Sado Island’s lesser-known treasure

Last month I had the opportunity to visit the fascinating island of Sado, off the coast of Niigata Prefecture in northern Honshu. It felt like a land that time forgot, so charmingly rustic and old-fashioned were its buildings.

Located in the Sea of Japan, Sado was once home to mines that flourished from the early 17th century until the last one closed in 1989. Together, these mines produced an astounding 78 tons of gold and 2,300 tons of silver. That’s a lot of precious metals!

Nevertheless, I was surprised to learn that during those same years, 30% of the island’s wealth was concentrated in the quiet port town of Shukunegi.

Naturally, I had to explore.

Shukunegi

Shukunegi is on the southeast coast of Sado Island, an easy drive from my inn on the southwest coast. During the Edo era (1603–1867), the port bustled with trade. Hundreds of Sengoku-bune, a type of Japanese wooden sailing ship, were either based there or stopped by on their way to and from the port of Sakata, in the north, to Osaka on the far side of Honshu. 

The name, Sengoku-bune, means “1,000 koku ships.” Koku is a Japanese measurement that had long been used for rice. One koku equals 150 kilos. Rather than in currency, taxes were paid in numbers of koku of rice. Samurai received a set number of koku as their yearly wages. And Daimyo lords were judged wealthy by the number of koku of rice their domains produced.

These impressive sailing ships, the Sengoku-bune “1,000 koku ships,” carried 150,000 kilos of rice from the great rice-producing areas of northeastern Japan down to Osaka, stopping at ports along the way. They returned with pottery, various other goods, and remarkably, stones to replace the weight of the rice and provide necessary ballast for the ships.

You can spot these stones around the town, used in roads, foundations for buildings, monuments, and the like. One bridge in Shukunegi is made from stones carried on one of the Sengoku-bune all the way from Onomichi City, in what is today Hiroshima Prefecture.

Shukunegi is situated on a small piece of land surrounded on three sides by hills. In the late Edo era, the town along with the surrounding countryside consisted of 120 households and 500 residents. There were peasants, shipowners, captains, sailors, shipbuilders and carpenters, blacksmiths, and bucket makers. As well, there was a continuous stream of men who came and went on the Sengoku-bune.

People still live there today.

To fit the population in, architects had to be creative, fitting the buildings into small and irregularly shaped patches of land between streams and roads. They also made good use of any leftover wood from shipbuilding and from old, dismantled ships.

Prosperity threatened

In December of 1802, a 6.5 to 7.0 magnitude earthquake occurred that nearly put an end to Shukunegi’s prosperous trade. The land and sea levels along the coast were raised by two meters. The Sengoku-bune could no longer harbor in the small port. The sea had become too shallow.

Thankfully, one resourceful man came up with a solution.

Tarai-bune

Miso making requires fermenting soybeans with saltwater and rice koji — yes, the same koji that is used in making sake — in huge barrels made from cedar and bamboo. 

The story is told that a miso maker was gazing at his big barrels and struck upon an idea. He cut one in half and found that it made a fine shallow-bottomed boat. It was big and stable enough to haul freight to and from the Sengoku-bune anchored offshore.

That innovative miso-maker had made the first han-giri, or “half-cut.” The idea caught on. People started building these boats and adapting them, making them smaller and then oval-shaped. They came to be called tarai-bune, “washbasin boats.” They are controlled by using one long oar.

Fishermen use tarai-bune even today from which they hook abalone and flatfish from the shallow seafloor. Their small size makes them easy to navigate through the narrow waterways and coves of the Sado coast.

After being ferried about in a tarai-bune and seeing a surprising number of baby fugu pufferfish in the crystal-clear water, I headed off to explore the town’s museum.

Ogi Folk Museum

In 1920, an elementary school was built in Shukunegi. Due to population decline, the school was converted into a museum in 1972. 

A faithful reproduction of a Sengoku-bune nearly fills its auditorium, surrounded by a collection of old coins, beautiful ceramics, lacquerware, old chests, and other relics.

Each classroom is dedicated to a different category of objects. They are filled nearly to overflowing, giving me the impression that many grandmothers must have donated the contents of their many storerooms.

I was captivated by this amazing treasure trove of ancient and curious items, from old ema tablets, saddles, toys, shoes…

…to pipes, pottery, masu measuring boxes, toilets, fishing tools, bamboo products, and more. According to the gentleman who works there, who, incidentally, graduated from that elementary school, the building houses more than 30,000 items.

Yet, of all the hundreds of pieces of pottery in the museum, not one was made on Sado. All of it was brought in through trade, including Jomon era (14,000–300 BC) pots from neighboring Niigata.

After nearly being overwhelmed by the huge variety and amount of items to look at, I asked the fellow at the museum about a collection of Buddhist Jizo statues I had heard about. He knew what I meant. 

Since there was no one else at the museum, he left and led me down a long staircase into the heart of Shukunegi Town to a small graveyard. He told me the Jizo were behind a collection of statues.

We gingerly climbed up over the ancient statues and, indeed, the Jizo were there, grown over by grass and weeds. I guess there just aren’t enough people to get everything done in that small town.

This kind man then suggested that I might like to visit a cave nearby. After walking together back to the museum, I thanked him and then followed his directions to a staircase that led up from a narrow road.

Iwaya Cave

What I found up that stone staircase was a large sea cave created hundreds of thousands of years ago. Iwaya Cave is 70 meters above sea level, the rise in elevation is thought to have been caused by the major uplifts in the earth’s crust that occur about every 1,000 years in this area.

In this cave, archeologists have discovered ceramics dating from the Jomon era (14,000–300 BC) clear through to recent years, carvings from the middle ages, coins, ironware, and more. It is still a remarkable place, although questionably looked after.

Buddhist images carved into the cave walls are attributed to Kōbō Daishi, who founded Shingon Buddhism in the early 9th century. 

In the far back of the cave, in pitch dark, is an image of the Eleven-Faced Kannon, goddess of mercy, who sailors prayed to for safekeeping. My camera flash allowed me to capture its image.

In front of the cave are 88 stone Buddhas, representing the 88 sites of the pilgrimage on Shikoku island, established by Kōbō Daishi.

There are small towns like Shukunegi all over Japan, filled with interesting stories and hidden treasures. Fortunately for the people of Shukunegi, their town was declared an “Important Preservation District for Historic Buildings” in 1991. It is one of 126 such areas scattered across Japan that are being preserved, and they are well worth searching out.

Although we tend to think of the past as remote and distant, much of it lives on in rural Japan — in towns like Shukunegi. 

The post Shukunegi, Japan — The Town Where People Fish from Barrels first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Walking Amid Michelin Green Guide Star-Winning Beauty

I recently had the privilege of climbing Mount Haguro in northeastern Japan. The forest walk has been given 3 stars by the Michelin Green Guide, and it did not disappoint. Please allow me to share my journey with you.

Background

Mount Haguro is one of three sacred mountains known as the Dewa Sanzan, 出羽三山, meaning the three mountains of Dewa — the old name for Yamagata and Akita Prefectures. Climbing these mountains has been considered a pilgrimage of spiritual rebirth for centuries.

Each mountain in the Dewa Sanzan represents an aspect of cosmic time that pilgrims face. Mount Gassan is where we ask forgiveness for past wrongs and encounter our ancestors. Mount Haguro is where we overcome the troubles of the present world. And Mount Yudono is where we confront our future selves.

A little history

In the 6th century, Prince Hachiko, the son of the 32nd emperor of Japan, left the capital in Nara. His father, Emperor Sushin, had been assassinated, and his cousin, the influential and powerful Shotoku Taishi, advised him that discretion was the better part of valor. Hachiko accepted this advice and, difficult though it must have been, quietly left the capital.

Legend tells us that Hachiko then traveled the country, healing those wherever he went by magically absorbing their sufferings. The more hardships he took upon himself, the more disfigured he became. Yet Prince Hachiko, without concern for his earthly appearance, kept on.

Eventually, he was led to Mount Haguro by a three-legged crow. 

In a quintessential mix of Buddhism and Shinto, Prince Hachiko set up a monastery to practice Buddhism and to worship the Shinto kami of the three mountains. There he remained, teaching and healing, until his death in 641.

From the time Buddhism reached Japan in the 6th century, there was a peaceful syncretism of Buddhism with Shinto. Buddhist gods were considered manifestations of Shinto kami, and many temples and shrines shared the same grounds — some buildings even served as both Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines.

In 1868, as a means of weakening the wealth and power of Buddhist sects and to bring greater respect to the authority of the newly installed Emperor Meiji, himself a Shinto god, the government ordered the division of Buddhism and Shintoism. Temples, statues, bells, and sutras were destroyed in a frenzy of attack by Shinto nationalists. Many Buddhist priests were forced to leave the priesthood; others chose to become Shinto priests.

From that time, Buddhist images were removed from Mount Haguro. 

Climbing Mount Haguro

After consulting bus and train schedules, I took an 8:22 train from Niigata City and reached the charming city of Tsuruoka, in Yamagata Prefecture, in plenty of time to catch the 10:41 bus. The next bus was 90 minutes later, so careful planning was essential.

I had a pleasant ride past beautiful countryside with the awesome snow-covered Mount Chokai to the north providing the backdrop. After about 40 minutes, the bus drove through an enormous torii gate, along a narrow road fronting Shukubo shrine lodgings, and arrived at the foot of Mount Haguro.

My lodging for the night was easy to find.

I rang the bell at the shrine where I was going to stay and dropped off my bag. The innkeeper, the Shinto priest’s wife, visibly relaxed when she realized that the foreigner staying with her that night could speak Japanese. I thanked her for keeping my suitcase, bid her goodbye, and headed to the hiking trail.

It was 11:30 and the weather was glorious.

I bowed and passed under the torii gate, symbolizing my entry into the sacred realm of Mount Haguro, a Shinto kami. Then I approached the next gate.

The vermillion Zuishinmon Gate was previously guarded by two Buddhist Nio warriors and had been called the Niomon Gate. These statues were moved to safety and hidden during the anti-Buddhist frenzy. Today, they can be viewed at the Shozen-in Temple, a 15-minute walk from their former home. 

This gate marks the beginning of the 2,446 stone steps that lead to the summit.

In 1648, the 50th chief priest of the Dewa Sanzan, Tenyu Betto, laid the thousands of stones that lead from the vermillion gate to the mountaintop Sanjin Gosaiden shrine. It took him 13 years. Along the way, he carved 33 different Buddhist symbols into the stones. If you can find them all, it is said your prayers will assuredly be answered.

I think I found a few.

The path first leads downhill to a group of simple wooden shrines.

Then it takes us across the red, arched Shinkyo Bridge that had marked the border across which no women could pass until the 19th-century changes. To the right is the 400-year-old, man-made Suga-no-Taki waterfall, also credited to Tenyu Betto.

Soon, I meet the 1,000-year-old cedar tree affectionately called Jiji-sugi, or “Grandfather Cedar.” This majestic tree stands near the 600-year-old Go-jū-no-toh, or Five-Story Pagoda. This amazing work of architecture was originally built by none other than Taira no Masakado in the 930s. You may remember Masakado as one of Japan’s Three Most Infamous Vengeful Ghosts. 

The Go-jū-no-toh was built without using any nails. It features a large earthquake-resistant pendulum in the center which allows the building to gently and loosely sway like a snake during tremors. Its design has inspired modern techniques for constructing earthquake-proof buildings and towers, such as the 634 meter Tokyo Sky Tree. 

The current pagoda dates from 1372 when it was rebuilt by Daihoji Masauji, the chief priest of Mount Haguro. It is all that remains of a temple complex that surrounded it until the 1870s when the buildings were destroyed. Fortunately for us, the Go-jū-no-toh was rechristened as a Shinto shrine before then.

As Yamagata is deep in Japan’s snow country, each winter workers climb up inside the pagoda to sweep off the snow that accumulates on the roofs. 

After taking time to admire these awe-inspiring sights, I head up the long staircase sided by hundreds of 400-year-old cryptomeria cedar trees.

Walking through this beautiful forest, filled with the fragrance of cedar trees and joyous birdsong, I cannot think of a nicer way to spend a day.

I pass many small wooden shrines, then come upon unusual trees wrapped in a shimenawa rope, signifying that they are sacred. 

Originally two trees, through the years they reached out to each other and are now collectively known as Meoto-sugi, “The Couple Tree.” A wooden sign nearby tells us that those who hug this tree will be blessed with children.

There are three slopes along this path, each marked by a stone monument, and I have reached the third. 

I pass a shrine dedicated to the kami, Haniya-Hime no Mikoto, who was created from the feces of the creator goddess, Izanami-no-Mikoto. (I’m not making this up.) Those looking for the divine blessing of lasting relationships come here to pray.

Soon, I reach the top of the mountain, welcomed by another torii gate.

Exploring the mountaintop

I’ve climbed the 2,445 stone steps that lead from the Zuishinmon Gate to the 414 meter-high summit of Mount Haguro. I bow and enter the grounds where all three deities of the Dewa Sanzan are enshrined.

The first thing that catches my eye is a magnificent wooden shrine, a marvel of craftsmanship. It is the Itsukushima Shrine dedicated to the three deities of Munakata (in Fukuoka), and was once shared with Benzaiten, their Buddhist equivalent. These deities are incarnations of the god of water and all that flows, and they are crucial to this island nation as providers of the bounties from the sea. 

Among myriad intricate carvings are two dragons, one adorning each front pillar. Unlike the Western concept of dragons, these are helpful and wingless creatures. One is climbing up the pillar, symbolizing our struggles to attain Buddhahood through the continuous cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.

The other dragon descends, signifying its intention to come to earth and help aid the salvation of all living things.

No one knows when this building was constructed.

I pass the shrine to Prince Hachiko, then go up a few steps to pay my respects at the Sanjin-Gosaiden Shrine. This striking cedar structure was built in 1818, and it has an impressive 2.1 meter thick thatched roof, the thickest in Japan.

The gods of each of the Dewa Sanzan — Mount Haguro, Mount Gassan, and Mount Yudono — are enshrined within. This is the only mountaintop accessible all year round, so pilgrims can pay homage to all three deities here.

In front of the shrine is a pond called Kagami-ike, Mirror Pond. Although it beautifully reflects the shrine, this is not the source of its name.

In the early 20th century, the pond was drained. Over 600 ornate, bronze mirrors were recovered from its muddy bottom. Worshippers are thought to have used the mirrors as vehicles for their prayers and tossed them into the pond. Today, those mirrors have traveled as far as the British Museum and the Smithsonian Institute. Nearly 200 are on display in the nearby Dewa Sanzan Historical Museum, which, unfortunately, was closed when I visited.

Beside the pond is an ancient bell. As Shinto shrines do not usually have bells, this one is clearly a remnant of the days when Buddhism flourished in Dewa Sanzan.

The bronze bell weighs 10 tons, the 3rd largest in Japan. It was donated by the regent Hojo Tokimune as thanks for prayers offered for victory during the Mongol invasions of 1274 and 1281.

The thatched roof belfry was built in 1617, replacing the former structure that was destroyed during a typhoon.

This bell is rung only once a year, on December 31. Imagine the reverberations that echo across the mountains.

Among the other shrines on the mountaintop is Tōshō Shrine, dedicated to the deified first shogun of the Edo era, Tokugawa Ieyasu.

Another is the Reisaiden, a shrine built to house ancestral spirits. There is a spectacular painting of a dragon on the ceiling of its entranceway and a collection of Buddhist sculptural masterpieces in the building beside it. No photography is allowed.

Beside Reisaiden is a small cemetery with some unusual clothed gravestones.

Along the east side of the mountaintop, sits a row of small shrines. One of these stood out because of its collection of footwear. It is the Kensumimi Shrine, dedicated to Kamo-Taketsu-Numi no Mikoto, who, according to legend, is the kami who was incarnated as the three-legged crow.

People visit the shrine and offer footwear imbued with prayers for safe travels and healing and strength for their legs.

The climb down

After paying my respects at the modest imperial grave of Prince Hachiko, I head back to the torii gate to begin my descent.

Along the way is a sign tempting me to explore the Minami-Dani, which means southern valley. Despite the “Watch out for Bears” sign, I brave the unused trail. About 500 meters into the woods I come to a clearing that once held a temple where the great poet, Matsuo Basho, stayed while on his famous “Narrow Road to the Deep North” poetic journey in the 17th century.

There was not much left of the pond or the gazebo, but the walk is beautiful.

Back on the main path, I come across construction at a tea house. I peek into the grounds before one of the workers kindly tells me he would “appreciate me not entering.” I see enough to know that the rebuilt tea house will afford a fantastic view of the vast Shonai plains below.

Shukubo shrine stay

The innkeeper greets me at the door of the shrine lodging and shows me to my room. It is a huge 12 mat room, twice the size of a typical single room.

“Wow, this room is huge!” This is an unexpected surprise.

“You’re a foreigner, so I thought you would like a big room.”

I do!

She takes me down the hall to show me the shared bath and toilets, then back to show me the small room where my meals would be served. We agree on a 6:00 dinner, and she leaves me to wash up and relax.

Innkeepers in Japan prefer to serve dinner early, as the meals are rather elaborate, and they appreciate having plenty of time to clean up before they go to bed.

I bathe, put on the yukata robe the innkeeper provided, and before I know it, dinner is served.

It’s a feast of wild mountain vegetables and various types of tofu, including a house specialty, sesame tofu. This type of cuisine was developed in the Kamakura era by Zen monks and is called shojin-ryori.

Although Dewa Sanzan became Shinto in 1869, shojin-ryori continued to be served and adapted. Enjoying shojin-ryori is an important part of any visit to the Dewa Sanzan.

After a peaceful sleep in that quiet room between comfortable and warm futons, I wake up refreshed.

I again visit the Jiji-sugi “Grandfather Cedar” and the Go-jū-no-toh. I see many people cleaning, and learn that the mountain is cleaned one day each year.

I visit the two shrines between my inn and the Zuishinmon Gate. One is called the Tenchikon Shrine. This iteration was built in 1779 and is decorated with remarkable carvings.

The other shrine is dedicated to “The Tofu Jizō.”

With a name like that, it had to have an interesting backstory.

Before the late 19th century, this Jizō statue held pride of place on temple grounds, bringing prosperity to the worshippers on Mount Haguro and protecting pilgrims.

Sadly, when its temple compound was destroyed, this Jizō statue was cast into a ravine and forgotten.

Many years later, a mason was searching the forest for stone. He came upon the Jizō and mistook it for mere smooth stone. It seemed to him a perfect find to fashion into a stone used in making tofu. It was his lucky day — or so he thought.

The moment he struck the stone, he fell over unconscious. For three days and three nights he lay in a stupor, his mind filled with dreams.

In his dreams, Jizō appeared to him and warned him to repent of his disrespect.

When he awoke, repent, he did!

He moved the Jizō to its current position near the Zuishinmon Gate, built a shrine for him, and gave him the name “Tofu Jizō.” Today, people visit this Jizō to pray for long life, safe childbirth, and for help in raising children.

I go next door to the inn and partake of a wonderful shojin-ryori breakfast. I notice one of the dishes is a triangular chimaki, a type of rice dumpling wrapped and cooked in bamboo leaves and topped with soybean powder. It is a popular dish served on Children’s Day and one of my favorites.

After this delicious meal, I bid farewell to the kind innkeeper.

My time at Mount Haguro is up. I catch the 9:18 bus to Tsuruoka Town, satisfied after a perfect stay and looking forward to new adventures.

Mount Haguro embodies many of the reasons I write about rural Japan. Though off the beaten path, it truly is a treasure trove of culture and beauty for those who take the time to visit.

For what it’s like to stay at a Buddhist Temple, please see my article, “Shukubō — Tranquil Temple Stay in Japan.”

The post Mount Haguro—Experiencing its Rustic Magnificence first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

The rise and fall of the Northern Fujiwara family

Three generations of glory

Vanished

In the space of a dream

So wrote Japan’s most famous Haiku poet, Matsuo Basho, upon visiting Hiraizumi in 1689.

Located in Iwate Prefecture, Hiraizumi is a place you may never have heard of. But it was once the capital of northern Japan, rivaling Kyoto for size, splendor, and wealth. 

The famed explorer Marco Polo described what he heard about it while in China:

They have gold in the greatest abundance, its sources being inexhaustible… The entire roof [of the sovereign’s palace] is covered with a plating of gold… The ceilings of the halls are of the same precious metal; many of the apartments have small tables of pure gold, of considerable thickness; and the windows also have golden ornaments. So vast, indeed, are the riches of the palace, that it is impossible to convey an idea of them. — The travels of Marco Polo, written 1300

This marvelous city of gold was founded by a member of the powerful Fujiwara clan, whose daughters married emperors and influenced the government in Kyoto for generations. The branch of the family that ruled in Hiraizumi is known as the Northern Fujiwara.

In order to appreciate the magnitude of what Hiraizumi once was, we need a little history.

Setting the stage

During the Heian Era (794–1185), the emperor in Kyoto ruled the area from southern Kyushu to the southern border of what now is Fukushima Prefecture. (Shown in green on the map.) 

Northern Honshu was referred to as Michinoku, “beyond the road.” It was considered wild country, the home of Emishi “barbarians.” 

Understood to have migrated from northeastern Asia, the Emishi were ethnically different from the main population of Japan. Historians theorize the name is a collective term for the various northern tribes who resisted the rule of the Japanese state. Some of the Emishi are likely the ancestors of the Ainu people, today considered the indigenous people of Hokkaido.

During the 12th century, the Emishi of northeastern Honshu were ruled over by a powerful and wealthy family, the Abe. 

Like the Kumaso and Hayato, “barbarian” people of southern Kyushu before them, the Emishi were expected to pay tribute to the court. And just like their southern counterparts, this task became so onerous that they stopped.

Because of this failure to pay tribute, Minamoto no Yoriyoshi, as Chinjufu-shōgun, “Defender of the North,” was tasked with subjugating the Emishi Abe clan. He received reinforcements from Kiyohara no Takehira, the leader of nearby Dewa Province. 

A relative of the Kyoto Fujiwara family, Fujiwara no Tsunekiyo, who had married an Emishi and moved to the hinterland, joined the Abe clan in their defense of Michinoku. 

After fighting that spanned 12 long years, the powerful Minamoto and Kiyohara allies defeated the Abe clan and Fujiwara no Tsunekiyo, who, because of his Kyoto roots, was considered a despicable traitor to the emperor.

Minamoto no Yoriyoshi, the Chinjufu-shōgun, personally exacted revenge on Tsunekiyo by publicly decapitating him — using a blunt and rusty sword to prolong the agony.

Fujiwara no Tsunekiyo left behind his Emishi wife and their son, and it is to this son that we now look.

Fujiwara no Kiyohira — the first of the Northern Fujiwara

Fujiwara no Kiyohira’s Emishi mother was taken as a concubine by one of the victors in the war, Kiyohara no Takehira, who had been named the new Chinjufu-shōgun. 

Kiyohira’s grandfather, father, and uncle had all been killed in the war. His mother’s Emishi brothers were banished to Kyushu. He was raised in a strange land in the house of his father’s enemy.

When he was 28, he found himself embroiled in another war, a vicious power struggle among his adopted family as to who would be the next to rule. Kiyohira emerged victorious, although he lost his wife and son who were viciously killed in their home by his younger half-brother.

With a heavy heart at such a tragic loss, this son of a Fujiwara and an Emishi became the next Chinjufu-shōgun, Defender of the North, ruler of the vast northern Michinoku frontiers — a land rich in gold, silver, and fine horses.

Kiyohira, whose entire life had been beset by violence, resolved to use his power to bring peace to Michinoku by turning it into a Buddhist realm.

In 1105 he moved to Hiraizumi and rebuilt Chūson-ji, 中尊寺, a temple that had been established by a Tendai Buddhist monk in 850. He wished for a Buddhist sanctuary where all people could be welcome, and he had Chūson-ji rebuilt as a place for the repose of the spirits of all those lost in the recent wars, regardless of loyalties or status.

He built Daichojuin, 大長寿院, a 15-meter-high temple that housed a 9-meter golden statue of Amida Nyōrai, the Buddha of the Pure Land. Some years later, when Japan’s first shogun, Minamoto no Yoritomo, saw Daichojuin, he was so impressed with its grandeur that he modeled Yofuku-ji temple in his capital of Kamakura after it.

Among the over 40 Buddhist temples and pagodas that Kiyohira had built, only one remains today.

It is the Konjikidō, 金色堂, Golden Hall, which was built to house a gold statue of Amida Nyōrai. Not only are the statue and altar decorations made of gold, but both the temple’s interior and exterior walls are covered with gold leaf. The pillars, altars, and beams are inlaid with jewels and mother-of-pearl, have engraved gold fittings, and are covered with makie — black lacquer sprinkled with powdered gold.

The entire temple is a glorious work of late Heian-era artistry. Today, it is housed within a protective concrete building. No photos are allowed to be taken within its walls.

When Kiyohira died in 1128, he was succeeded by his son Motohira.

Fujiwara no Motohira — the second Northern Fujiwara

As well as continuing his father’s work of expanding the Chūson-ji temple complex, Motohira also built the nearby Mōtsū-ji, 毛越寺, temple and its gardens, said to have even surpassed Chūson-ji for size and splendor.

The main hall was constructed of precious wood overlaid with gold and silver and inlaid with jewels and mother-of-pearl. It held an enormous statue of Yakushi Nyōrai, the Healing Buddha, surrounded by the Twelve Heavenly Generals, protective deities — all realistically carved with crystal eyes, the latest innovation. These statues were created by the master sculptor, Unkei. 

Amid the temples of Mōtsū-ji was a Pure Land Garden — the only part of the once-breathtaking temple complex that remains to this day.

The garden is centered on a pond and was created in the classic Heian style. It includes a magatama jewel-shaped island, peninsulas, rocky coastlines, bridges, mountain-like boulders, and a feeder stream. All these elements are in accord with Japan’s oldest garden manual, the Sakuteiki, 作庭記, “Records of Garden Making,” dating from the 11th century. Its beauty remains unchanged.

Motohira died in 1157 and was succeeded by his son, Fujiwara no Hidehira.

Fujiwara no Hidehira — the third Northern Fujiwara

Hidehira constructed the elaborate Muryōkō-in, 無量光院, modeled after the Phoenix Hall of the Byōdō-in, 平等院, just south of Kyoto. His temple in Hiraizumi, though, was said to be larger and far more grand.

Although things were peaceful in Hiraizumi, it was not the case in Kyoto. The power of the emperor was waning, the Taira and Minamoto samurai clans were growing strong and feuding, and there was great unrest in the capital.

After the first major skirmish, the victorious Taira killed the Minamoto leader and banished his sons. Young Minamoto no Yoshitsune, at age 10, ended up in a temple on Mount Hiei, where he studied Buddhism, swordsmanship, and strategy. His older half-brother, Yoritomo, was exiled to Izu (in Shizuoka). A third brother disappeared from the historical record until many years later.

In 1174, Minamoto no Yoshitsune, age 15, left the temple and traveled to Hiraizumi where he came under the protection of the Chinjufu-shōgun, Fujiwara no Hidehira. 

This seemingly small act of sheltering Yoshitsune turned out to be the spark that would lead to the downfall of the Northern Fujiwara and the eventual destruction of the architectural and artistic treasures of Hiraizumi.

The Genpei War and its aftermath

In 1180, word came that Prince Mochihito, fearing the power of the Taira clan, had asked the Minamoto clan to gather forces against them. Yoshitsune left at once for Kyoto where he joined his older half-brother, Minamoto no Yoritomo, in what came to be called the Genpei War.

This five-year epic war of the Minamoto against the Taira is filled with dramatic tales of tragedy and heroism and has become the subject of countless ballads and kabuki plays. Far too long a story to tell here.

Yoshitsune had become an expert swordsman during his years on Mount Hiei and then excelled in horsemanship in the land of the Northern Fujiwara. With his skills and cunning, Yoshitsune emerged from the Genpei War a victorious general, well-known and loved for his legendary heroics. 

Although Yoshitsune was rewarded with lands and honors by retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa, his jealous and suspicious older half-brother Yoritomo revoked them and instead tried to kill Yoshitsune.

Again, Yoshitsune sought refuge in Hiraizumi, along with his pregnant wife and his valiant friend and protector, the warrior monk, Benkei. 

Two years later, in 1187, Fujiwara no Hidehira died. Before his death, he entrusted Yoshitsune’s protection to his son, Fujiwara no Yasuhira.

Fujiwara no Yasuhira — the final Northern Fujiwara

After his victory in the Genpei War, Yoshitsune’s older half-brother, Minamoto no Yoritomo, became Japan’s first shogun. He established his capital in the natural fortress of Kamakura, just south of present-day Tokyo. 

Although firmly entrenched in power, Yoritomo was still suspicious of his younger brother. He sent word to Fujiwara no Yasuhira to have him killed.

At first, Yasuhira resisted, but his fear of Yoritomo prevailed. His soldiers surrounded Yoshitsune’s estate, his archers killed the noble Benkei, and Yoshitsune, along with his wife and child, chose suicide rather than be captured.

Yoshitsune’s head was sent to Yoritomo, yet his death and that of his household were not enough to appease the shogun. 

For the “crime” of sheltering his younger half-brother, the shogun Minamoto no Yoritomo sent forces after Yasuhira who pursued him all the way to Hokkaido. The shogun’s samurai beheaded Yasuhira, packed his head in sake, and sent it to Kamakura.

Yoritomo had Yasuhira’s head displayed publicly, like that of the worst criminals. Afterward, it was packed in a bucket and returned to Hiraizumi.

Today, Yasuhira’s head, along with the mummies of Kiyohira, Motohira, and Hidehira, are preserved within the golden Konjikidō of the Chūson-ji temple.

Lotus seeds found in the bucket in which Yasuhira’s head was sent have been planted and now bloom each year behind Chūson-ji, a fitting reminder of the glories of the peaceful Buddhist land that Kiyohira had tried to create.

The remains of the magnificent structures built by the Northern Fujiwara, as well as Chūson-ji temple, are included in the UNESCO heritage site, “Hiraizumi — Temples, Gardens and Archaeological Sites Representing the Buddhist Pure Land.”

Although Hiraizumi is off the beaten track, it is well worth a visit to have a glimpse of the fantastic glories of its bygone years.

Sources:

https://www.motsuji.or.jp/, https://hiraizumi.or.jp/index.html, 前九年の役, 前九年・後三年の役, 藤原泰衡, UNESCO website.

The post Hiraizumi — Once a Fabulous City of Gold, Now a Quiet Home of Mummies first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

From the creation of Honshu to Magatama jewels

On the far western edge of Niigata Prefecture sits the quiet city of Itoigawa. With a population of just over 40,000, it’s hard to believe it was once the bustling center of a thriving jade trade. That trade has long since vanished, yet diligent beachcombers can still find jade pieces along Itoigawa’s pebble shores.

The same tectonic upheavals that separated Japan from the Asian mainland, created the Fossa Magna, and uplifted the Japanese Alps also brought jade to the surface at Itoigawa from where it had been formed deep within the bowels of the earth 500 million years ago.

Before we get into the jade, let me explain a bit about the geology of Japan.

The Fossa Magna

Among the many Western advisors and teachers invited to Japan to assist in its modernization during the Meiji period (1868–1912) was the German geologist Heinrich Edmund Naumann.

In addition to his teaching position at Kaisei Gakkō, the forerunner to Tokyo Imperial University, Naumann set out to create a geological map of Japan. With train travel in its infancy, Naumann carried out his surveys on foot or horseback, traveling over 10,000 kilometers in his quest to draw an accurate topographical map.

During his explorations, Naumann’s observations of a low-lying crevasse that divides the Echigo Mountains from the Northern Alps led to his discovery of a wide rift that bisects the island of Honshu, dividing it between its eastern and western halves. He named this rift the Fossa Magna, Latin for “Great Crevasse.”

The Fossa Magna is a U-shaped rift, 6,000 meters deep, situated between two major fault lines. On the western side lies the Itoigawa-Shizuoka Tectonic line, running north to south and roughly following the course of the Himekawa River. The eastern side is marked by the Tanakura Tectonic Line. The Median Tectonic Line, the longest fault line in Japan that runs the length of Honshu, crosses the Fossa Magna in its center.

About 19–15 million years ago, the movement of tectonic plates resulted in significant geological upheavals in East Asia. The Philippine plate subducted beneath the Eurasian plate, while the Pacific plate subducted beneath the North American plate. These events caused the breaking off of a land mass from the southern coast of the Eurasian continent. 

As the land separated, the western section rotated clockwise by 40–50 degrees, and the eastern section rotated 40–50 degrees counterclockwise, forming the bent shape of what would become Honshu Island. The gap that opened between these halves formed the Fossa Magna. The region separating the land masses and the continent eventually evolved into the Sea of Japan.

Over time, the depression that would become the Sea of Japan gradually filled with water, initially forming a freshwater lake, as evidenced by fossils of freshwater fish and insects. Eventually, the lake expanded and connected with the ocean, transforming into the Sea of Japan.

Seawater also rushed into the Fossa Magna, creating the Fossa Magna Straight. Today, fossils of herring, sea bass, and even whales can be found in the Fossa Magna. Subsequent earthquakes triggered volcanic eruptions and underwater landslides, depositing alternating layers of sandstone and mudstone on the bed of the Fossa Magna Strait, gradually filling it and displacing the seawater.

Approximately 3 million years ago, the North American and the Eurasian plates collided along the Itoigawa-Shizuoka Tectonic line, uniting the land masses into the island of Honshu and uplifting the Japanese Alps. The junction where these two plates meet forms the western boundary of the Fossa Magna.

Around 1 million years ago, magma pushing up through the Fossa Magna erupted and, over time, shaped the volcanoes we see today — Mount Fuji, Mount Yatsugatake, Mount Yakeyama, and others.

Despite the presence of these and many other volcanoes, over half of all the mountains in Japan — that cover a staggering 73% of the country — are primarily composed of sedimentary rather than volcanic rock. 

As plates collided and subducted, coral reefs and seafloor sediment were uplifted onto the continental edge. The results of this upheaval are easily seen today in the fossil-rich limestone deposits and seashells that grace mountaintops and plateaus across Honshu, from the Akiyoshidai plateau of Yamaguchi to the 1,188-meter-high Mount Myojo in Itoigawa.

The geological processes that shaped Japan’s magnificent landscape also played a pivotal role in the development of the world’s oldest Jade culture, centered in the small coastal city of Itoigawa.

Itoigawa’s Jade

Jade, most often associated with its green color, is actually white in its pure form. The vibrant and varied hues of jade — green, lavender, blue, and black — result from impurities present in the mineral. Brilliant green jade gets its color from iron and chrome impurities, while titanium and manganese create a light purple color known as lavender jade. The combination of iron and titanium gives jade a rich blue shade. This wide range of colors adds to the allure of this durable gemstone.

A poem recorded in the Manyoshu, Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves, the oldest anthology in Japan, refers to jade stones from Itoigawa. This historical mention was all but forgotten until 1939 when jade was found beneath the clear waters of the Kotaki River in Itoigawa.

Archeologists have since discovered jade artifacts from Itoigawa all across Japan, indicating a widespread trade network that flourished from 1,500 BC through the 5th century. Ancient people likely traveled along the coasts in their dugout canoes, engaging in trade that included jade from Itoigawa, obsidian from northwestern Kyushu, shells and shell accessories from the Ryukyu Islands, and other goods. 

Itoigawa jade artifacts have been found in graves and settlement sites from Hokkaido in the northeast to the distant islands of Okinawa in the southwest. Itoigawa jade has even been found on the Korean peninsula, carried by intrepid traders navigating their dugout canoes on the sea between Kyushu and Korea.

The archaeological discoveries in Itoigawa and throughout Japan and Korea have yielded various jade artifacts, including beads for necklaces and bracelets, pendants, comma-shaped magatama, raw stones, and numerous fragments. Many of these jade pieces exhibit shallow indentations instead of holes. This variation in craftsmanship reflects the different techniques artisans used in each area.

In Itoigawa, artisans used quartz sand to drill holes in the jade, skillfully working with the hard material. On the other hand, artisans in the southern islands attempted to apply the same methods they used for working with the much softer substance of shells. Their not-so-skillful efforts resulted in frequent breakage and incomplete jade pieces.

Although jade was much sought-after for centuries, by the mid-500s AD, a change occurred in Japanese fashion trends. Accessorizing with jewelry created from exotic shells from Ryukyu and prized jade from Itoigawa declined in popularity. In its place, perhaps influenced by the influx of knowledge and technology from China, a new preference emerged for the continental style of wearing gilt bronze bracelets and necklaces.

Interestingly, no accessories at all have been found in graves or excavations from the 8th century onwards, suggesting that the wealthy turned their attention to elaborate kimonos rather than jewelry. However, beads continued to adorn Buddhist statues, particularly those of Kannon, the bodhisattva of mercy.

Among all the jade jewelry worn in ancient times, though, comma-shaped magatama beads and pendants seem to have been especially prized. One such magatama, the Yasakani no Magatama, is counted among Japan’s Three Imperial Treasures, alongside the Kusanagi no Tsurugi sword and the most precious, Yata no Kagami mirror.

To understand these sacred treasures and their importance to Japanese history and culture, I invite you to read this story from Japan’s most ancient chronicle, the Kojiki. 

The post Itoigawa — The Forgotten City of Jade first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

From Aomori to Kagoshima, here are some of my favorites

Someone recently asked me if I have seen a waterfall. Oh, I have seen waterfalls. I hunt for them like elusive treasures. I scramble over disused and overgrown trails to find them. I venture to say, I collect them.

Here in Japan, waterfalls are so magnificent that some are considered Shinto kami, or deities. Like the country’s tallest, with a drop of 133 meters and one of Japan’s Three Great Waterfalls, the glorious Nachi Falls in Wakayama.

But one needn’t go far to find waterfalls in this country.

In my home prefecture of Kagoshima, there are hundreds. Among them is the hidden Nagano Falls, where water cascades and twists between moss-covered craggy rocks into an open cave.

It is not easy to find. One must follow the few inconspicuous, small Japanese signs that point the way along narrow country roads, passing by age-old farms, rice fields, and vegetable gardens. Then down an even narrower road to a path that leads to the 13-meter-tall Nagano Falls.

Surely, the allure of waterfalls is universal. Being in their presence has an almost enchanting effect — their beauty lifts heavy hearts, the thunder of falling water fills our ears, and our eyes are captivated by the dance of water on stone. The air carries a refreshing coolness. The moss covering the stones is soft and delicate.

Waterfall hunting

A couple of years ago, my quest for waterfalls led me to Aomori Prefecture, in the far north of the island of Honshu. I had read that Oirase Gorge was waterfall heaven.

My journey to get there took a full day.

From my home in southern Kyushu, I flew to Tokyo, then took the Shinkansen bullet train to Hachinohe, a city on the northeastern coast of Honshu. There, I rented a car to drive 90 minutes for the last leg of my journey to Lake Towada.

The Oirase Gorge traces the course of the Oirase River as it winds its way northward from Lake Towada through a forest of trees and a near-endless variety of moss.

Photos cannot do justice to the glory that is Oirase Gorge. I spent several hours leisurely hiking along the trail, immersed in the splendor of its countless falls and cascades.

After two nights at Lake Towada, I drove back to Hachinohe, returned the car, and again took the Shinkansen. This time, south to Sendai in Miyagi Prefecture. After a good night’s sleep, I boarded a local train to Yamadera in Yamagata Prefecture.

On the way, I noticed a station with the intriguing name, Omoshiroyama Kōgen, “Amusing Mountain Highlands.” As the train whisked past the station, I caught a glimpse of a placard with a map of a hiking trail on the platform.

A new place to explore!

After climbing the 1,015 steps to the top of Yamadera and back down, I had plenty of daylight left to explore the “Amusing Mountain.”

I was glad I did. Walking along the aptly named Kōyō River, I felt I had entered another world. (Kōyō is the Japanese word that describes the changing colors of leaves in autumn.)

The first waterfall I came across took me down a narrow path, over an old, wooden bridge that had seen better days, and across patches of mud and uneven stones. But it was worth it.

Called Arare Falls, meaning “Hail Falls,” this hidden gem is a modest 10 meters tall.

I backtracked, crossed over the railroad tracks, and found the path down to the Kōyō River.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune! I had wandered into paradise. The gorge was a symphony of nature’s best — the colorful trees, the crystal-clear stream, the waterfalls, both small and grand, and even the path itself with its charming bridges — I was in awe.

Enveloped by the crisp autumn air, surrounded by the amazing colors of the leaves, and serenaded by the burbling of flowing water, I once more found myself lost in the wonders of nature.

Then my breath caught when I turned the corner and gazed upon this beauty.

Kinuito Falls, “Silk Thread Falls,” gracefully spreads like threads as it descends 22 meters along a stone face. On that serendipitous day in Omoshiroyama, it was merely one of the many wonders I had the privilege to view.

Another outstanding hike occurred a few years back when I took advantage of the Japanese government’s domestic travel subsidies during the pandemic.

Nikkō, Tochigi Prefecture

Located around two hours by train north of Tokyo, Nikkō is a quaint city where the first shogun of the Edo Era (1603–1867) is deified at the Toshogu Shrine. When I traveled to Nikkō to visit that magnificent masterpiece of a Shinto Shrine, I could not resist taking a bus to the east to hike in the beautiful Senjogahara Highlands to find more waterfalls.

And find them, I did. Tochigi is home to another one of Japan’s 3 Great Waterfalls, Kegon Falls, with an impressive drop of 97 meters.

An easy hike along the shore of Lake Chuzenji, then along the Yu River to the north, lies Ryuzu Falls, “Dragon Head Falls.” It cascades in a graceful dance, crisscrossing 210 meters down to its rocky pool below.

Niagaras of the East

On the southern island of Kyushu, we have not one, but two imposing waterfalls that have claimed the title of “The Niagara of the East.”

In northwest Kagoshima Prefecture, stands the 210 meter wide, 12 meter tall, Sogi Falls:

In Oita, Harajiri Falls spans a width of 120 meters and stands 20 meters tall:

Please let me know in the comments which one of these glorious falls you think is most deserving of the title of “Niagara of the East.”

My favorite

This exploration of waterfalls wouldn’t be complete without mentioning my favorite, although deciding on just one has been difficult.

To see the hidden falls I’ve chosen, you first need to ferry from Kagoshima City over to the peninsula on the Pacific coast side of Kagoshima, called Osumi. From there, drive down nearly to the end, the southernmost point of Japan’s main islands, Cape Sata.

About 30 minutes before reaching Cape Sata, turn left and follow narrow winding roads for about 20 minutes. After parking, you then hike 1.2 kilometers through a forest along a stream of crystal-clear, aquamarine water.

Rounding the last turn, you will behold this marvelous sight. My photo does not come near to capturing its wonder.

Ogawa Falls tumbles down a 46-meter drop and seeps through the jagged 60-meter wide cliff face forming a pool of extraordinarily colored water.

As this journey through Japan’s waterfalls comes to a close, my wish is that you, too, will have the opportunity to explore some of the fabulous falls and diverse natural treasures that this beautiful country holds.

The post Waterfalls in Japan—A Selection of its Most Magnificent first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

A present for Toyotomi Hideyoshi

Asian elephants were once indigenous to the Philippines, but they disappeared from the islands in the 17th century. One of the last of these Philippine elephants played an unexpected role in relations with Japan. 

But before exploring that story, please allow me to share some vital background.

The Tragedy

On October 19, 1596, the Spanish galleon San Felipe was on its way from Manila to Acapulco. Because of delays departing, it sailed squarely in the middle of typhoon season. After enduring three typhoons, the battered ship approached Japanese waters. Crew members urged the captain to seek refuge in foreign-friendly Nagasaki. The captain refused, having heard of Taikō Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s kind treatment of Spanish missionaries. Surely the great warlord would welcome Spanish traders. 

As the crippled San Felipe approached Shikoku Island, the local daimyō, Chōsokabe Motochika, dispatched 200 armed vessels to guide it to port. Once it entered Urado Bay, the Spanish ship ran aground on a sandbar.

Daimyō Chōsokabe took advantage of this windfall from the Manila-Acapulco Trade and confiscated its valuable cargo. News of this bonanza soon reached the ears of Toyotomi Hideyoshi in Osaka.

Things went from bad to worse for the Spanish when the ship’s pilot imprudently told Japanese authorities that it was Spanish strategy to send missionaries to infiltrate a country before an eventual military conquest, a tactic they had successfully employed in the Americas and the Philippines. This news also reached Hideyoshi, and he was not pleased.

In January 1597, in anger and retaliation against the Spanish, Hideyoshi ordered the immediate arrest of Franciscan missionaries — the Spanish Franciscan who had been sent as Philippine ambassador to Japan, his three friars, as well as catechists and helpers — one Portuguese, one Mexican, three Japanese Jesuits, 17 Japanese lay Franciscans, and even three young altar boys.

This unfortunate group was jailed in Kyoto and subjected to the stigmatic punishment of each having part of their left ear cut off. They were then paraded 800 miles amidst snowfall to Nagasaki. Brought to the execution grounds, they were crucified and impaled with lances on Nishizaka Hill overlooking Nagasaki on February 5, 1597.

In addition to the execution of the 26 martyrs, the San Felipe incident ignited a wave of severe persecution of Christians. This brutal crackdown led to the demolition of 137 churches, the expulsion of Jesuit missionaries from Japan, and the ultimate prohibition of the Christian faith.

On June 8, 1862, Pope Pius IX canonized the 26 Christians. They are remembered at the 26 Martyrs of Japan Memorial in Nagasaki City.

But what does that tragedy have to do with elephants?

Elephant Diplomacy

As a gesture to mend strained relations and ensure future trade in the aftermath of the San Felipe incident and the crucifixion of their beloved ambassador, Friar Pedro Bautista, and his company, the Spanish Governor-General Francisco Tello of the Philippines wished to present the formidable Taikō of Japan, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, with something extraordinary.

That extraordinary gift was an elephant named Don Pedro.

In August 1597, an embassy under the leadership of Captain Don Luis de Navarette Fajardo arrived in Japan bearing gifts. Among these offerings was a portrait of the illustrious governor-general and, yes, an elephant. Hideyoshi issued a directive for the embassy’s delegation to proceed to Osaka.

As news of the elephant’s arrival spread, curiosity surged through Osaka. The prospect of seeing such an exotic, near-mythical beast stirred the hearts of the people.

Soon, the streets were inundated with hordes of eager onlookers, all vying for a glimpse of the elephant. The crowds thronged to such a degree that not even the sternest blows from cudgels could disperse them. Seeing the gravity of this near riot, Hideyoshi’s servants rallied an additional hundred strong men wielding clubs.

As the men pushed, prodded, and herded the multitudes to the sides to make way for Don Pedro, several people were killed beneath the trampling feet of the unruly masses.

When the Spaniards and their entourage finally reached Hideyoshi’s grand Osaka Castle, dignitaries and nobles gathered at the gate to welcome them. Passing through the gates, they entered the first chamber and were met by Hideyoshi himself. He held the hand of young Hideyori, a mere four years old, the eyes of both father and son filled with eager anticipation to see the elephant.

The Spanish Captain, Don Luis, his interpreter, Lorenzo, and their four attendants approached Hideyoshi, and following their European customs, stood and bowed three times. Hideyoshi returned the gesture and extended warm greetings to the captain and his men. 

With caution, Hideyoshi approached the elephant, Don Pedro. Upon a command from his mahout, the mighty beast knelt, raised his trunk above his head, and let out a resounding trumpet. Hideyoshi gasped.

Astonished, the Taikō turned to the interpreter and asked, “What was that!?” The interpreter explained that the elephant had recognized the presence of His Highness and had saluted him.

Now filled with wonder, Hideyoshi asked whether the elephant had a name, to which Lorenzo replied that it was known as Don Pedro. Drawing nearer to this remarkable creature, Hideyoshi called, “Don Pedro, Don Pedro.” In response, the elephant repeated its salute, lifting its trunk and trumpeting in the same marvelous manner.

Overwhelmed and delighted, the mighty warlord Hideyoshi clapped his hands like a happy child and cried, “O sate, sate!” Well, well!

Hideyoshi asked what such a beast ate. 

“It will eat anything it is given, Your Highness.” 

Hearing this, Hideyoshi ordered fruit, and his attendants brought out two trays of melons and peaches. He chose a plump, pink peach and held it out to Don Pedro. The beast gently grasped the fruit with its trunk and lifted it high above his head before dropping it into his gaping mouth.

The rest of the fruit was placed before the elephant, and without hesitation, Don Pedro ate all the melons and peaches, swallowing them whole without spitting out the seeds or pits.

Hideyoshi was enthralled. He could not get enough of Don Pedro. He gazed at the elephant while listening to tales of the extraordinary intelligence of this beast that, to his eyes, appeared so ugly and strange.

This ends the record of the meeting.

Although seemingly pleased almost beyond words, Hideyoshi sent a less than grateful thank-you letter to the Spanish governor-general of Manila.

Thank you for the black elephant. Last year, the Chinese promised me a white elephant… 

You see, he really wanted a white one.

Still, Don Pedro’s tricks must have won the heart of Hideyoshi. The Spanish were allowed to continue trading until 1624 when they were expelled from Japanese shores by the third shogun of the Edo Period, Tokugawa Iemitsu.

We can only wonder what became of Don Pedro, unlike the elephant brought to Tokugawa Yoshimune two centuries later, whose story we know.

As well, Hideyoshi’s story is known. Perhaps overcome with a bit too much hubris, he sent his armies to conquer Ming China. While they were being soundly defeated, he died of illness at home in his luxurious Fushimi Castle outside of Kyoto in 1598.

Account of Don Pedro found in: They Came to Japan: An Anthology of European Reports in Japan, 1543–1640 (University of California Press, 1965)

The post 26 Tragic Christian Martyrs—and Mending Relations with an Elephant first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Architect of a thriving ecosystem

In 1888, Mount Bandai erupted with such fury that its middle peak, Ko-Bandai was violently thrown off, displacing one square kilometer of earth. The destruction left by cascading debris avalanches destroyed towns, killed 477 people, and left trees stripped and fallen by the thousands. Although relief efforts were prompt and generous, the land remained desolate for decades.

Enter, our hero.

Endō Genmu

Endō Genmu was one of 12 sons born into a family of distillers in Aizuwakamatsu, Fukushima. His early memories were marred by the devastation of the Boshin War (1868–1869), which left Aizu in ruins. Perhaps seeing such devastation during his formative years inspired his lifelong pursuit of forestation.

Living near Tsurugajo Castle, Genmu earned the trust of the ruling Matsudaira family, who assigned him the responsibility of sourcing and planting trees on the castle grounds. Together with like-minded comrades, he took on the ambitious task of planting 1,000 Somei Yoshino cherry trees — still thriving today. Encouraged by this success, they extended their efforts to planting cedars on Mount Mineyama and near the Matsudaira family grave.

As the 20th century dawned, Urabandai still bore the scars of the 1888 volcanic eruption. To encourage reforestation, the government provided incentives by offering the land at reduced prices to individuals willing to take on the daunting task. Several attempts at reforestation had been made, but disappointment, failure, and financial hardship had been the outcomes. The ground seemed too barren to revive.

Genmu rose to the challenge. Determined to succeed where others had failed, he sought guidance from Japan’s foremost forestry expert, Nakamura Yaroku. Together, they acquired 130,000 red pine saplings from Saitama Prefecture, which they meticulously planted throughout the barren wasteland.

As the months passed, the men faced a disappointing setback when nearly half of the saplings withered and died. However, Genmu noticed that the trees near the ponds had a higher survival rate. Using this insight, he concentrated his planting efforts around the ponds, placing the saplings in threes.

To safeguard the newly planted trees during the harsh winter months, Genmu and his team set up a guardhouse and employed monitors to watch over them. While these precautions strained their finances, they were vital for the saplings’ survival, and the results were well worth it.

Endō Genmu’s Breakthrough

Over the following two years, Genmu and his team successfully afforested an area spanning 1,340 hectares (3,311 acres). Their efforts paid off, and they finally received official recognition and approval for their land reclamation endeavors. In 1919, they purchased the land they had so diligently revitalized.

With the opening of a new railroad connecting Bandai and Niigata in 1914, Genmu and Yaroku saw a fresh opportunity. Using the railroad, they transported 50,000 red pines, 20,000 lacquer trees, and 30,000 cedar saplings — a total of 100,000 trees — from Niigata to Urabandai.

The journey was far from easy, as Urabandai was strewn with boulders, and the roads lay buried under meters of debris. Undeterred by these obstacles, the men forged ahead, constructing new roads to facilitate the transportation of the trees by horse-drawn carriage from Inawashiro.

Today, Endo Genmu and his collaborator, Nakamura Yaroku, are celebrated for their remarkable achievement in planting hundreds of thousands of trees, bringing forest life back to Urabandai. Many red pines they planted can still be seen along the Goshikinuma Pond Trail.

A memorial that Genmu erected to the victims of the 1888 eruption stands to the northwest of Aonuma Pond. Buried beside the monument, Genmu and his wife, Iku, rest peacefully, surrounded by the flourishing ecosystem he fought so tirelessly to create.

The post Endo Genmu—The Unsung Hero of Urabandai Reforestation first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

And the birth of one of Japan’s most mysterious natural wonders

Reflected in the still waters of Japan’s fourth-largest lake, Inawashiro, the 1,816-meter-high Mount Bandai stands tall and proud to the north, an iconic symbol of Fukushima Prefecture. Viewed from the lakeshore to the south — the side called Omote-Bandai, “Front Bandai” — the stratovolcano appears smooth, its verdant, irregular peaks like ordered crowns atop the mountain. The surrounding land is a picture of tranquility, with gentle plains covered in a patchwork of orderly rice fields.

From the volcano’s northern side — Urabandai, “Behind Bandai” — it is as if one is looking at a different mountain. Gone are the smooth slopes of its southern face. Here the mountain seems to have been cleft in two, its tall, craggy, desolate peaks bearing the scars of a terrible eruption that took place in a single day in 1888.

But in the wake of that horror, nature created a masterpiece.

Goshikinuma

Goshikinuma, “Five-Colored Ponds,” is the collective name for numerous ponds and marshes formed after the eruption of Mount Bandai in 1888. The eruption forced acidic substances into the groundwater that flowed into the ponds. These acids chemically changed into aluminum silicate crystals and mixed into the water. The crystals reflect specific wavelengths of light creating the mysterious colors seen in the ponds.

The marshy pools’ hues range from cobalt blue, emerald green, and turquoise blue, to pastel blue, with occasional hints of crimson. These colors vary based on seasonal changes, weather conditions, viewing angles, and the concentration of volcanic substances in the water. The curious and changing colorations of the water gave rise to another name for the Goshikinuma — Shinpi no Koshō, “Mysterious Marshes.”

Mount Bandai’s 1888 Eruption

Like many stratovolcanoes, Mount Bandai contains several vents. Before that eventful day in 1888, three distinct peaks crowned the mountain — the higher western peak, known as O-Bandai; the eastern peak, Kushi ga Mine; and between these was the third peak, a sort of shoulder to O-Bandai, called Ko-Bandai.

From July 8–10, small earthquakes were felt at the northern base of the volcano, growing in intensity over the 13th and 14th. Despite these seismic tremors, no changes were observed in volcanic activity.

However, starting on the morning of July 15, a series of events would completely alter the topography of the area. 

It began with two powerful earthquakes, the first striking around 7:30 am, followed by a second quake and colossal explosion, whose deafening roar was heard as far as 100 km away. 

The force of this initial blast uprooted trees over a meter in diameter and stripped bark from others. Confusion and terror ripped through the villages at the mountain’s base as people and farm animals were hurled into the air, their clothing torn from their bodies. Airborne debris, a mix of volcanic rock and twigs, caused injuries to many. Ash carried by prevailing winds fell as far as the Pacific Coast.

About twenty additional eruptions followed, unleashing further devastation upon the foothills of Bandai. Three hot spring inns nestled in the foothills were filled with people seeking the healing benefits of the therapeutic waters. Tragically, the staff and guests were bombarded with cinders and ash, and many lost their lives. The death toll would reach 477, Japan’s highest number of fatalities from volcanic disasters since the Meiji era began in 1868.

Within ten minutes of the initial blast, a massive collapse caused by a pyroclastic surge set an avalanche of debris cascading down the volcano’s northern flank. This tsunami of earth crashed through the Biwazawa Valley, obliterating the once-thriving village of Shibutani and burying half of the houses in the nearby village of Mine.

Approximately two hours after the eruption began, an eerie calm settled over the torn landscape. Onlookers wondered if the worst was over.

Suddenly, the air was filled with deep, furious rumblings. Ko-Bandai, the peak between O-Bandai and Kushi ga Mine, collapsed, unleashing a mighty torrent of stone and earth. This colossal avalanche, towering 75 meters high, surged down the mountain with incredible force at speeds of 80 kph. It crushed everything in its path as it hurtled down the mountainside in a cascade of destruction, spreading into a fan shape over an incredible 34 square kilometers in the Nagase Valley below and extending 15 km to the north of Mount Bandai.

The entire mountain was transformed. The northern side was hollowed out, creating a vast, gaping, horseshoe-shaped caldera where the crown of Ko-Bandai once stood. This enormous abyss measured approximately 2 km from north to south, 1.5 to 2.1 km from east to west, and reached a depth of 400 meters. The collapse of Ko-Bandai is estimated to have moved a staggering 1.5 cubic kilometers of earth.

The deposition of debris created the distinctive topography of Urabandai, a land dotted with innumerable small hills and valleys. As water accumulated in the low-lying areas, many small lakes and marshes, including the Goshikinuma, took form. The hilly topography of the Urabandai Plateau extends not only to the land but can also be seen beneath the waters of its ponds.

The Aftermath

As the rumblings ceased and the ash cleared from the air on the day of the eruption, Fukushima Prefecture dispatched prefectural police officers to assist the local officials who had already started rescue activities.

Within days, the rising waters from the rivers, choked by the massive debris avalanches, threatened to engulf surrounding villages. The roads were already underwater, posing further obstacles to rescue missions.

Soon, the inevitable unfolded — two lakes to the north and south of the six hamlets of Hibara Village merged, creating the Lake Hibara we know today. An abandoned hamlet lies beneath the water’s northern surface, the vestiges remaining on the lake floor 30 meters below. Only the top of a torii gate extends above the water’s surface, a poignant reminder of the town’s former existence.

The southern portion of the lake blankets another hamlet, first buried under debris from the landslide. Of the original six hamlets of Hibara Village, two were submerged beneath the lake, three were swallowed up in the debris avalanche, and only one, Wasezawa, survived.

Within two days of the eruption, Emperor Meiji announced that he would grant an imperial gift of 3,000 yen towards the relief efforts — a considerable sum at the time. It is worth noting that only two decades earlier, the people of Aizu had fought against the emperor’s new government during the Boshin War. Considering their history, the emperor’s benevolence and concern in the face of this disaster must have deeply touched the hearts of those affected.

Physicians from Tokyo Imperial University, now Tokyo University, were dispatched to care for the injured. Empress Shōken urged the nascent Japanese Red Cross to join the relief efforts, marking the organization’s first peacetime relief work.

As news of the disaster spread throughout Japan, a wave of volunteers rushed to Fukushima eager to lend a helping hand. Inns and private houses in the area filled. Generous donations flowed in. The displaced people soon had new housing, and Hibara Village was reconstructed from the ground up.

Today, Mount Bandai is continuously monitored by the Japan Meteorological Agency to detect any potential volcanic activity. The once-devastated land has undergone a remarkable transformation, making it a popular destination for skiing and vacations. 

The only visible traces of the catastrophic eruption are the horseshoe-shaped crater on the northern face of Bandai and the hummocks in Urabandai formed by the debris avalanches. The countless trees once described by a volcanologist as “laying prostrate on the ground in thousands” are nowhere to be found, and the blast deposit is now concealed by thriving vegetation.

But all that vegetation did not rebound spontaneously.

Read the continuation of this story in Endō Genmu — The Unsung Hero of Urabandai Reforestation.

The post Mount Bandai’s Horrific 1888 Eruption first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

It started with a generous gesture from a rival warlord

The Salt Road is an ancient trade route that has been all but forgotten, yet it winds its way through some of the most stunning scenery in Japan.

The Salt Road

For centuries, obtaining salt in the landlocked domain of Shinshu, present-day Nagano Prefecture, was a challenging task. Porters would undertake a perilous journey along a rough trail, braving steep slopes to transport salt and other goods from the Sea of Japan. This trail came to be known as The Salt Road. 

Its origin can be traced back to the Warring States Period of the 15th and 16th centuries. Takeda Shingen, a powerful warlord ruling over the Matsumoto area, faced a salt shortage when his access to salt from the Pacific coast was cut off by enemies in the south.

In a surprising act of nobility, Takeda’s arch-enemy, Uesugi Kenshin, offered to provide salt to him from his domain along the Sea of Japan, stating that battles should be fought with weapons, not through denying necessities, like salt, to the common people. Despite their lifelong rivalry, Uesugi wrote to Takeda, “A salt embargo is cowardly and unjust. I will fight you with bows and arrows, not with rice and salt. I beg you to henceforth obtain salt from my land…”

This act gave rise to the Japanese expression,  敵に塩を送る, Teki ni shio wo okuru, “sending salt to one’s enemy,” a metaphor for not taking ignoble advantage of an enemy’s weakness. From that point on, salt was regularly shipped from the coastal city of Itoigawa to Matsumoto along the 120 km long Salt Road.

Unlike the five main highways managed by the Tokugawa shoguns during the Edo Period (1603-1867), the Salt Road saw no glamorous daimyos’ processions and held no lavish inns. Though humble, it served as a lifeline for the mountainous landlocked provinces, characterized by steep and treacherous terrain, with modest post towns compared to those of the Nakasendo and Tokaido.

The porters, too, differed from their Five Highways counterparts. Called bokka, literally “walking loads,” they were often farmers and their wives. They traveled in groups of ten or more, sometimes accompanied by beasts of burden, primarily oxen and horses. Horses were well-suited for the flat sections of the road, but oxen proved their worth by their ability to navigate the treacherous mountain paths with sure-footed precision.

The bokka’s loads were heavy — one bale of salt alone weighed 47 kilos. These they carried on wooden framed packs, secured to their backs by braided-straw shoulder straps. On their return, the bokka bore hemp, tobacco, soybeans, medicine, cotton, and other goods, which they traded along the way or brought back to the port of Itoigawa to be sent on the Kitamae-bune trading ships to the Seto Inland Sea.

The journey along the Salt Road typically spanned six days. However, in cases where expedited shipping was necessary, such as transporting a load of salted and fresh fish, a porter could depart from Itoigawa at 4:00 pm and run through the night. Along the way, the porter would pass the cargo to relays, and although the distance was great, the goods could arrive in Matsumoto by the following morning.

Despite the challenging nature of the winding route through Japan’s precipitous Northern Alps, the Salt Road remained heavily traveled during and beyond the Edo Period. Trade along the trail peaked in the late 1600s, with pack animals and bokka porters continuously transporting goods along the long and hazardous path throughout the year. Winter posed the greatest challenge, as the mountain passes would often be buried under up to 5 meters of snow, making it impassable for oxen and horses. During these deep winter months, all goods had to be transported on the backs of the bokka, who crossed frozen streams and scrambled up steep ascents in their bamboo snowshoes.

Guardian Deities

To safeguard the bokka and their animals, numerous Shinto shrines and protective deities were placed along the road. The path is still adorned with comforting statues of Kannon, the Buddhist bodhisattva of mercy. In the most dangerous sections, one can find statues of Bato Kannon, the “Horse Head Goddess of Mercy,” placed to protect pack horses.

Dosojin guardians, small carved stones shaped like couples or sometimes represented merely by a rough stela, can frequently be seen in the more isolated parts of the highway and near mountain passes.

Jizo statues, often wearing red caps and bibs, also grace the highway. This compassionate bodhisattva attained enlightenment but deferred Buddhahood to watch over travelers and children. They are also found in villages where they look after the spirits of deceased children.

Other statues and markers along the trail serve as poignant reminders of those who perished during the journey, succumbing to exposure, exhaustion, or accidents. They stand as a silent testament to the hazards of the trek.

As railway construction flourished and the national highway opened during the Meiji period (1868-1912), the Salt Road fell into disuse. Nevertheless, walking along this lesser-known trail evokes a sense of the people, cattle, and horses that traversed it in centuries past. The road takes us through forgotten hamlets, majestic beech forests, and along clear mountain streams and ponds. The only sounds are birdsong and the rustling of leaves, the atmosphere imbued with the essence of bygone times.

If you would like to hike along the Salt Road and learn more about it, Walk Japan offers guided tours for small groups.

The post The Salt Road—Nearly Forgotten Trade Route Between Itoigawa and Matsumoto first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Wild vegetables, or sansai, play an important role in Japanese cuisine

Washoku, Japanese cuisine, is a celebration of seasonal dishes, and sansai, 山菜, wild mountain vegetables, play a starring role. Elderly folks have told me of the long-held belief that whatever foods are in season are what our bodies require at that time of year for optimum health. Surely, that holds true for sansai.

On my late afternoon springtime walks, I can find lots of sansai, the same as you might be served at inns or local restaurants.

Join me, as I walk around my neighborhood.

Bamboo shoots

The first thing to catch my eye not 50 meters from my house is a bamboo shoot, although far past its time for harvest.

If you want to try one yourself, don’t make the same mistake we did. These fast-growing plants need to be cut from the ground at first sight of the tiny tip breaking through the soil. Otherwise, they are too tough to eat.

Once you dig up a shoot, peel off the outer layers, then boil the heart in water with salt or a little nuka rice bran to remove its astringency.

Bamboo shoots are a crunchy addition to rice dishes like chirashizushi and takikomi-gohan, and I chop and freeze some to use out of season. Like pretty much every other vegetable in Japan, they are often added to soups. I’ve also had them made into tempura, or boiled with root vegetables in soy sauce, sake, and sugar.

Called “green gold” in India because of their nutritious value, bamboo shoots are rich in fiber and low in calories, they are a good source of vitamins A, B6, and E, potassium, manganese, thiamine, and niacin.

Next, all I had to do was turn around, and I spied a field filled with horsetails.

Horsetails

In the spring, horsetails are the first sansai, and they pop up everywhere. Their little leafless sprouts have a cute Japanese name — tsukushi, 土筆, a paintbrush 筆, coming out of the ground 土.

People stop by the road to gather them and bring them home to blanch, then prepare with a miso/vinegar sauce, or scramble them with eggs, or perhaps pickle them to be eaten throughout the year.

Some people claim that horsetails can treat urinary tract infections, edema, kidney stones, and rheumatism. Others say they help skin conditions and can even aid hair and nail growth.

But I am not a practitioner of herbal medicine. I just enjoy a horsetail or two when served as part of a traditional Japanese meal.

I turn from the horsetails, walk down the hill, and come upon the third sansai of this walk.

Angelica

My favorite path meanders through rice fields and vegetable gardens. As I am walking, a man calls out to me from where he stands beside some very tall plants. He’s cutting the tips off fresh sprouts.

He tells me that these plants are not native to our area, but a friend in Nagano gifted them to him. He waxes eloquently about the deliciousness of tara no mi and insists I take some home and tempura them for dinner.

I did just that, and they were indeed delicious!

I later learned that tara no mi are angelica tips, a favorite among herbalists, and realized I’ve often been served it at inns in Nagano.

Angelica is used as a tonic for the nervous system, to treat digestive issues, respiratory infections, and menstrual cramps. This website claims it has anti-anxiety effects. I can’t say I’ve noticed any of these effects.

But my walk isn’t over. I follow the stream to another area of paddies, up a hill by greenhouses made of plastic sheeting, and down a disused path. Along the side, I spy our next sansai.

Butterbur buds

Butterbur has a long history of medicinal use.

The 1st century Greek, Pedanius Dioscorides, is said to have used a paste made from powdered butterbur to treat skin ulcers. In 17th century Germany, powdered butterbur root was used to treat sudden abdominal pain, asthma, and colds. In the 18th century, that same powder was used to treat plague victims.

Today, herbalists use butterbur to treat migraines, colds, hay fever, inflammation, and more.

Butterbur buds, or fuki no to, 蕗のとう, are almost as common as horsetails. They are best picked when they first appear, and the buds are still closed. They can be sauteed and mixed with miso paste or fried in tempura. Not only are they delicious, but they are full of vitamins, minerals, and fiber.

I think this next one is my favorite, but I wonder, is it really sansai? It seems to me to be cultivated.

Baby mustard greens

Baby mustard greens, or baby bok choy, is a tender, sweet leafy vegetable. The local elderly folk who keep gardens often put out bundles to sell, and that’s where I’ve gotten mine.

Like all sansai, they are best eaten fresh. Use them raw in salads, stir-fry with garlic, or add to soup.

They are low-calorie, full of fiber, and rich in vitamins A, C, and K, calcium, iron, potassium, and trace minerals. They also contain cancer-fighting antioxidants and prevent inflammation.

And I just thought they were a delicious spring treat!

As I walk through the rice fields, this last sansai is everywhere.

Chinese milk vetch

Chinese milk vetch covers most of the rice fields in my area each spring and, I’ve been told, is a boon to rice farmers. It has lovely Japanese names, rengeso, 蓮華草, lotus flower grass, or genge 紫雲英, purple clouds. When in full flower, the plants are turned under to provide needed nitrogen to the soil.

A field covered in purple Chinese milk vetch is a field that will produce a bountiful crop of rice, or so the farmers assure me.

Leaving the rice fields behind, I hike back up the hill to my house, refreshed and revitalized from my daily walk, taking in the beauty of nature.

I hope you can try some of these sansai if you haven’t yet. Do you have wild vegetables in your area?

The post Sansai—6 Helpful Herbs that Herald Spring first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.