Wonders of Tenjin Matsuri

1072 years ago, Kansai legend goes that a divine spear washed ashore on the Dojima river in Osaka, right at the head of what is now Osaka Tenmangu shrine. This artifact was believed to be that of Sugawara no Michizane - scholar, poet, and a man now revered as the Shinto god of learning, Tenman-tenjin (天満天神). A procession from Tenmangu shrine over both land and water to honor this exalted deity began, and since 951AD, every year the city of Osaka has saluted with an enormous festival; Tenjin Matsuri.



It's 7am, 11 centuries, 2 decades, 3 months and 28 days exactly after Michizane passed away. Stepping out onto the street from my humble apartment building I'm struck by the temperature already - even this early, the sun's heat radiates down from a stunningly azure cloudless sky. On the journey to my friend Risa's apartment the Cicada song is occasionally deafening, as if a great static television is screaming from every high cherry and oak tree around. Upon arrival I'm thrust my festival attire, a pair of shorts and a Happi coat that's so comfortable I feel its seams were stitched just for me. Tabi toe-boots are tied up, and with a 日本 banner tied securely around my forehead my friends and I take a celebratory cup of Sake as a toast whilst the little kids outside catch butterflies, watched over by the elders who scrutinize the Omikoshi shrine's every detail to perfection.

And what a sight to behold our Mikoshi is! Solid metal, ornately affixed and majestically decorated in gold, silver, crimson lacquer, adorned with intertwined red and white roping...it's certainly worthy of a deity to call home (or more like a caravan in this case). Sam and Jordan, by trusted compatriots in this demanding endeavor look sharp as knives in their matching traditional outfits as, with the coordinated peep of a whistle, we squat down to slot the long bamboo racks into the crook of our shoulders. "持ち上げる !"

We lift, as we're told. It's at this moment that the overwhelming sheer weight of the shrine reveals itself to us, as if the god himself is sitting up straight on each of our shoulder blades, concentrating all of his divine mass into a single point. Like toddlers clumsily finding their footing for the first time we hobble slightly forward, craning our necks to the side and huffing with exertion, the 14 of us men and boys chanting simply;

わっせー！ wasse!

Two syllables repeated, belted out with each marching step we make in the mechanical manner of toy soldiers wound up to stamp onward. We take our precious shrine out into the thronging streets of Tenma, ducking into the covered shopping street of Temmabashisuji. The sunlight refracting from the frosted glass ceiling paints dazzling patterns which consume the shotengai in light - and surrounding us, hundreds of peering, curious, excited eyes follow. Old ladies, shopkeepers, couples in their gorgeous Kimonos, confused tourists. Some wave and dance, some film, some cool us with wide red paper fans, a very much appreciated gesture as by this time our bodies are drenched with hot sweat, faces slick but still keeping up our omnipresent hollering chants. Every now and then with a long whistle blast the convoy halts, the children beating down on their enormous barrel-like Taiko drum behind us...

In an instant the rapid peeping of our leader's whistle signals a coordinated leaping which draws the breath from my lungs with its unexpected intensity, transforming the Mikoshi into the gesticulating body of a dancing insect. Its golden awnings jingle loudly, the binding ropes oscillate wildly in their brackets. With one more whistle we lift the shrine high above our heads, and then back onto our aching shoulders. We continue our proud parade.

Earlier in the morning I'd asked my Japanese friend Risa, "What happens when we get to the shrine?".

She simply replied, "We go crazy!" 

And boy, was she right. Advancing between the gates of the sacred Jinja, we're flanked by other floats from other teams of other carriers, squeezing together into the narrow parade grounds and leaving no space of gravel unoccupied. First we spin to face a platform, an elderly priest blesses us. Around his white-clad figure children dance slowly and we salute him with a coordinated clap. Shuffling to right before the majestic prayer house, we pray as one - two claps, a moment of total silence. I spin around and Risa's words suddenly come prophetically to life. Dozens of drums hammer and a symphony of whistles sound out, the whole giant crowd erupts into an orchestra of chants that totally drown out the ambient sounds of the city around. We leap like never before, like I'd never imaged we could, throwing the Mikoshi upwards so that the whole frame twists and heaves, jumping high into the air as if our feet were on scorching coals. We almost collide into the other floats in our ritual - my legs burn feverishly from the weight and my chest shoots with lung pain from my sustained gasping for air mixed with joyous yelling.

We must've been quite the sight.

On our return to the apartment I adopt a comfortable position with the frame straddling my shoulder blades. Old ladies watch us happily; a little kid waves at me. At the moment we cross the threshold of the home stretch we're ushered swiftly inside for celebratory beer and curry rice, exuberant festivities abounding all around beneath the scorching high July sun. With shoulders and legs throbbing, backs sore, skin seasoned with what I can only guess is 5 or so gallons of sweat, there's only one obvious option, which is of course the local Sento - Japanese public bathhouse. Never has a steaming hot pool felt so good as when you're with good friends, bantering about the antics of the day and being quizzed by curious other patrons about why your shoulders are the color of Kimchi.

In a roadside field stands
A leafless willow tree-
Spring will come, and then
The wonders of long ago,
Will all return.
-Sugawara no Michizane