Arashiyama and Togetsukyo Bridge

Day Two of Kyoto:

No links this time, I promise. I'll explain stuff properly, and we'll all be on the same page. Literally. Same webpage, that is. Yeah.

Here's the thing: Kyoto is a lot smaller than Tokyo. The great metropolitan area of Japan's capital has 35 million people, making it the largest city in the world. Kyoto has a mere 1.5 million. That's still a respectable number, mind. It makes Kyoto about as big, population-wise, as Philadelphia or Vienna.

But it's an old city. Ancient. It was the capital of Japan—just the capital, mind—for a thousand years. Whereas Tokyo was built on the swampy delta of the Sumida River, Kyoto is nestled into a valley east of the mountainous Tamba highlands, right smack dab in the middle of Honshu. Green hills surround it. It seems somehow cut off from the rest of the island. It's got its own vibe. Somehow it felt even more laid-back than Busan. Again, I got the sense that the Japanese were a lot more secure, more relaxed, more genuine in their habits and mannerisms. Compared to Japan, everybody in Korea seems to have an ax to grind and a chip on their shoulder. The people in Kyoto just are. Things happen at their own pace here, and if they don't, nobody gives a flip. The city seems simultaneously proud of its status as the former capital and glad to be well shut of the business.

Nowhere is this more apparent than Arashiyama, a neighborhood on the western outskirts of Kyoto. The district is named for the mountain that broods over it from across the river. Upon the slopes of this mountain, and at its feet, were some uniquely Kyoto-ish things that I've wanted to do for ages.

But we'll get to that later. Getting to Arashiyama turned out to be almost as fun and whimsical as the place itself.

I had three options. Well, four, if you count taxicabs. But I avoided taking cabs as much as I could in Japan, since it was seven hundred yen (about $7) to drop a flag in Tokyo, and about $6.40 everywhere else I went. So I decided that it would be trains. There were three lines to choose from:

From japan-guide.com

The JR Sagano line would have necessitated going down to Kyoto Station. The Keifuku Arashiyama Line didn't stop anywhere near Shijo Station (the one nearest my hotel in the center of town). However, by taking the Hankyu Katsura Line west from Shijo Station and then switching to the Hankyu Arashiyama Line, I could get myself to that little stop at the bottom of the map above, south of the Katsura River.

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: You might notice that the river in the map above has two names. I was mighty confused about that for a while. Wikipedia labels the river the Ōi, while this map says it's the Katsura River below the Togetsukyo Bridge and the Hozu River above it. As near as I can figure out, the Hozu River is the one flowing along the valley between the mountains, while the Ōi trickles out of those mountains to join the Hozu and flow beneath Togetsukyo. After that, the two rivers combined become the Katsura. Sort of like the Power Rangers, if there were only two Rangers and they were both wet and green and full of duck poop. All clear now?)

I got on the Hankyu Katsura Line at Shijo Station a hop, skip and a jump from the Karasuma Kyoto Hotel. The train was spacious and clean and very comfortable, and the morning bright and promising.

Kyoto's Hankyu subway service has got its act together.

I rode a few stops to Katsura Station and then switched to this charming little tram going toward Arashiyama.

 

Then all I had to do was sit back and watch western Kyoto, with its tile-roofed houses and tiny backyards, roll by my window:

I didn't even realize that there was a torii (sacred Shinto gate) in this picture until I looked at it later in playback mode on the my camera's pop-out screen. Talk about serendipity!

Don't that beat all? I was starting to like Kyoto. Quaint's the word, but without the creeping weirdness that the term implies. Just sort of old-fashioned and slow and enchanting, you know?

So, the Hankyu Arashiyama Line terminated at (you guessed it) Arashiyama Station, just south of the Katsura River, and all of us schmucks who were going to Arashiyama and its environs disembarked.

I love trains. And somehow they look even cooler with Japanese or Chinese characters on them.

The view after exiting the station.

The view looking back at the station.

After a couple of minutes walking along narrow one-lane roads...

...I found myself on the shores of the Katsura River!

I immediately set about taking a panoramic shot, of which the previous three photos are the first 75%. Then I looked to my left and...lo and behold! It was the Togetsukyo ("Moon-Crossing") Bridge!

Arashiyama proper was just across the river.

Arashiyama, by the way, means "Storm Mountain." The Japanese have such awesome names for things. Yes, I mean "awesome" literally, Louis C.K.

That's the same bridge that I've seen so many anime characters walk/run across. Creepy.

This gentleman was net-fishing. Didn't even have a reel on his pole. He just hauled back and skillfully sent the fish winging right into the net in his left hand.

So now that I'm taking pictures of the river west of the bridge, it's the Hozu, not the Katsura. Don't you forget it.

Just lovely, isn't it? The water, the reeds, the town, the hills, and the clouds and mist in the background. Dang, I'm good. (Either that or my Canon T3i does all the work for me.) Looking back, I think it was Arashiyama, and particularly this scene, that made me really, really start to like Japan.

Undaunted by the blasting heat, the cloying damp, or the thundering entomological chorus, I walked down along the riverbank, snapping picture after picture, trying to get the bridge from all angles, feeling like some East Asian version of Clint Eastwood in The Bridges of Madison County.

And then, abruptly, I was on the bridge itself. To my left was a tributary of the river, and a little dock with small pleasure boats moored alongside...

...plus souvenir shops and cafes and tea houses, and a rickshaw stop.

No, seriously! Rickshaws, dude! Ferrying people across the Moon-Crossing Bridge and into the low-slung bosom of Arashiyama beyond! No taxicabs here, this is Kyoto!

But I wasn't going across the bridge just yet. My destination was left, right and then left: straight up Storm Mountain.

Tomorrow: IWATAYAMA MONKEY PARK. I feed a macaque. No joke. There's video.

Stay tuned...

a samurai looks at swordsmanship

Let's talk about The Book of Five Rings, renowned 17th-century swordsman Miyamoto Musashi's thoroughgoing text on swordsmanship.

First off, I finished it. It was only five scrolls, for crying out loud. Musashi groups his discussion into four separate topics: an overview of the science of his own brand of martial arts, the Earth Scroll; an in-depth discussion of the techniques in his school, the Water Scroll; essays and views on combat and battle, the Fire Scroll; and a brief look at the techniques of other schools, the Wind Scroll. There is also a fifth and final scroll, the Emptiness Scroll, where he wraps everything up. Each scroll is broken up into further sections, each headed by mysterious or bluntly bellicose subtitles.
It was an unusual but enlightening read. As you might expect, I particularly enjoyed the Fire Scroll, dealing with combat. In that scroll, there were subheadings like "Moving Shadows," where Musashi delineates how to guess an opponent's intent from the way he holds his sword at rest; "Knocking the Heart Out," in which Musashi emphasizes the importance of defeating an enemy by taking away his will to fight at a critical moment; "Stomping a Sword," wherein Musashi metaphorically states that it is vital to "get the jump on" your opponent in everything; "Being Like a Rock Wall," where Musashi discusses in two sentences the concept of becoming "immovable and untouchable"; and "Becoming New," in which Musashi suggests that, if your current state and tactics are proving ineffectual in combat, you should "become new," change tactics, change your mood, and begin anew. It was some seriously cool stuff.

Musashi's discussion of other schools in the Wind Scroll was reasonable, but it did get a little wearing after a time. Musashi had some problems with some other schools' principles and he unloaded them all here.

The Earth Scroll was just an overview, but it laid out Musashi's code and stategies in an intriguing manner.

The Water Scroll was about as interesting as the Fire Scroll, for here Musashi discussed things like stance, and technique, and strikes, and sword blows, all unique to his science. From it, I gained perhaps the most telling insight into Musashi's views on martial arts. It's difficult for me to express just what a revelation it was to read this book. I said it was unusual, because I've never read any works by Eastern writers before. The Japanese devotion to honor and adherence to Shinto beliefs manifested themselves strongly. And Musashi is an extremely direct and succinct writer. The book is only 86 pages long, and Musashi never spends more than a page discoursing on a particular topic. He simply conveys his message, speaking of death and killing in a uniquely matter-of-fact way.

At the end of every discussion, he closes with an exhortation to his readers, reminding them to study hard and meditate on what he has written. It's always a variation on the same theme:

"This must be considered carefully."

"This should be worked out thoroughly."

"This should be given careful consideration."

"This should be examined thoroughly."

"This calls for careful examination."

I couldn't help but be reminded of my old college professors who were nice enough to give all the inattentive sap-heads in their classes (like yours truly) hints about what would be on the next exam.

"If it's in bold print, it's more than likely going to be on the exam!"

"I'd be writing this down if I were you; this sounds like an exam question right here!"

"This calls for careful examination, people!"

In the end, I finished the book with an ineffable sense of awe. It really shouldn't have been that remarkable. All I'd done was read a longish treatise on swordsmanship by a scabrous samurai who'd been dead for hundreds of years. But somehow, when I shut the book, I was overwhelmed by a sense of temporal displacement. I felt as though I'd just sat through a lecture by a stern, middle-aged, armored, sword-wielding, veteran samurai, who'd stared me down like I was a knee-knocking enlisted man on a training camp parade ground, and he was my commanding officer. I felt as though I'd received, through those intervening centuries, a motivational speech on how not only to excel at martial arts, but to better myself as a person. Musashi's writings, paradoxically steeped in spiritualism and logic, intended as they were not only for men-at-arms but all martial arts practitioners everywhere, had been just that powerful.

I felt more alive after reading that book. I felt like going out and running for five miles, doing a thousand push-ups, then picking up a wooden sword and laying about some straw dummies. I felt like striving, as Musashi had urged me, to intrinsically and subconsciously master the Two-Skies style of swordsmanship.

The story doesn't end there, though. There's a second book included with Musashi's in the edition of The Book of Five Rings which I purchased. It's Yagyū Munenori's Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War. Kind of a mouthful, ain't it?

Munenori was a contemporary of Musashi's, though I don't know if the two ever met. Munenori's life was more rooted in government and politics. He became an instructor of swordsmanship to the shoguns after the Tokugawa Shogunate was established, and he later became the head of the secret service too, or something. All the same, he was also a fearsome warrior and also wrote on the subject of swordsmanship and military philosophy. His book is organized into three sections, reflecting Munenori's three views of swordsmanship: "The Killing Sword," "The Life-Giving Sword," and "No Sword."

I have some problems with Munenori that I don't have with Musashi. First of all, his record is more spotty. Musashi, by all accounts, was never defeated in the more than 60 duels he fought; no such statistics exist for Munenori. Furthermore, ol' Yagyū strikes me as being less than proletarian; he was appointed to his positions by virtue of his shogun father's prestige, and never went wandering about Japan as Miyamoto did, fighting sword duels and honing his science. I got the impression he was less experienced and more bureaucratic. Last, and most vexing of all, Munenori's writing style is not as direct, and quite a bit more airy and abstract in nature.

Take a look at these two examples and see what you think. The first is an excerpt from Musashi's writings in the Water Scroll:

Stabbing the Heart. Stabbing the heart is used when fighting in a place where there is no room for slashing, either overhead or to the sides, so you stab your opponent. To make your opponent's sword miss you, the idea is to turn the ridge of your sword directly toward your opponent, drawing it back so that the tip of the sword does not go off-kilter, and thrusting it into the opponent's chest. The move is especially for use when you are tired out, or when your sword will not cut. It is imperative to be able to discern expertly.

Now try a little Munenori. This is from "The Killing Sword" (I haven't gotten any further than that yet):

Mood and Will. The mind with a specific inward attitude and intensive concentration of thought is called will. Will being within, what emanates outwardly is called mood. To give an illustration, the will is like the master of the house, while the mood is like a servant. The will is within, employing the mood. If the mood rushes out too much, you will stumble. You should have your will restrain your mood, so that it does not hurry. In the context of martial arts, lowering the center of gravity can be called will. Facing off to kill or be killed can be called the mood. Lower your center of gravity securely, and do not let your mood become hurried or aggressive. It is essential to control your mood by means of your will, calming down so that your will is not drawn by your mood.

See what I mean? Musashi's style leaves me thinking Boy, wouldn't want to meet him up a dark alley. Munenori's style leaves me thinking Uh, what?

While I believe that I understand what Munenori is talking about—willing yourself to remain calm in battle, so that you don't get careless and make a mistake—he discusses things in an abstract and even flaky manner that irritates me, especially after experiencing Musashi's directness.

Perhaps I'm prejudiced in favor of Miyamoto Musashi. The man was just wicked cool. Spine-tingling images form in your head when you read about some of the moves and techniques in The Book of Five Rings. Musashi was a master of the two-sword style, fighting with both a regular-length katana and a shorter wakizashi. I borrowed this fighting style for one of the protagonists in my novel, the one reincarnated from Musashi himself.

I wasn't lying before: legend has it that Musashi remained undefeated to the end of his days. Sure, some witnesses claimed he cheated on occasion, either attacking when his opponents weren't ready or using a longer weapon than theirs...but the fact remains that, at the end of the day, Musashi was left standing. That's no small feat for that day and age. Yagyū Munenori just doesn't have that same kind of hero appeal that rogues like Musashi, Wild Bill Hickok, and other larger-than-life historical figures do. All the same, I am enjoying both Musashi's and Munenori's writings. Like I said, I've never read anything by any Oriental writers before, and doing so for the first time has been a cultural thrill ride. It's fascinating to speculate on the events of these men's lives that shaped their beliefs about war and military science so strongly...and also to wonder at the wisdom contained within their writings that reverberates with contemporary Westerners like me even to this day.