Towing the Line

The town of Kishiwada holds fast to the rules — its own rules. The autumn danjiri festival harks to tradition and flaunts the unpolished lifestyle for which the town is known. Joseph Allen takes a down and dirty look.

When the oaf tries to subdue you by bending your wrist and arm into a painful shape, you are surprised that you overpower him with ease. His arms are thicker than yours; only fat, you conclude. The baker, the engineer and other members of the Miyamoto neighborhood danjiri team applaud. You are surprised when the supervisor sitting under the tent offers you, or places into your hand, a cup of sake. From a distance you could not make out his features under the tent's shade; up close you try not to stare at the luscious tattoos twisting and breathing from wrists to shoulders. And you are not surprised when he makes a fist and wiggles his pinky to suggest the consequence of not drinking.

The Miyamoto danjiri team prepares for September 14 and 15

This isn't the Japan you know. Before you entered this town, the whole country seemed effete; suddenly it's virile. Yesterday the post office woman spoke to you like she needed your kidney to live; now the man with the towel wrapped around his head tells you why the United States is a monster. His tone is I-dare-you-to-disagree. Confrontation is refreshing. Kishiwada is a footprint that remains after the ocean tide has erased the trail.

You imagine it was much the same three centuries ago when the festival began as a dedication to Inari, the fox god of the harvest: each of Kishiwada's neighborhoods practiced all during August, the air a soup of taiko drums, flutes and machismo. There was no finish line; the goal was harmony among the 100-plus neighbors manuevering each danjiri. The harmony manifested at crossroads, where a full-speed turn brought cheers and affection from local women, and failure toppled the three-ton danjiri, throwing the daikugata from its roof. Danjiri racing nose to nose would collide on dirt roads. At night the teams would slow down, cover the fleet with thousands of lanterns and mosey, mosey. The next day was more clamor. Almost every year young and old men got hurt and killed, and, you imagine, they accepted the risk of injury as a consequence of courage and accepted a dramatic death as a consequence of a dramatic life.

Well, maybe that part is lost in a romantic past.

"The festival used to be for the people of Kishiwada," says Ryoji Shirai, 59, a lifelong resident of the city. "Now it has changed for sightseeing people."

About 40 years ago the police intervened. Since then they have supervised the event every September, herding the crowd, admonishing danjiri teams to take corners slow.

"The police are ashamed when there's an accident or death," says Shirai, who works at Danjiri Hall, a local museum dedicated to the festival. But taking corners fast is "a matter of pride," he adds. "The teams are ashamed to slow down before turning. The crowd will boo."

The symbol on the door is the matoi of the Miyamoto neighborhood danjiri

Still, the conflict between Kishiwada's untamed tradition and Japan's creampuff now is minimal: men wearing matoi of different districts still brawl; houses and businesses still have danjiri insurance, and they still need it; and when they get rammed, people still get crushed. The most recent death was two years ago.
"In the past there were more, more deaths," says Makota Mori, 40. He contends that despite the hazards of the festival, the police have had an effect men's mothers can appreciate. "Over the last few decades, the town has become more conscious of safety."

As little as the festival has changed, the danjiri have changed less — a rare vestige in the land of concrete rivers. The wood is Japanese zelkova, sturdy, expensive, harvested from Osaka, Nara, Wakayama and thereabouts. It dries for two years before carpenters build a danjiri. Then for five years artists carve scenes on the wooden vessel. Kishiwada features some of the world's premier woodwork. A well built danjiri will outlast the men who made it and their children.

Fences protect the exquisite wood carvings on every danjiri

The wheels, however, splinter on sharp turns, and asphault gnaws. Each team changes an average of 10 wheels during the two-day event. In the old days it was an ordeal; now they use a car jack.

The same carpenter families who build the danjiri also change the wheels. They used to dance on the roof (daikugata means carpenter) and were stars of the festival, but now the "carpenter" is just as likely to be a banker. Yet the old families are still revered; Sakurai and other major streets are named after them.

Fine carpentry is not confined to Kishiwada. The Kinki region has 800 danjiri, a type of dashi or festival float. Osaka's Tenjin Matsuri features danjiri, as does Mie's Tenjin Matsuri. Kaizuka City, the next town from Kishiwada, has a small danjiri festival that is scarcely known. Kishiwada itself has at least one other lesser known danjiri festival. The 800 are scattered throughout six or seven or more prefectures. Eighty reside in Kishiwada, and 34 participate in the September festival — the largest, the most boisterous, the most famous and most infamous.

"It's a natural part of life here," Shirai says. "Our grandparents and great-grandparents participated. Parents teach the ways of the danjiri to children — how to turn corners safely, how to run, where not to stand'.

"It's in our DNA," Mori says. "These are our roots."

Mori joined in for five years during high school. Shirai, now white-haired, remembers running alongside his father as a small boy. Both Mori and Shirai ran near the front of the long, long towrope. They were two pairs of the millipede's legs.

As the towrope draws closer to the danjiri, the men holding it age. They graduate through the years. The towrope spans generations. By the time men get behind the vehicle, they are between 30 and 40.

These are the men offering you a rope to tug the rear lever with them. The baker and engineer are right beside you, as is the fat oaf and the towel-headed man. As is Takenori Kishimura, 30.
"Of course, our danjiri is number one," he says.

As he speaks, a daikugata is hopping over the arched roof, throwing signals. His fans slap the crosshatched phone wires. Men on the ground beside you tauten their ropes.

But, Kishimura adds, "every person in the festival believes his danjiri is number one."

Everyone shouts a mantra, and they pull the ropes, and again, like pirates rowing. For most of the year these neighbors are strangers; now they are neighborly. They pull from opposite sides so that they negate each other's strength; their timing is right on, and the danjiri doesn't budge. You are the only one out of sync. Everything here was fine, you think, until you showed up.

Text: Joseph Allen
Photos: Courtesy of Danjiri Hall • Joseph Allen