Walking the Tokaido - Japan

The Tōkaidō is an old paved road which used to connect Edo (sometimes written as ‘Yedo’ in early Western literature on Japan; present day Tokyo) with Kyoto. 

A literal translation of 東海道 (Tōkaidō) is ‘East Sea Road’ – as the road follows the eastern coast of the island of Honshū.

During the Edo Period (1603-1858), when Japan was under the rule of the Tokugawa Shogunate, the Tōkaidō was a busy route mostly travelled on foot, or by Kago or Norimono (each a kind of sedan chair or palanquin borne by four or more bearers), or travelled on horseback. Travel along this road was a very popular subject in the art and literature of the time. Japan’s most famous poet, Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694), wrote of his travels along the Tōkaidō; and, perhaps most famously of all, the Ukiyo-e artist, Hiroshige (1797-1858), depicted 53 stations along the Tōkaidō in several different editions of woodcut prints. 

The Tōkaidō “corridor” is still a major transportation route connecting the greater Tokyo region with Nagoya, Kyoto and Osaka to the west. Two rail routes, the JR Tōkaidō Main Line and the Tōkaidō Shinkansen (Bullet Train), and two modern road routes, the Tōmei and the Meishin Expressways, still echo the winding course of the old Tōkaidō. But portions of the old road still exist, meandering quietly forgotten through quiet, tree-shaded stretches of the Japanese countryside.

I first walked a section of the old Tōkaidō at Hakone in 2003 and again in 2009; and I have also sought out other places along the old route, such as the official starting point of the Tōkaidō at Nihombashi in Tokyo, now a grand stone bridge near the upmarket shopping area of Ginza; as well as a stretch of the old road which is still lined with shabby old fashioned wooden buildings near Shinagawa; and, finally, the official terminus of the old route at the Sanjō Bridge in Kyoto. 

Hakone is the 10^th station depicted in Hiroshige’s various series of prints. It is said to be the steepest and most arduous stretch of the Tōkaidō, and, in some parts, in the wrong kind of weather, the large rough stones could well be shin-breakers if you happen to be unfortunate enough to lose your footing. 

Hakone is not too far from Tokyo and can easily be reached by train on the Odakyū line from Shinjuku Station. I began my first Tōkaidō hike in 2003 at Hakone-Yumoto. Setting out with the aid of a not very good map I eventually found the old paved road breaking off from the modern roads snaking up through the densely forested hills. This is where one first gets a feel for what the old Tōkaidō must have been like in Edo times, although it’s certainly much more peaceful nowadays.

I made my first trip along the Hakone stretch of the Tōkaidō in winter and my second trip there in spring, and the weather on both occasions seemed to mirror that experienced by Matsuo Bashō when he passed this way in 1684.

霧しぐれ    富士をみぬ日ぞ    面白き

Kirishigure Fuji wo minu hi zo omoshiroki

This isn’t an easy poem to translate. As with most haiku in its method its meaning is both as broad as it is succinct. Makoto Ueda, Professor of Japanese at Stanford University, in his book Bashō and His Interpreters (Stanford University Press, Stanford: 1992), translates it as follows:

In the misty rain

Mount Fuji is veiled all day –

How intriguing!

In his Nozorashi kikō (Journal of a Weather-beaten Skeleton) Bashō states that it rained all day and the mountains were hidden by cloud when he passed through the Barrier at Hakone. Like Bashō I didn’t see Mount Fuji on either occasion; this seemed somehow appropriate, making me feel all the more at one with the Edo period of the famous wandering old poet in whose footsteps I was following. The gentle drifts of rain rattling the thickets of bamboo alongside the road, bringing out the fresh woodland scents of the hinoki (cypress) and sugi (cryptomeria) trees, as I climbed on up the steep slopes – an elemental sense of nature surrounding the Tōkaidō, grounding one’s focus, I thought; providing both Bashō and myself with a more down-to-earth enjoyment, rather than the usual stunning and majestic views of Mount Fuji, which the area is apparently most famous for.

After passing through the small village of Hatajuku one follows the best preserved and most enchanting stretch of the Tōkaidō. Here the rugged stones wind their way up and up through misty hills. Eventually you pass the Amazake-jaya, an old thatched wooden traveller’s rest-house, where you can purchase a hot cup of o-cha (green tea) or some warm amazake (alcoholic rice wine), with Japanese mochi sweets. Continuing on you eventually reach the crest of the hilly ridge and begin to descend towards the small town of Moto-Hakone, on the shores of Lake Ashi. Here extends a flat stretch of the Tōkaidō, shaded by two majestically tall rows of cryptomeria trees, which were planted in 1618 and are now designated “natural treasures” of the nation, at the end of which is the Hakone Sekisho, or Hakone Barrier. 

The Barrier was a check-point, effectively a gated compound through which all Edo period travellers had to pass, where they would be searched, their possessions inventoried, and questioned as to their business by government officials. The Barrier was often a gruesome place to behold as the road either side of it was often ‘decorated’ with the crucified remains of criminals. The passing traveller’s progress through the barrier was watched over by a scaffold bedecked with severed heads. 

When I first visited the site of the Barrier in 2003 it was still under archaeological excavation, and returning in 2009 I found it was now the site of an impressively evocative, full and accurate reconstruction (minus the crucified criminals and severed heads, happily). There is also a small museum which explains more about the Barrier’s function, placing it in the wider context of Japanese society during the Edo period. From here there are several fine views of Ashi-ko, or Lake Ashi, as well as Mount Fuji – if the weather permits!

Danza de los Voladores - Mexico

The Danza de los Voladores – the Dance of the Flyers – is an ancient Mesoamerican ritual or ceremony which is still performed today. The exact origin and true meaning of this Pre-Columbian religious practice is no longer known for sure, although there are various myths and explanations rooted in the native folklore of the peoples of central Mexico as to why it is performed and what it means. It’s strongly connected to rites of fertility which are thought to have begun amongst the Nahua, Huastec, and Otomi peoples; the ritual is now most closely associated with the Totonac people of Papantla in Veracruz. According to Totonac myth it was first performed during a period of severe drought, through this ritual dance ceremony the people hoped to appease the gods and invoke their pity, asking them to bring back the rains needed to reawaken the land and bring back to life the withered crops in their fields. The dance was said to have pleased the rain god, Xipe Totec, such that it became an established ritual. At the time of the Spanish Conquest in the 15^th century it had spread across many Mesoamerican cultures, but subsequently it was almost lost as a result of the suppression of native religious rites by the invading Conquistadors.

The full ritual requires elaborate preparations. First a suitable tree must be found, then permission must be asked of the mountain god, Quihuicolo, to permit the cutting down of the selected tree and its removal from the forest. Once this has been done the tree must be prepared, stripped of its branches, and then dragged to the ceremonial site. Here a hole is dug and offerings must be placed into the earth – the offerings are usually of flowers, copal, alcohol, candles, and live chickens, or a live turkey – which are then crushed as the tall pole is erected; these sacrifices are thought to contribute to the fertility of the earth, reinforcing the potency of the ritual. Once it is fixed standing upright the pole thus becomes a nexus point, joining the sky, earth, and underworld. The pole therefore seems to have symbolic echoes in the Mayan creation myth of the sacred tree rooted at the centre of the world, and which is also associated with the bird deity, Itzamna; hence, perhaps, in the original version of the rite the five “birdmen” who must ascend the pole once it has been ritually purified. The birdmen represent invocations to the sky and the four cardinal directions. Once seated atop the pole the four men begin to rotate themselves upon a small wooden frame or platform, whilst the fifth seated in the centre begins to play on a flute and a drum. The four men attach themselves to the pole by ropes tied about their waists which have been wound around the pole. At a given signal the four men launch themselves off the platform backwards. They then begin to sail out as the platform continues to rotate, gently descending in a graceful spiral, all the while hanging head downwards with their arms outstretched. They make a total of 13 revolutions each, symbolising the 52-year cycle of the Aztec calendar; righting themselves only moments prior to landing.

Nowadays, the poles tend to be permanent metal fixtures in certain Mexican and Guatemalan towns renowned for the ritual, and their costumes no longer represent birds. The modern day traditional Totonac dress consists of red trousers and a white shirt, with a red sash – symbolising blood – worn across the chest, and a hat adorned with flowers, mirrors and coloured ribbons or streamers, each representing fertility, the sun, and the rainbow respectively. These costumes are often also elaborately embroidered.

I took these pictures and made this short film of the Totonac Voladores performing their ritual in Chapultepec Park on my first visit to Mexico City last year.