The Ishiga Matsuri

By Andy Schick ALT, Okayama-ken, 2001-2004

Andy-san, would you like matsuri?

It was early on during my time as a JET in my small city of Niimi, in the northern part of Okayama. I had no idea what a matsuri was and I was somewhat worried that I would either have difficulty carrying it home on my bike or that it would make my refrigerator smell funny, like the matsutake mushrooms that someone had given me.  But I replied, “Sure!  What’s a matsuri?”  Takase-sensei laughed and said, “It is a party.” 

Takase-sensei had me at “party.”

On the first Sunday in November, I got dressed and ready for what I assumed would be hanging out and drinking – matsuri[1], right?

We drove down to the local temple where a crowd of people had gathered.  I was thinking, “matsuri, cool.”  That’s about the time Takase-sensei handed us traditional happi and Brian started stretching out and putting on gloves.  Brian looked like he was getting pumped for a major athletic event. Puzzled, I turned my head. Precisely at that moment, the crowd cleared and I saw the purpose of today’s gathering. 

About ten meters away from me was a large wooden box shaped like a miniature temple and adorned with golden ornaments.  I later learned that the box was called a mikoshi.[2] A group of men slid large square poles into slots at the bottom of the box.  Then, everything started moving quickly. We stood in line and were blessed, we chanted and clapped our hands, drank a small cup of sake and then we were off.  Brian and I stood with the other happi-clad men under the wooden poles and chanted along. We soon began to lift the box – which now seemed bigger and possibly full of lead.  We were led around the temple and out a gate where we had to squat to carry it out.  But what’s about 800 pounds between friends?

We marched through the streets chanting to a steady rhythm that Takase-sensei provided on a drum. 

Every once in a while, we would shake the mikoshi wildly. We were having a great time when people got a little too ambitious with their box routine and everyone started yelling, “kiyotsukette!”  I had no idea what that meant and stopped for a second.  Suddenly, I saw a blinding white light and then –

darkness. 

I awoke to a crowd of people standing around me laughing and Brian slapping me. “Are you okay?” he asked.  That is when I realized, “Ah! Kiyotsukette means ‘be careful!’”  Epiphanies often come at a price.  I had been knocked out cold by the corner of the box.  But that didn’t stop me.  I was having the time of life.

Maybe it was my strong dedication to such a unique and rich cultural experience, maybe I felt that I at least had to help get the box back to the temple. I got right back under my pole, a little dizzy and slightly bleeding.

We stopped about 15 times to pay our respects, eat sushi, drink – and rub our bruised shoulders – and managed to get the mikoshi back in one piece.

My wish for future JET program participants who reside in Niimi? Accept invitations without hesitation and blindly go where they have never gone before!

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