclosed behind a Buddhist monastery’s austere stone walls. But day to day life is, of course, very different, and the Japanese seem very incapable of achieving the rest and peace they worship in their art and cultural traditions.

I first thought this when a nationally-touring art exhibit came to Tano. The minutely detailed ink drawings were usually scenes of exquisite peace and quiet; they were moments of stillness in a harbor before fishermen went out for the day, or the unbroken mists draped around cedar forests on a mountainside. Many an old Edo-style building was wrapped up in stony age and time, serene and wise, holding its tradition to itself like a gorgeous kimono, both for decoration and modesty’s sake. But the people who surround me in my town, while lovely, kind and even generous, are not people who sit still well. They aren't likely to sit and ponder a question so much as discuss it volubly amongst each other and ask for a general consensus to solve the problem, then quickly move on to the next trivial pursuit. The individual does not really matter and so cannot find peace, and if the individual can't find it, how can the group which is made up of so many individuals? 

For instance, this beautiful garden was created by a feudal lord for his private relaxation and leisure. The house is positioned with a lovely view of a man-made lake, the sculptured greenery like scenery around it is as though nature had a tasteful manicure in anticipation of a lovely romantic dinner with a long-loved partner. But the majority of the tourists I see walk through the garden move quickly, snapping pictures, chattering to each other, and briskly stepping onward to the next offering. The only people sitting down to enjoy the iris garden were two foreigners. 

I wandered off from the group, because I have a perverse sense of forced independence. I like doing my own thing when and where I want to do it and I don't have much pity on the group as a whole. But they survived of course, because they were the majority. It must have been rough, though, since I am the life and soul of every party.

Similarly, in Shikoku Village, I found the same experience, especially among my own traveling companions. 

Shikoku Village is a reproduction of what old houses in the mountains of Shikoku were like. The village is carved into the mountain side, a veritable Hobbiton of little round houses connected by sweetly curving paths and marvelously constructed wooden steps. There is a rose garden, a striking bamboo forest, and a multi-tiered waterfall whose overflowing creates a constant and harmonious, reflection-inducing hum. Our group spent about an hour here and promptly moved on to the next place. I spent most of the time wandering alone, listening to the water, staring into the crazy third dimension of bambooed-space, or following my feet down stony and wooded paths. 

Not so my fellow tourists. They walked quickly, talked quickly, enjoyed quickly, and seemed to promptly forget. There was no reminiscent talk later in the trip about the beauties we just saw. There were no conversations about old Japan or sugar-cane processing from the 1600s. It was like a snapshot in an overfull album – glanced at, admired, and quickly forgotten under the onslaught of the next page.