Naked

Japan is a strange place. Japanese people are very polite and will avoid conflict at all costs. Emotions are kept inside. To show emotions is to reveal a weakness of spirit. Road-rage, pub brawls, verbal disputes in the workplace – you just don’t see them here. But all those bottled-up emotions have to go somewhere.

The Javanese of Indonesia are in the same boat. One hundred million people on an island. Too many people. The Japanese and the Javanese have developed similar cultural mechanisms to deal with overcrowding. Don’t run, don’t shout, be polite, keep your emotions inside. Of course, people can bottle up their emotions for only so long. When the Javanese lose it, it’s called amok. The word and the concept have found their way into English: "running amuck". You may wonder, do the Japanese ever run amuck? Read on.

"Saidaiji Hadaka Matsuri. Ya gunna go, mate? It’s wild!"

The plan sounded simple enough. Claim a seat on the bus organized by JETs in the city and head to the shrine with about 40 other (mainly) gaijin. Around fifteen guys would be entering and the others were coming along to watch (women are not allowed to participate). A few drinkies on the way, change into fundoushi, bit of running around, bit of shouting "rah rah rah", maybe an after-matsuri feed and a few more drinkies and then see what happens. Sounded good.

"Sounds good, mate. I’m in."

The mood on the bus was……… strange. People were moving about, catching up with friends they hadn’t seen for a while. Chatting about this and that. Drinking – beer, anzushu, sake, shochu. Joking about the fundoushi and its deadly grip on genitals and arse. People were sussing out who was entering and who was watching. "You doing it this year Boz?" "No way, dude. I’ve done it for the last two. I’ve done my tour of duty. Do you have any idea what you are getting yourself into, dude?" Excitement, anticipation, intoxication, fear, all on the bus.

"OK guys here’s the plan: When we get there we are going to split into two groups. The guys who are entering will come with me to change and get ready. The spectators are going into the stands to find a place with a good view. We are going into the shrine grounds early so that we can get right into the centre. It’s warmer there and there is less danger of being pushed down the steps. When it’s all over we’ll meet back here on the bus. There’s going to be a lot of people there so try not to get lost. Any questions? OK let’s go!"

So, off we trot into the bleak night. Cleaved into two groups: the damned and their witnesses. The rain is soft, trying to turn to snow. It’s fucking cold. Any questions? I have a question. What the hell are we doing here?

The streets are full. Vendors selling food. Punters eating it. Balloons and Pokeman, goldfish in a pool – waiting for death. Families and friends. Groups of company drones – teambuilding, bonding, droning. Some already in fundoushi and rosy-red from drinking hot sake. Party atmosphere – big things about to happen.

We hurry through the crowded streets and laneways – looking for our changing tent. Find it and enter. The kerosene heater fills the tent with warmth and fumes. We buy fundoushi and tabi. Remove jewelry and watches and conceal any tattoos. Shed our clothes. Stand around naked and embarrassed – manhood retreating to warmer climes. Japanese assistants help us into our fundoushi. Long white cotton cloth wraps around and around then under and up and around and then UP the crack of your arse with such force that your eyes bulge. Bending over becomes impossible. We throw back a hot sake or two, take a group photo, rev each other up and slap each other on the back. Somebody starts to shout. It’s infectious and we all scream at each other, stamp the cold earth and punch the sky. I realise that this is what men feel before they go into battle. A momentary burst of life before the long sleep of death.

Pile out of the tent into the thronging street. Open astonishment registers on Japanese faces at the sight of fifteen gaijin in fundoushi. Spontaneous applause. Disbelief. As we stand there a column of police march past us. There are about 200 of them – all in samurai style riot gear. Are they expecting trouble? We form a column four wide and begin chanting "Washoi!, Washoi!" The adrenaline is pumping so hard that by the time we start jogging arm in arm and chanting our way down the crowded street I feel that nothing has the right to get in our way. Children, old ladies, frightened dogs all scamper to get out of our way as we charge towards our fate. "Washoi! Washoi!"

We burst into the compound like gladiators into a bloody arena. The crowd cheers (or do they jeer) – we are gaijin soiling sacred ground, we are dangerous, don’t fuck with us we will eat your liver and piss on your carcass. "Washoi! Washoi!" We are the first team in. Behind us are 10,000 Japanese men all pumped on adrenaline and sake but we have stolen their glory. We are first. We are gaijin. "Washoi! Washoi" My throat is already hoarse but I don’t care. My feet are already numb but I don’t care. I am a skinny white man in a cold dark world but I don’t care. I have my gaijin brothers with me and they are warm and they shout the same battle cry "Washoi! Washoi!"

Stewards wearing Day-Glo suits and holding flashing light sabers are shaking their heads and waving their arms at us. We are too early, we are going the wrong way, we are the wrong race of people. We don’t care. We charge on regardless. Through a pond of freezing murky water and round a statue of Ganon – Goddess of Mercy. Emerging from the pond I stub my toe on the steps and yelp with pain. Nobody hears me. Nobody cares. No mercy here. The cold numbs the pain a little. My feet feel like pieces of meat. They are not my own but they carry me on to the main building. We charge up the slippery concrete steps and onto the covered stage. Somebody slips and falls and is helped to his feet. My brothers are looking up. I follow their eyes.

Above us is a second floor balcony. On the balcony are priests. Their heads peep over the rail. We scream at them. They stare back at us. We scream louder and louder "Washoi! Washoi!" Eventually they yield and bless us by throwing cold water down onto us. Some thanks! Off we go around the circuit. Up to a shrine and bow, around a building through a Shinto tori, swing from a rope and back to the pond. Each time we complete this circuit of torture we are joined by more and more teams of men. The noise builds. Eventually the stewards have to shepherd the teams into a holding pattern. At one stage we take a wrong turn and go charging out of the compound and into the street. People look at us and mutter bakka gaijin. A hurried retreat is executed. Back into the swarm. Everything is chaos and confusion and pain and noise. Around and around we go. Each time I pray it will be the last. I am exhausted and my feet are agonizingly cold. I scream but only a coarse rasping noise comes from my mouth. The chant continues and we charge ourselves for just one more round of torture. "Washoi! Washoi!" Please only one more time.

Suddenly a steward darts in front of us and directs us up onto the stage. This is it. Something is happening – anything is better than another round of the agonizing circuit. We are directed onto the stage. After the cold hard stone of the compound and the ice cold water of the pond the wooden floorboards feel like heaven. We dance around on the stage and slap each other on the back congratulating ourselves on surviving so far. There is only one word and the word is "Washoi!" We have made it into the inner sanctum. Onto the divine stage of life itself but our elation is short lived. The swarm is upon us. We suddenly find ourselves struggling to maintain a place on the stage which is quickly filling with hot steamy Japanese bodies. The heat feels good but we become pressed up against the front wall. We find ourselves in centre front row. From somewhere large plywood sheets appear and are nailed against a large window in the front wall. I catch a glimpse just before the boards go up and see the strangest thing.

From inside a small room the light is soft and everything radiates a strange golden glow. It looks peaceful. A procession of orange-robbed priests is filing past a magnificent altar smothered with offerings. The fruits of the earth. Golden bowls piled high with apples and oranges, bananas and grapes. Bottles of sake wait to be quaffed by the gods. Daikon and conch shells are there too. Incense is burning and whispy plumes of smoke are swirling around the room. Candles are setting the room on fire with their eerie golden light. Can I hear a low droning chant?

My view slams shut as a plywood sheet snaps over this scene from heaven and I am instantly propelled back into hell. Bodies are pushing into me so hard that I can hardly breath. I am not cold any more but hot. In fact I am so hot that I can’t even imagine what it is like to be cold again. The ladles of cold water that are being tossed by the priests from the balcony above feel great. The noise is incredible. "Washoi! Washoi!" I have to struggle to stay on my feet. The crowd surges and sways. It takes all my effort to keep from falling under the feet of those around me. I look around for my brothers. I see a couple. They are in the same state as me – fucked. We call to each other but it is useless. I can’t hear a thing. The sound is like white noise. I try to maneuver but I can’t even move my head to face another direction. An elbow jabs me in the eye and produces such a stinging pain that I roar and convulse and spasm until I manage to move a little against the mass of bodies that are pressing against me. I realise with horror that this is what it feels like to be crushed to death.

I struggle to control my breathing. I push my head up and gulp in the hot sweaty air and then relax and slip down a little. It’s like swimming in a sea of bodies. Just breath. Just breath. It’s okay. Just breathe and stay upright. The mosh pit from hell is not a pleasant place and seems to go on for an eternity. The pressure pushing against me is so great that I find I can lift my legs clean off the ground without slipping down. To my amazement I realise that the noise is increasing. It is the loudest thing I have ever heard in my life – and it’s coming out of human mouths. The men around me are struggling to get one hand up above their heads. One hand for catching. It takes all my strength but I manage to do the same. Midnight is approaching and with it comes the release of the shinggi.

The shinggi are sacred sticks. The aim of the festival is to catch a shinggi. At midnight they are thrown down by the priests on the balcony. Most are false shinggi but the real shinggi are worth about $1,000 if you can get one and hold on to it. It is also said to bring good luck to the recipient. The problem is that everybody is there it get one of the bloody things.

When midnight came I was only thinking of one thing. Finish this insanity. I am over it. I’m sorry I came and I didn’t mean all those bad thoughts about eating liver and pissing and all that. The shouting was just the sake talking and I’m sorry we started too early and ………let’s just finish this lunacy. Then something happened. It was like watching one of those trippy video clips. Everything went very loud and then very quite. My life was strobeing in front of my eyes. I was alive I was dead I was alive again. I was pushed down and got up and was pushed down again. Everything was in slow motion. My body couldn’t move fast enough for my thoughts A fight erupted behind me and I tried to turn around to see what was happening. I looked down to see about five guys wrestling each other on the deck. Then I heard the word shinggi. Without thinking I dropped down and shoved my hand into the pack. I pushed and pushed my hand deeper. Somebody was trying to pull me out by my fundoushi and somebody was climbing on my head. Then I felt it. It was there. I grabbed and locked on. There were other hands on it. All wriggling and grabbing and slipping. I screamed for help. I remember seeing Ian just before I went down. I screamed for him. "Ian I’ve got it. Help me! Help me!"

The pack was scrambling and moving like an animal under attack. People were joining and being removed in rapid succession. I held on like it was my mother. "Ian you fuck! Where are you?" Where was Ian? Where were my brothers? Didn’t they realise I had the shinggi! My hand felt like it was going to snap off. I was in complete darkness most of the time – under layers of struggling bodies. I pushed my head up and caught a glimpse of Ian. You little beauty! I could feel my knees and elbows getting raw from scrapping along the gritty deck. I was being dragged. I couldn’t hold any longer. I let go and looked around to see the pack go tumbling down the cold hard concrete steps. I could hear bone and skull thudding dully. Down they went like a human waterfall. I had let go just in time. I stood up and looked around. The stage had become largely vacant. My mind was racing. I looked around but couldn’t recognize anybody. Fights were breaking out in the compound below me. I guy limped past me holding his bleeding head. I was exhausted. What the hell was I doing here?

I heard a scream from below and saw a guy go running off while trying to conceal the shinggi in his fundoushi. A blow stopped him in his tracks. His limp body was quickly devoured by a fresh pack of naked animals. I had had enough. This was insanity. Then something weird happened. Four or five guys wearing black fundoushi moved in on the pack. Everybody just stood back and made way for them. I had heard that the Yakuza came every year and wore black fundoushi. These guys had no tattoos but they looked serious. Nobody was fucking with them. The pack was slowly getting up and moving back. Layer upon layer of humanity was peeling off. I saw my chance. I sailed down the steps and into the disintegrating pack. I dived in and once more pushed deep. To my complete amazement for a second time I grabbed the shinggi.

I could only hold on for a short while this time. I was exhausted. Somebody just grabbed me in a bear hug from behind and lifted me out of the way. I felt pathetically weak. I tried to find the shinggi once again but it was gone – lost somewhere in the pack. I gave up and stood back. The pack was peeling off. It’s energy dissipating. Finally the last person slowly stood up. He didn’t have the shinggi either – it had vanished. I looked at the last guy to stand up – he was tall and his long hair was covering his dirty face. He looked strange. Then I realized it was Ian. Suddenly, an angry growl came from a black fundoushi just before he stepped up and let go with a punch that caught Ian below the eye. Then another one stepped forward and followed with a similar blow to Ian’s head.

In situations like this one, you don’t think. Some primal part of your brain takes over and suppresses all the logic. I charged. I pushed one guy out of the way and faced up to another. Fists in the air, screaming. He stepped forward while winding up to punch. As he did I caught him by surprise with a left front kick that connected nicely with his throat. It stopped him in his tracks. I turned around to see at least two more black fundoushi starring me down. I screamed at them. Then it happened.

One of the longest, deepest and most intense deja vu I have ever had. I had been in that same situation in that same place many times before. My head was ringing like I had just been administered with a good dose of nitrous oxide. Time was going back and forth. Strange magic was at work. Could I control it? I stood my ground. The black fundoushis pulled back and left us alone. Then I realised I had been hit.

My upper lip was split through leaving a two centimetre gash. Blood was running into my mouth. My deja vu was in fact the result of my brain having been rattled inside my cranium by an unseen blow from the side. I didn’t see it and I didn’t feel it.

Ian and I collected ourselves and began looking for the others. All the while I was expecting the black fundoushis to come back. Fights were still breaking out here and there. It was a battleground. We began catching up with small groups of other gaijin. All with their own stories to tell. One theme was common. We all agreed we could never forget something like that.