Warning: Beware Mountain Crabs!

My phone rang the other day.  It was my mother.  She had  realized a portion of the backyard fence was rotting and after careful prodding had concluded it would have to be replaced.  Bad luck, but it happens.

A few weeks and several phone calls later, workers had been hired, measurements taken and lumber acquired. All was going to plan.  This phone call was ended abruptly by a look out the back window.  Didn't those pillars look a little... short?

They were.  The workers hadn't correctly taken into account how deep the pillars would have to go into the ground.  It was going to be a midget fence.

Production was stopped, new wood was obtained and the measurements were retaken.  Bad luck, but what can you do?

The next day my mother called to tell me they had averted disaster once more.  Concrete this time.  She was hovering next to the window, surreptitiously watching the workers and waiting for whatever came up next.  It was at this point that she confessed to me, she thought she had bad karma.

I laughed, but she was quite serious.

She blamed the mountain crabs.

***

In May my mother and I traveled to Japan on vacation.  It was one stop on our annual trip, and for the first several days we were visiting friends in Kuma, a small town on Shikoku which was surrounded by lush greenery and about as far off the tourist map as you could get in Japan.

While visiting, we decided on a foray to Kainganzan Iwayaji Temple (#45).

Are you scratching your head at the #45?

Shikoku boasts the most famous pilgrimage route in Japan, with includes 88 temples along a 1,200 km loop.  By foot it takes about 6 weeks to complete, however today most people join their 50 closest friends on a tour bus.

Iwayaji is temple #45.

We arrived with umbrellas prepared.  Rain was threatening, and by threatening I mean that I was already wet but thinking I was about to take a bath.

Abandoning our neon green car in the near-empty parking lot, we walked up the road to the main entry of the temple.  It was a large wooden gate, intricately carved with the pieces fitted together.  Beyond it, the first of many steps stretched towards infinity, the location dripping with ambiance as rain dripped from the leaves overhead.

Iwayaji Temple Entry

A winding path leads upwards through the forest, past stunning statues grown over with vibrant green moss.

At points along the path we passed statues laden in moss, some layered up the hillside in rows.  Visitors had dressed several in jackets and hats, and beneath some rested colorful flowers and monetary offerings.  

By the time we reached the main temple complex near the top of the mountain, the heavenly floodgates had opened. Each of our umbrellas struggled to keep us dry, and from the roof of each building came rivers tumbling down into puddles beneath our feet.  It was impressive, and somehow it made the temple more impressive also.  Every surface glistened, every leaf was so clean it glimmered an intense green, and the patter of the raindrops was like music wafting through the air.

To one side, a open building stood housing an enormous bronze bell.  Next to it, a log was strung with a thick band of ornate rope.  A log!  On a rope!  Next to a bell!!!

Childish glee struck me.  Glancing sideways, I saw the same expression on my mother's face.  We definitely needed to swing that log.

"I don't think you're actually allowed..." my friend began, but we ignored him entirely, digging out coins to drop in the box fixed to the side of the building.

"Tourist card," I said authoritatively.

"It's probably only suppose to be rung at New Years," he said, glancing around nervously.  There was only one person nearby, an elderly man in a dark blue coat.  He was sitting under a nearby awning trying to decide whether he wanted to brave the rain.  He was also watching us surreptitiously.

"We won't be here at New Years," my mother said sagely.

"I'll be in Delhi," I added, to which they both rolled their eyes.  It's possible I travel too much.

My mother stepped up and gripped the side of the log.  It was bigger than her.  I yanked out my camera and snapped a half dozen shots as she swung it first back, then forward into the bell.

The sound resonated throughout the compound, a deep sonorous rumble that reverberated through to the very base of my soul.  We stood there for a moment listening as the sound faded, half expecting monks to come rushing towards us or to be chastised by wizened grandmothers who spoke no English but were more than able to convey their displeasure.

None came.

Probably because no one came, we rang that bell two more times, gleefully taking pictures as we did.  It was loud and so was our laughter, but when one sees a giant bell with a log resting strategically next to it, what can one do but ring it?

"That was so not allowed," my friend laughed as we continued deeper into the temple complex.  

"I didn't see a sign," my mother shrugged.  There actually had been a sign.  It had been written in Japanese though, another testament to how many foreigners actually visited this temple.  I felt I had exercised my strategic nature by ignoring it.

As we reached the central buildings, ducking inside and closing our umbrellas, the bell sounded once more in the distance.  I grinned, absolutely certain the man in the blue jacket had decided after watching us that it was his turn.  Tsk, tsk, rule breaker.

Rain flowed heavily, cascading from roof to roof then downwards to puddle on the ground or create momentary rivers beneath our feet.

Visitors to the main temple were few, though it was hard to tell if this was due to the weather or the remote location.  We were the only foreigners, and certainly the ones taking the most pictures.  In most we offered crazy poses while mouthing "cheese-su" with fingers splaying iconic peace signs.

Visitors to the temple were predominantly Japanese, some tourists and others pilgrims.  We saw no other foreigners while visiting.

A stunning fact that is rarely seen in pictures of Japanese temples are the interior ceilings.  They are often ornate or covered in signs or symbols.  In the most traditional buildings, you can also look for how the pieces fit together.  In the past, iron was expensive or unavailable and so beams could not be nailed together.  Instead, the beams interlocked to hold the structure together.

Je-je-je-Jenga!!!  Anyone?!

The temple buildings were impressive both in terms of design and in terms of the detailing.  Above is a picture of the ceiling of one of the main structures.

Behind the main temple complex, the mountainside rose like a creature out of a horror film.  Or perhaps a god, petrified by patient watchfulness.

"It's a face," my friend said, pointing out the eyes, nose and grinning lips.

"I see that," I told him dryly.

"Not everyone sees it."

"It's obvious."

"Is that a ladder leading into his mouth?" my mother asked, pointing.  Sure enough there was a ladder leading into it's mouth.

"Let's go up!"

"It's wet and raining," my friend objected, looking unimpressed.  "Also, I heard someone died falling off of it last year."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, it was a big deal."

"We'll have to be careful then," I said, ever the voice of reason.

Above the temple, the mountain rises.  If you look closely, you can see a face looking down on you.

The ladder was wooden, with thick beams but no handles.  It went high enough that a fall probably could have killed someone, and had just enough wiggle to be mildly concerning.  Just mildly though.

We hefted ourselves up, hand over hand, pointedly not looking down, our hands gripping each rung so tightly that our knuckles turned white.  There was no one to help us, nor anyone to catch us if we fell (cue entry of white knight, please!), so the idea was to cling like a leech to that bit of wood.

The climb was worth it.  The top offered a view out over the mountainside that stunned.  The clouds were low and heavy, but somehow the light still stretched through to touch the glistening leaves of the trees around us.

In the cave behind us was a small alter on which a simple statue rested.  It was surrounded by offerings, but in a way different from what you might expect.  Where most temples collected their offerings in bowls, this alter collected them along the walls.  Specifically, coins rested in nooks and crannies at impossible angles along the walls and ceiling.  Some were shoved sideways into the soft rock, others balanced precariously on an edge, almost but not quite ready to fall.

We fished out coins from our wallets and balanced them next to others, taking pictures that wouldn't make sense to people who had never been there, curious if there was some significance to the offerings.  Sometimes when travelling you hear the most interesting justifications for the strangest behaviors, other times you're left to make it up for yourself.  I like to think we were leaving a bit of silver for this god's next filling.

One of the main temple buildings.  Note the ladder in the background, which led to a viewing platform above.

The view of the mountainside from the viewing platform.

The walk back down to the base was in ways just as thrilling as the walk up.  We noticed statues we hadn't seen before, including a glaring black deity wielding a golden sword.  Personally, I hope if we ever meet he's in a good mood.

The forest we walked through was riddled with statues.  This one looked particularly sinister, gazing down at pedestrians from atop a hill of greenery.

Nearing the exit, we were all agreeing that the temple had been absolutely stunning.  We were actually gushing over it, even to the point where we had decided the rain added to the experience.  It was the best temple we had seen (note we had only been in Japan a day), the statues were spectacular, the cultural depth was incredible, and the feeling of peaceful zen was like something you read about rather than experienced.  Honestly, our conversation was a little over the top.  That was, until we heard it.  

Crunch!

My mother yelped, spinning around and looking back.

There, no more than two steps away, was the twitching form of a crab.  A rather flat-looking crab.

"What is that?" I asked, kneeling down to get a closer look.

"It's a crab," my friend said.

It did look like a crab.  About half the size of my palm, with four legs on either side that would have helped it scuttled appropriately.  It wasn't scuttling now.  It was definitely twitching though.  Upside down, nearly-dead-but-not-quite twitching.

"We're on a mountain," I pointed out.  "Do crabs go on pilgrimages too?"

"It's a mountain crab," he replied patiently.  Like he saw crabs on the mountains all the time.

"I killed a mountain crab?" my mother gasped, horrified.  "I killed a mountain crab at a temple?  I'm going to Hell."

I nodded sagely.  "Seems that way."

"You're not helpful."

"Technically it isn't dead," I gestured, straightening up.  The crab was still twitching.

We glanced at each other.

"Well, we can't leave it like that," my mother finally said.  With a heavy but resolute step there was another crunch and the crab was now very still, very flat and very dead.  

"I can't believe I killed a mountain crab at a zen temple," my mother repeated as we continued down towards the car.  "This has to be bad karma for life."

The path to the temple was paved, the steps concrete and well kept.  The only stalls were near the main entry, keeping the remainder of the site open and uncluttered.  It was as we were exiting along this path that we had the misfortune of meeting that suicidal mountain crab.

***

My mother tends to be a bit dramatic.  I like this about her.

The "bad karma for life" was probably a bit over the top.  It's two months later and the new fence is now complete.  I've also been assured it looks fantastic.  The bad luck seems also to have passed.

At least we can hope as much.  The house does have two other fences...