(Afrikaans onder) (Scroll down for pictures)
I didn’t want to visit Japan to conquer it as Kublai Khan did, all I wanted was to sleep in an ancient temple and to see a geisha walk down a street. But then it invaded my heart, soul and grain and overwhelmed all my senses.
I travelled by train directly from Kansai Airport to Mount Koya, the holiest mountain in Japan. My point of entry narrowed through the Wakayama Mountains which drew me in with breathtaking vistas and sakura blossoms. Voices dropped and people whispered in the presence of grandeur, precipices and mountain slopes in the mist and blossoms and the first leaves of spring breaking through.
misty rain swirls upwards
young green leaves burst open
a train toils uphill
Mount Koya, or Koyasan, is flagrant desire in aromas of cedar wood, a dream in mountain temples and stone graves, a delight in blossoms and moss, a mystery where the smells of old shogundoms still linger. Accommodation is a wooden monastery, a shukubō, 1100 years old, and the graceful monk walked ahead down the gleaming wide wooden passages to the zashiki, a room with paper sliding doors, tatami mats to sleep on and a tea table, beautifully set. Six o’clock is bath time in the traditional baths and also the time to lock the monastery gates for the night. A colourful monastic meal was served at calf height – no meat, onion or garlic. Back in the rooms monks had prepared the beds on the floor. The passages became bitterly cold.
awake in the night
footfall on the wooden floor
a monk roams about
When the gong sounded for the morning prayers it was time to rise in the dark of early morning. And then the sleet began to fall.
no sky
no earth – and yet
snow is falling
The head of the monastery’s richly embroidered brocade cloak glowed in the dark inner sanctuary. He struck little bells and performed rituals with chants in Sanskrit and Japanese. Two young monks joined the incantation.
Outside everything glowed, the cedar wood, magnolias, camelias, tulips, weeping cherry blossoms and new maple leaves.
camelia blossoms
all that remains after the rain
burst forth this morning (Buson)
Monks ran past us in file, hands folded into their robes, wooden sandals on stone streets. A camera moment.
wooden sandals on stone
he grips his black robe
the monk is late
Like a pilgrim I followed the stone prayer path between the giant cedar trees, flanked by thousands of altars and ancient gravestones. Walking became a stroll through history, and the cold didn’t matter.
winter rain on moss
soundlessly they remember
happy days (Buson)
Back in the village it became a time of memorable moments in the courtyards of monasteries, visits to temples, oohing and aahing at the blossoms and gardens and the proportions and perfect balance of the ancient wooden buildings between trees, the water furrows, an orange bridge across a dam in perfect symmetry, quiet monks in file on wooden sandals. I drifted from experience to experience.
see the clouds
white in the blowing ice wind
spaces flow past
On foot I looked for a hotel in Nara in the early evening and took to the streets at night. It could just as well have been Vienna or Genève with chic shops, elegant people, cyclists on the cobble stone malls. On which planet did I find myself with my shapeless rugsack, downtrodden sandals and worn clothing?
Nara is rich in bloodthirsty history and here the foundation of the Japanese culture and civilisation was laid. After breakfast I travelled out to Hokke-ji by bus. About a hundred airforce men also arrived to clean the gardens in a flash. Every blossom swept up. The chief nun, Monzeki, who belongs to the imperial family, came out with her shaved head to thank the men. Dressed in a long, purple robe. Ivory-like in her old age. A single erica perspicua from the Boland flowered in the garden. How and who and when?
The forests next to the overwhelming Tōdai-ji temple engulfed me, the moss, the glowing light. Before the Ksuga Taisha Shrine one stands in awe at the shinto orange-red, every lantern hanging there. Brides like geishas and women in kimonos parade past.
is it the white peonie?
but then it gleams red
a little red
Wandering from park to park, pagoda to pagoda, fishpond to fishpond with their floating plants and overfed carp. And the gardens, mossy rocks, trunk roots, stepping stones to guide your daydream, all planned in the finest detail, to the very last little stone.
under a hanging rock
a candle burns, incense perfumes
a small prayer
But Kyoto awaits.
I walk and seek you
sometimes over five or six miles
the cherries are blooming now (Basho)
I went to look for Kinkaku-ji, the golden temple, probably one of Japan’s most familiar landmarks. Built in 1397 next to a small lake. The golden reflections intoxicating. The new maple leaves were greener every day, between the blossoms, and I walked the few kilometres to Ryoan-ji, transformed.
the cherry blossoms
scatter in the wind and I look
more blossoms blow away (Onitsura)
It is here where the famous 25x10m zen garden lies (c1525) – rocks and moss on gravel raked in patterns that transport you. The zen garden is surrounded by a wall, plastered with clay boiled in oil that effloresces into hazy scenes. There are 25 rocks set in the sea of gravel, for you to discover the symbolism and whatever spiritiual values and thoughts you can draw from it. Nearby, just outside the walls, are the “wet” gardens with a lake, a little bridge and a pagoda. Here the blossoms spread over you, enfold you, hang to the ground. When the wind stirs, it snows blossoms.
I catch a blossom
close my hand and open it again
it remains empty and dry
Within walking distance there is the Ninna-ji complex. Women wear their beautiful spring kimonos in April to admire cherry blossoms in parks and temples.
first spring day
and I begin to remember again
the end of autumn (unknown)
The zen garden, stones, gravel and sand is blinding. But around the corner is a water garden, large scenes depicted on a small scale. Big emotions.
at the old fishpond
a frog jumps in
sound of water (Basho)
Still masses of blossoms and women in kimonos.
I descended to the large river, but first through a bamboo forest. A Sunday river with rowers whose quiet guests glide on old elegant wooden boats.
Tired, I sat and looked at the water, the other side, the new leaves vigorously bursting forth, the lassitude of a Sunday. Mothers and daughters paraded in kimonos on the long bridge, riksha carts strained in black and red, early evening became melancholic. I climbed up the mountain, the evening light was silver, blossoms were blowing in streets, it became quiet. A nightingale sang.
tired, I began to search
for an old hotel, but found
a wisteria (Basho)
Then it was Monday. The day of Ginkaku-ji, the silver temple, with its zen, moss and water gardens, the cedars, azalea and camelia avenue – representing a spiritual world and which touches the heart. Then began the long, quiet ramble along the Philosopher’s Path, Tetsugaku No Michi, a stone road along a stone canal full of koi, under hanging weeping blossoms which sometimes touched the water.
falling blossoms
thousands of butterflies
return to the branches (Moritake)
I didn’t want to see the inside of temples any more, just the architecture in harmony with the gardens. Images began to shift over each other and I couldn’t remember any more what I had seen and experienced an hour before. Sensory overload. Now only the moment mattered.
blossoms like clouds
is that the Ueno temple
of Asakasu? (Basho)
Was it Eikan-do or Nanzen-ji? Where was the little bridge to the small island, where was the pagoda against the mountainside, where did I bend down to look at the moss-covered stone face, where was the zen garden raked like a chessboard, where did the monk in black walk down the long wooden passage with his hands clasped behind his back, where did the brightly coloured cloth hang in front of the temple, stirring in the wind as the monks chanted, the mural of the tiger drinking water, the reflection of trees in water, water dripping from a spring, and where did the blossoms fall like confetti?
I think it was at Nanzen-ji that hundreds of monks’ voices droned. Through the smell of cedar, the gravel gardens, the mossy sculptures. Large brightly coloured cloths moved in the cold wind. I slipped in and experienced the ordaining of two young monks. Hundreds of other monks in orange and purple brocade droned in circles around the two initiates.
The Heian Jingu temple was built to commemorate 2600 years of Japan. A light, floating spiritual centre. Sensual, with large empty gravel spaces, wide and radiant in orange. A living shining orange. But it’s the 33 000m2 gardens that transport one. The Shin’en with its four promenade gardens. First the quiet pond with its etherial beauty, then the garden for poets and writers where the swaying weeping cherry blossoms hang to the ground along the footpath, and the azaleas beginning to burst open. A spring sun gathers you up to a glowing pink heaven of blossoms. Then you meander in a trance to the middle garden on stepping stones – foundation of an old stone bridge. Floppy irises surround you.
new irises
flower right under my feet
laces turn blue (Basho)
When, eventually, tired of emotions, I found myself outside, the large squares in front of the temple were empty and it was only me, the silence, and my worn sandals on gravel. I had to go to Gion, where there might be a geisha. I continued walking the streets, perhaps one would pass by.
It was in the Jakko-in valley the following day where I heard the mysterious bird singing in the trees, the sweetest song, but just like the geishas, he eluded me.
even in Kyoto –
hearing the cuckoo’s cry –
I long for Kyoto (Basho)
I returned to Gion. Then I heard wooden sandals on cobblestone streets. And when I looked up, three geishas came past. Little steps on high wooden shoes, arms founded into sleeves, handbags under the arm, white faces, hair artfully done up and the wisteria ornaments hanging half over the face.
Haikoes, bloeisels, zen, en op soek na geishas
Ek wou nie soos Kublai Khan Japan toe gaan om dit te verower nie, ek wou net gaan om in ‘n ou tempel te slaap, en ‘n geisha in die straat te sien loop. Maar toe val dit my hart, siel en grein binne en oorrompel al my sintuie.
Vanaf Kansai-lughawe is ek reguit per trein na Berg Koya, die aller-heiligste berg in Japan.. My point of entry word nouer deur die Wakayamaberge wat my intrek met asemrowende vistas en sakura bloeisels. Stemme raak sag en mense fluister voor die grootsheid, afgronde en berghange in die mistigheid en bloeisels en eerste lenteblare wat deurbreek.
misreën dwarrel op
jong groen blare bars oop
‘n trein klim verby
Berg Koya, of Koyasan, is ‘n onbeskaamde begeerte in sederhoutgeure, ‘n droom in bergtempels en klipgrafte, ‘n verrukking in bloeisels en mos, ‘n misterie waar die reuk van ou shogundomme nog hang. Slaapplek is ‘n houtklooster, ‘n shukubō, 1100 jaar oud, en die grasieuse monnik loop voor op die blinkbreë houtgange na die zashiki, ‘n kamer met papier skuifdeure, tatami matte om op te slaap en ‘n teetafeltjie, keurig gedek. Sesuur is badtyd in die tradisionele baddens en ook die tyd vir die kloosterhekke om vir die nag te sluit. ‘n Kleurvolle kloostermaaltyd word voethoogte voorgesit – geen vleis, uie of knoffel nie. Terug in die kamers is die vloerbeddens deur die monnike voorberei. Dit raak bitter koud.
wakker in die nag
voetstappe oor die houtvloer
‘n monnik dwaal rond
Vroegdagdonker opstaan toe die ghong vir die oggendgebede begin slaan. En toe begin die ysreën val.
geen lug
geen aarde – en steeds
val daar sneeu
Die kloosterhoof se ryk geborduurde brokaatkleed gloei in die donker binnesaal. Hy slaan klokkies en voer rituele uit met dreunsang in Sanskrit en Japannees. Twee jong monnike inkanteer saam.
Buite gloei alles, die sederhout, magnolias, kamelias, tulpe, treurkersiebloeisels en nuwe esdoringblare.
kameliabloeisels
al wat na die reën oorbly
bars vanoggend oop (Buson)
Monnike hardloop in gelid verby, hande ingevou, houtsandale op klipstrate. ‘n Kamera-oomblik.
houtsandale op klip
hy gryp sy swart kleed vas
die monnik is laat
Soos ‘n pelgrim volg ek die klip gebedepad deur die reuse sederbome, geflank met duisende altare en oeroue grafstene. Stap word ‘n drentel deur geskiedenis, en die koue maak nie saak nie.
wintereën op mos
geluidloos onthou hulle
gelukkige dae (Buson)
Terug in die dorp is dit onthou-oomblikke in die binnehowe van kloosters, kuier by tempels, oe-en-aa oor bloeisels en tuine en die verhoudings en perfekte balans van die oer-houtgeboue tussen bome, die watervore, ‘n oranje brug oor ‘n dam in perfekte simmetrie, stil monnike in gelid op houtsandale. Ek sweef van ervaring tot ervaring.
kyk na die wolke
wit in die yswind wat waai
ruimtes vloei verby
Vroegaand in Nara, soek ‘n hotel te voet, en vat die nagstrate. Dit kon net sowel Wenen of Genève gewees het met sjiek winkels, deftige mense, fietsers op die kieselsteen wandelstrate. Op watter planeet is ek met my uitgerekte rugsak, skeefgetrapte sandale en opgeleefde klere?
Nara is ryk aan bloeddorstige geskiedenis en hier is die fondasie van die Japannese kultuur en beskawing gelê. Na ontbyt wyk ek per bus uit na Hokke-ji. Omtrent ‘n honderd lugmag soldate daag ook op om die tuine in ‘n japtrap skoon te maak. Elke bloeisel opgevee. Die hoofnon, Monzeki, wat uit die keiserlike familie stam, kom met haar kaalgeskeerde kop en bedank die manne. In ‘n lang pers kleed. Sy is ivooragtig oud. ‘n Enkele erica perspicua uit die Boland blom in die tuin. Hoe en wie en wanneer?
Die woude langs die oorrompelende Tōdai-ji tempel sluk my in, die mos, die gloeiende lig. By die Kasuga Taisha Shrine staan ‘n mens in verwondering oor die shinto oranje-rooi, elke lantern wat hang. Bruide soos geishas en vroue in kimono’s paradeer rond.
is dit die wit peonie?
maar dit skyn dan rooi
‘n bietjie rooi
Dwaal van park tot park, pagoda tot pagoda, vywer tot vywer met drywende plante en uitgevrete karp. En die tuine, mosrotse, boomstamwortels, voetklippe wat jou dagdroom lei, alles tot in die fynste besonderhede beplan, tot die laaste klippie.
onder ‘n oorhang rots
brand ‘n kers, geur wierook
‘n klein gebed
Maar Kyoto wag.
ek stap en soek jou
soms tot vyf of ses myl ver
die kersies blom nou (Basho)
Ek gaan soek Kinkaku-ji, die goue tempel, seker een van Japan se bekendste landmerke. In 1397 langs ‘n klein meer gebou. Die goue weerkaatsings bedwelm. Die nuwe blare van die esdorings slaan by die dag groener uit, tussen die bloeisels deur, en ek stap getransformeerd die paar kilometer na Ryoan-ji.
die kersiebloeisels
strooi in die wind en ek kyk
meer bloeisels waai weg (Onitsura)
Dis hier waar die beroemde 25x10m zen tuin is (c1525) – rotse en mos op geharkte gruis, in patrone, voer jou weg. Die zen tuin is met ‘n muur omring, gepleister met klei in olie gekook sodat dit in wasige tonele uitslaan. Daar is 25 rotse in die see van gruis, vir jou om te ontdek wat dit simboliseer en watter spirituele waardes en gedagtes jy daaruit kan put. Daarnaas, net buite die mure, is die ‘nat’ tuine met ‘n meer, ‘n bruggie en ‘n pagoda. Nou rank die bloeisels oor jou, skulp jou, dit hang tot op die grond. As die wind roer, sneeu dit bloeisels.
ek vang ‘n bloeisel
maak my hand toe en weer oop
dit bly leeg en droog
Stapafstand verder is dit die Ninna-ji kompleks. Middaguur, en dra die vroue hulle mooi lente-kimono’s in April om kersiebloeisels in parke en tempels te bewonder.
eerste lentedag
en ek begin weer onthou
die einde van herfs (onbekend)
Die zen tuin, klippe, gruis en sand, verblind. Maar om die draai is ‘n watertuin, groot tonele op klein skaal uitgebeeld. Groot emosies.
by die ou vywer
‘n padda spring in
geluid van water (Basho)
Steeds massas bloeisels en vroue in kimono’s.
Ek sak af na die groot rivier, maar eers deur ‘n bamboeswoud. Sondagrivier met roeiers wat stil gaste op ou elegante hout bote laat gly.
Moeg sit ek en kyk na die water, die oorkant, die nuwe blare wat kragtig oopbars, die gelatenheid van ‘n Sondag. Op die lang brug paradeer moeders met hulle dogters in kimono’s, riksjas beur met hulle swart en rooi karretjies, die vroegaand word melankolies. Ek klim teen die berg uit, die aandlig silwer, bloeisels waai in strate, dit word stil. ‘n Nagtegaal sing.
moeg, begin ek soek
na ‘n ou hotel, maar vind
‘n wisteria (Basho)
Toe word dit Maandag. Die dag van Ginkaku-ji tempel, die silwer ene, met sy zen-, mos- en watertuine, die seders, azalea- en kamelia laning – wat ‘n spirituele wêreld uitbeeld en ‘n mens aan die hart gryp. Toe begin die lang stil wandeling langs die Pad van Filosowe, Tetsugaku No Michi, ‘n klippad langs ‘n klipkanaal vol koi, met treurbloeisels wat hang en soms aan die water raak.
vallende bloeisels
duisende skoenlappers kom
terug na die takke (Moritake)
Ek wil nie meer die binnekante van tempels sien nie, net die argitektuur in harmonie met die tuine. Beelde beginne oormekaarskuif en ek kan nie meer onthou wat ek ‘n uur tevore gesien en beleef het nie. Sensoriese oorlading. Nou maak net die oomblik saak.
bloeisels soos wolke
is dit die Ueno tempel
of Asakasu? (Basho)
Was dit Eikan-do of Nanzen-ji? Waar was die bruggie na die eilandjie, waar was die pagoda teen die berghang, waar het ek gebuk om na die mosbegroeide klipgesig te kyk, waar was die zen-tuin soos ‘n skaakbord gehark, waar het die monnik in swart met sy hande agter sy rug die lang houtgang afgestap, waar het die helderkleurige lappe voor die tempel in die wind geroer as die monnike dreunsing, die muurskilderye van die tier wat water drink, die weerkaatsing van bome in water, water uit ‘n fontein drup, en waar het die bloeisels soos konfetti geval?
Ek dink dit was by Nanzen-ji waar die honderde monnikstemme gedreun het. So deur die sederreuke, die gruistuine, die mosbeelde heen. Groot helderkleurige doeke het in die koue wind geroer. Ek sluip in en beleef die ordening van twee jong monnike. Honderde ander monnike in oranje en pers brokaat dreun sirkels om die twee.
Die Heian Jingu tempel is gebou om 2600 jaar van Japanwees te herdenk. ‘n Spirituele sentrum wat lig en swewend is. Sensueel met groot oop gruis ruimtes, wyd en stralend in oranje. ‘n Lewende blink oranje. Maar dis die 33000m² tuine wat jou in ‘n straling opneem. Die Shin’en met sy vier wandeltuine. Eers die stil pond met sy eteriese skoonheid, dan die tuin vir digters en skrywers waar die hangende treurkersies lang ritse bloeisels tot op die grond laat hang met die voetpad onderdeur, en die azaleas wat begin oopbreek. ‘n Lenteson raap jou verder op na ‘n stralende pienk hemel van bloeisels. Dan meander jy in ‘n trans na die middeltuin op klipblokke – fondasie van ‘n ou klipbrug. Haasoor irisse omring jou.
nuwe irisse
blom reg onder my voete
skoenveters word blou (Basho)
Toe ek uiteindelik, moeg van emosies, buite kom is die groot pleine voor die tempel leeg en is dit net ek, die stilte, en my uitgetrapte sandale op gruis. Ek moet Gion toe, waar daar dalk ‘n geisha is. Ek hou aan loop in die strate, dalk kom daar een verby.
Dis die volgende dag in die Jakko-in vallei waar ek die misterieuse voël in die bome hoor sing, soetste sang, maar net soos die geisha’s, ontwyk hy my.
selfs in Kyoto
hoe verlang ek daarheen
as die koekoek sing (Basho)
Ek is terug na Gion. Toe hoor ek die houtsandale op kieselsteenstrate. En toe ek opkyk kom drie geishas verby. Klein treëtjies op die hoë houtskoene, arms in die moue gevou, handsak onder die arm, gesigte wit, hare kunstig opgedoen en die versierings van wisteriajuwele wat half oor die gesig hang.
Travels of Gerard and Anuta Scholtz 
Wat ‘n vreemde, misterieuse kultuur is dit nie! Ek moet gaan, ek moet dit beleef. Dankie vir die mooi beskrywings. Snaaks, jou Engelse weergawe bekoor my meer as die Afrikaanse een. Dalk is dit die sagter, ligter, vrouliker tongval wat saam met Engels kom. Dalk is die harde, volronde, boertige boereklanke net te swaar vir kersiebloeisels, sneeuvlokkies, meditasie en misterie. Ek weet nie? On Wed, 11 Apr 2018 at 21:57, Travels of Gerard and Anuta Scholtz wrote:
> Gerard Scholtz posted: “(Afrikaans onder) (Scroll down for pictures) I > didn’t want to visit Japan to conquer it as Kublai Khan did, all I wanted > was to sleep in an ancient temple and to see a geisha walk down a street. > But then it invaded my heart, soul and grain and overwhelmed” >
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Soms, word ‘n mens totaal vervoer en ontroer deur ‘n skryfsel soos hierdie. Ek voel onhandig na die lees hiervan, want waar gaan ek sulke skoonheid vandaan skep vandag?
Dankie vir die sintuiglike reis, Gerhard.
My sin van die dag is “Sy is ivooragtig oud”.
Ek sal loop soek na ‘n peonie vandag, of enige ander wasagtige blom waarin ek ‘n klein gebed sal laat skuil.
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