There's Nowhere to Eat Near Jiko-ji

The only place I’ve ever seen Jiko-ji written about is in one of the guidebooks on Tokyo sitting on my bookshelf. Buried in the back of the book, a few pages from the index, it appears in a section titled “Other Trips,” which itself is a sub-section of “Trips Out of Town,” which itself is a departure from the main focus of the book, which is Tokyo itself. The entry has no pictures or maps. Because Jiko-ji is located in rural Japan, where public transportation is sparse at best, the book suggests the traveler check train and bus schedules ahead of time, but gives no indication as to where to access that information. Under the heading, “Where to Eat,” it informs the reader, with or without irony I can’t tell, that, “There’s nowhere to eat near Jiko-ji.”

Jiko-ji’s (-ji is one of the suffixes in Japanese for a Buddhist temple) claim to apparently low-grade fame is that it is the oldest temple in the Kanto (Eastern Japan) region, thought to have been established in 673, eventually wielding its greatest influence in the 13th century. It’s in an area that’s not really near anything, and not on the way to anywhere, and even though they felt it was interesting enough to include in their publication, it seemed that the authors of the guidebook didn’t really expect anyone to actually go.

I transferred trains five times before arriving at tiny Myokaku Station, manned by a single old attendant who bowed to each passenger as they handed their tickets over. Only about four other people got off with me, all old enough to be my grandparents. In the parking lot was the bus I was going to take another few miles to get to the entrance of the temple. The driver sat outside of the bus smoking a cigarette, looking slightly overweight and sweaty in his uniform, and when he saw me approach he flicked the last embers into the bushes and climbed into the driver’s seat. I told him where I wanted to go and he handed me a transfer ticket – this bus didn’t go there, but at the last stop, if I got out and waited another ten minutes, another one would come to take me to the entrance.

The Japanese attitude towards religion challenges its Western counterpart – actually, you could even say it laughs at it. We in the West give ourselves completely over to our religions – we are Catholic, we are Jewish, and we behave and identify as such. By doing so, we also make clear that we are not anything else. If we go to the worship service of another religion, it’s just for the experience, we say - it doesn’t become our identity. It’s not possible to be Jewish on Saturday, go to a Sabbath service at a synagogue, and then go to Mass on Sunday and be Christian, and then have a clean religious slate once again on Monday. Changing religions is a long and official process, and one notifies friends and family, who often object, of the change.

The Japanese are often described as being Buddhist at birth, Christian at their wedding and Shinto (the native Japanese religion) when they die. If one were to judge strictly by the type of ceremonies they have at these life cycle events, this would be true. But, if you ask most Japanese, they will tell you that they are none of the above, though one doesn’t have to look terribly hard to find traces of Buddhist, Shinto and Confucian ideas in the Japanese perception of the world and of society. A Christian wedding to them is just that – a wedding. Just because you have one does not mean you are a Christian, you do not have to be Christian to have one in the first place.

The same can be said, then for visiting Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, and their architecture confirms this. Unlike synagogues and chapels, which are indoor, private sanctuaries, temples and shrines are always outside, open to the world. Worship is done in public and is informal, always free form. You don’t need anybody’s permission to enter, you don’t need to be a member of either religion to pray, and nobody will ask you for anything when you leave.

I find solace in this idea, that one’s spiritual affiliation transcends dogma. In Japan, one can be Buddhist during the half hour they spend at a temple, then become Shinto when visiting the shrine next door – no long-term commitment is necessary. In both cases, some core energy is released that does not discriminate based on location – what is important is not by what means, but by what intent.

I was dropped off in the tiny village of Nishi-Daira, from where it was an hour’s walk up into the low-lying mountains, passing tiny wooden shrines and a few cemeteries on the way to the main building of Jiko-ji. Everything seemed swathed in a gentle light, and, in the absence of the cacophonous and never-ending background noise of Tokyo, the sounds of the birds chattering seemed artificially amplified. In between the trees, the expanse of stout, wide hills extended off into the distance, retreating into a dream-like haze towards horizon. The entrance to the temple, a narrow stairway that was encroached upon by the surrounding shrubs, suddenly appeared. Looking around, it seemed I was the only visitor that day.

Rural Japan, I have come to realize, is not the place to go if you are feeling paranoid, mainly because everyone who you would perceive to be looking at you and whispering to their friend about you probably is looking at you and whispering to their friend about you. For a long time, this sequence of events never failed to rattle me, not only because of my dislike for the running assumption in Japan that foreigners don’t know enough Japanese to figure out that they are being talked about, but mainly because it was the first time in my life that I was so aware that I was a white person.

Recently, though, I’ve been invigorated by these feelings. As I got further into rural areas on the way to Jiko-ji, as the trains I took became smaller and older, and the dress of those traveling more conservative and the stations more windswept, more eyes wandered my way. On one train, three young schoolgirls stood around the empty spot next to me, looking back and forth between the open seat and me, each offering it to the others, trying not to make it obvious that none of them really wanted to sit next to me. Early in my time here this would have bothered me to no end, but on this day it made me feel undoubtedly alive, as if it were a confirmation of what I thought myself to be, a sign that I was somewhere where I could create cultural and mental sparks, tension, and friction by simply being there, a simultaneous feeling of experiencing of the “other” and being “other” itself.

I climbed the steep stairway that leads to the main hall of the temple. It was almost gothic in stature, tall and dark and complexly built, even more so against the background of gentle forest green. A few sticks of incense that must have been put there that morning lay used up in the altar. Even though nobody was around, I felt embarrassed that I didn’t know the absolutely correct procedure for praying, and I made doubly sure that nobody was coming up the stairs or from the pathway veering back to the main road. I threw in an offering and clapped my hands twice, one of the few rituals I’m familiar with. Birds chirped. A fly buzzed past my ear. I bowed my head and tried to clear my mind.

From the roof, a multi-colored rope hung down attached to a bell that the worshipper is supposed to ring before and after praying. Three times I rang. Each time, the bell emitted a soft, dusty groan that was quickly enveloped by the surrounding silence. Alone on a holy mountaintop, it sounded like everything at once and nothing at all.




On the way Up




Entrance and main hall of Jiko-ji



Myokaku station on the Hachiko Line