whose leader was the fat, partially sighted son of a tatami mat maker. This man, Shoko Asahara, lusted after a violent coup that would topple the government from power and install him as emperor—deciding that this was something of a tall order, however, he instead elected to unleash a poison on the 5 000 000-plus civilians who use the subway system every day.
Twelve people died in the attacks, and close to a thousand were injured—one woman so seriously that she later lost both her eyes. Asahara and his followers’ lunacy deeply distressed a country that had, until then, considered itself to be virtually free of crime—at least of the violent variety.
At the time of writing, Shoko Asahara remains on death row, sentenced to hang. Three of the ten men who carried out his orders—poisoners and getaway drivers—remain at large.
‘CHIN-CHIN’
So, you’re there at an akachochin and are having a whale of a time with your Japanese friends. You’ve probably figured out by now that kanpai means ‘cheers’ but, after saying it numerous times—while also teaching your social circle its English equivalent—you begin to wonder how else you can initiate another round of beer-glugging.
‘I know,’ you think, brain just a little fogged with Kirin lager and lovely warm sake, ‘I’ll say “chin-chin” instead!’
Don’t. Because plenty of gaijin before you have had to learn the hard way—through an awkward silence and shocked stares from their Japanese companions—that “chin-chin” is, in the Land of the Rising Sun, slang for ‘penis’?
CHťMEI, KAMO NO
Famed writer, monk and hermit, born around 1155. His father was a Shinto priest in charge of an important shrine. When his father died, it was naturally assumed that young Kamo would step into his shoes. As it transpired, however, this was not to be.
‘Sorry,’ said whoever it was who decided such matters, ‘but we want someone with a wee bit more experience for this job.’
Deeply disillusioned by this, and grieving still for the loss of his father, Kamo turned to a priest called Shomyo (who may, in fact, have been the young man’s grandfather) for some words of wisdom.
‘Concentrate on composing poetry,’ was Shomyo’s rather obscure advice; and with a shrug of his shoulders and a sigh, this was just what Kamo proceeded to do.
In fact, he had something of a knack for it. Within a few years, he’d had an anthology of some one hundred poems published, with a few finding favour within the imperial court.
Kamo, however, soon considered his emerging fame and fortune to be something of a fickle thing. He was becoming obsessed with the Buddhist concept of mujŦ, or impermanence—the idea that this world, and everything in and of it, from gods to insects, is in a constant state of flux. With this in mind, considered Kamo, what was the use of money and material items?
To the bemusement of everyone around him, Kamo retreated to a group of mountains called Ohara, where he changed his name to Ren’ in. A move to another mountain called Toyoma followed, before Ren’ in performed his anti-materialistic and wandering-hermit-like masterstroke: determined as he was to live in a sublime state of poverty, renouncing all worldly wants and desires, he built himself a shabby hut that, at exactly ten foot square, was what an estate agent might call ‘cosy’.
It was here that Ren’ in wrote his masterful essay HŦjŦki (often translated, with an obvious eye on the bestseller list, as ‘An Account of My Hut’). Its opening sentence perfectly defines mujŦ thus: ‘Ceaselessly the river flows, and yet the water is never the same…’
Ren’ in saw things through to their logical conclusion, expiring in his hut a few years later.
CREATION MYTH, JAPANESE
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, there was nothing. But then something that was lighter than nothing rose to the top of nothing and formed heaven. (This is, quite honestly, the only way I can think of interpreting the original telling of the Shinto creation myth, as related in Japan’s oldest chronicle, Kojiki.)
The heavier mass of nothing, meanwhile, formed what was to become earth. But for a long while ‘earth’ was nothing more than a vague, watery substance, from which sprouted ‘like reeds’ lots and lots of gods. But as this vague and watery place wasn’t exactly packed full of things to do, the gods soon became bored.
‘Look,’ they said to two of their number (‘Izanami’, a female deity, and ‘Izanagi’, who was male), ‘why don’t you both pop up to the Floating Bridge of Heaven, and while you’re up there see if you can’t somehow form some landmasses down here?’
‘And how in the name of Shinto are we supposed to do that?’ demanded Izanami and Izanagi (or just ‘Iza and Iza’, on the occasions when they didn’t need to be distinguished between).
‘We haven’t got the foggiest,’ replied the other gods, ‘but take this bejewelled spear with you, in case it should come in handy.’
So up went Iza and Iza to the Floating Bridge of Heaven, where they gazed down at the foggy, watery void.
‘Let’s see if we can’t stir things up a bit, by using this extremely long spear,’ suggested Izanami.
‘Okay,’ replied Izanagi, doing just that—although he was surprised when the spear touched something solid that lay underneath the vague, watery substance.
‘What the…‘’ he began in surprise, retracting the spear. As he raised it back up towards the bridge, great drops fell from its points. And lo! Instantly as they hit the foggy, watery substance they formed a solid landmass—an island.
Iza and Iza went from the Floating Bridge of Heaven to the island they’d formed, and decided that they now quite fancied indulging in a bit of hanky-panky. But in the ensuing courtship ritual, Izanami flattered Izanagi first, which for some reason was something that was strictly forbidden by the gods who dwelt in heaven.
Punishment was dealt to Iza and Iza through the birth of their first child, who was ‘boneless like a leech’ and otherwise generally unsatisfactory. Thus the unfortunate child was put on a tiny raft made out of reeds and set adrift on the foggy, watery substance that surrounded the island.
A second child (called Awashima, or ‘faint island’—presumably something of an insult) proved just as repellent as the first, and met a similar fate. In despair, Iza and Iza went up to heaven to ask the gods what they could do to make amends.
‘Re-enact your courtship ritual, only this time make sure it is the male who compliments the female first,’ said the gods sternly.
‘Understood,’ nodded Iza and Iza, muttering under their breaths, ‘Jeez, lighten up…’
But doing as they were told, they were consequently blessed with children who proved so satisfactory that they were able to become Japan’s three thousand-odd islands. In fact, so fertile were Iza and Iza that they also gave birth to gods of wind, trees, mountains, rivers, sea—although when it came to giving birth to the god of fire, it all proved too much for poor old Izanami; the effort killed her.
