letter from kyoto: the gion matsuri

by Chris Gladis

When I came to Kyoto, I knew the place was old. It’s something that you see everywhere you go: this temple was built in the 15th century, that shrine burned down in the tenth. It kind of rolls over you, this idea of the age, and I quickly got used to the idea of living in an old city — until the first time I watched the Gion Matsuri.

This is one of the three great festivals of Kyoto — the other two are the far less spectacular Jidai and Aoi festivals — and for good reason. It’s been performed almost without interruption for the last 1,145 years, since the year 863. This floored me, and it still does. To get some perspective, think about it this way: the city of Kyoto has been performing this festival for five times longer than my country has existed. Amazing.

The festival is something that many Kyoto natives never go to, much in the same way that New Yorkers never go to the New Year’s Eve party in Times Square. It’s hot, it’s humid, and there are thousands of people walking through the mostly narrow streets. For three nights, about one square mile in the center of the city is cleared of cars, and people from all over Japan and the world fill the streets. People walk about wearing their yukata, eating unhealthy festival food and looking at the yama and the hoko. It’s a grand old time. To explain these terms, I’ll give you some history.

Way back in the mists of ancient time, the newly-built capitol of Kyoto was in the grips of a terrible plague. As was the fashion of the times, the Emperor decided that the god Gozo Tenno was angry. In order to deal with this irate deity, the emperor ordered a festival to be held to honor the god of Yasaka Shrine, Susano-o-no-Mikoto, a god of winds and storms who was one of the three primordial gods of ancient Japan. Sixty-six pikes, representing the 66 provinces of Japan were erected and portable shrines (known as mikoshi) were paraded through the streets of Heian-Kyo. The gods were placated, the pestilence ended, and a tradition was born.

Over the centuries the festival changed. In 1533, for example, the Shogun tried to put a stop to religious observances, but the people of Kyoto protested. Take the rituals, they said, but at least leave us the procession. Since then, it has been the parade that gives the Gion Festival its grandeur. The yama and hoko are the centerpieces of the parade — giant, elaborately-decorated structures that are pulled through the streets of Kyoto to help rid it of any evil influences that may have gathered during the year.

There are currently 32 floats in the procession, although the word “float” is a bit incongruous, considering that we’re talking about large wooden structures that can weigh up to 12 tons. Each float is maintained by a neighborhood in the city, and the number has varied during the history of the festival. From time to time, a float drops out because the pieces are destroyed or lost, and from time to time, a float resurfaces. Shijokasa Boko, for example, was out of the festival for 117 years, until it was restored in 1988. Since the festival is Shintoist in origin, women have a very small role to play. In some cases, women aren’t even allowed to go into the hoko. A group is currently lobbying to have some kind of onna hoko, or “women’s hoko” built, but they’ve met a lot of resistance.

While the actual rituals of the festival go throughout the month of July, what the public thinks of as the Gion Festival takes place from the 14th to the 17th. On the three nights preceding the parade, the floats are lit by beautiful lanterns, the musicians play the oddly discordant gion-bayashi music and people fill the streets. Families who have lived in Kyoto for generations open their homes to display beautifully-painted screens and antiques. Carnival games are open to take money off of unsuspecting children, and vendors are available to sell delicious okonomiyaki, yakitori, takoyaki and other fried foods.

On the morning of the 17th, the hoko and the yama line up in an order determined by lottery. The parade begins with Naginata Boko in the front, to the top of which is affixed a great halberd and inside of which is the chigo or Sacred Child. The chigo is the son of a particularly rich Kyoto family, and is one of the most important figures in the festival. He cuts the rope that begins the procession and rides in the float until he is carried off by his father at the end.

The procession takes about four or five hours from start to finish, and goes along three major streets in the center of the city. People line these streets, packing the sidewalks, all trying to get a look at the parade. The most coveted viewing spots are, naturally, at the corners. This is because the giant hoko and yama were apparently designed before anyone invented steering and are turned by a crew of 50 men. It usually takes about three tries and ten minutes, and it’s a crowd-pleaser every time.

While it takes a strong man to pull these things, it takes a strong person to watch from start to finish. Every time I tell someone that I’ve been to the Gion Festival every year that I’ve been in Kyoto, I get a look of either disbelief or amazement. With the sun beating down, nowhere to sit, the press of bodies all around you and — let’s face it — a pretty sedately-paced procession, it’s the kind of thing that most Kyoto people prefer to observe on television, preferably with the air conditioner turned on.

But I keep going. It’s a living antique, a reminder of historical continuity that I, a citizen of the youthful United States, cannot even begin to imagine. I can only hope that, a thousand years from now, Americans of the future are still celebrating Independence Day with fireworks and hot dogs, remembering the Americans of a millennium past….

tagged under:art, asia, food, living abroad, photography, religion, travel