So, Christmas in Tokyo was a bit of a mixed bag depending on which side of December 25th you were looking at. It was literally over before it technically began, but the reason for its swift boot off the seasonal stage quickly became apparent as the following days unfolded. For as air-headed as Christmas may be for the Japanese, the far more traditional New Year period proved to be anything but.
Unlike many of its Asian neighbours such as China and Korea, Japan no longer relies on the movements of the sun and moon to dictate the start of the New Year. In 1873, Japan abandoned the traditional lunisolar calendar in favour of the modern Gregorian calendar and as a result, recognises January 1st as the one and only official start of the New Year. Known as shōgatsu, the Japanese New Year is the most important and widely-celebrated holiday in Japan. One testament to its significance here is that you can expect to find most businesses closed not only on January 1st, but for the next two or three days after it as well. In most places, the laurel wreaths and jingle bells are swapped out for the traditional New Year pine and bamboo decorations known as kadomatsu so quickly after December 25th that you’d be hard pressed to tell that Christmas even happened.
In the days leading up to New Year’s Day, people seemed locked in preparation mode. Supermarkets were busy selling groceries to people who were stocking up for the holiday. Smaller businesses closed up shop early and hung small kadomatsu on their doors. Not surprisingly, however, the larger shopping malls remained open as they enjoyed their share of bustling (yet nonetheless EDT-slackened) traffic thanks to the post-Christmas sales events. I had read beforehand that one of the traditional pre-New Year activities here was to clean up the house and garden – the domestic part of the “fresh start” approach to the New Year – but was genuinely surprised to actually see an old man hurriedly pruning one of his trees and another woman frantically sweeping her driveway as I walked around my neighbourhood during the late afternoon on New Year’s Eve. It could have just been an old man pruning his tree and a woman sweeping her driveway as per their normal daily routines (which would explain why almost every nook and cranny here seems impossibly clean all the time) – but they both seemed to be working to a common deadline so I’m inclined to chalk this observation up to a frenzied bout of last-minute NYE cleaning.
One of the many reasons I weathered a trip to Japan in these “harsh” economic times was to re-discover New Year in another country. I recently figured that one has only so many New Year’s in their lifetime, and with so many different versions to experience it would be wise for one so inclined to get out there as soon and as often as possible to see how people in other parts of the world celebrated this most universal of holidays. Thankfully, the New Year period in Tokyo offered an experience that was quite different to what I was used to back in Australia.
First of all, there were no fireworks. Well, there may have been some somewhere, but definitely nothing on the scale found in, say, Hong Kong or Sydney. People who know me will know that I’m a bit of a fan of the old fireworks. In fact, the first New Year-related question I asked some of my Tokyo-ite friends back in Brisbane before I left was, “So, where’s the best place to watch the fireworks?” They cocked their heads to one side, furrowed their exquisitely-trimmed brows and exhaled, “Eh… fire works?” I soon discovered that this reaction was not due to a lack of understanding of what the word “fireworks” meant, but rather due to my incorrect assumption that a city as “international” as Tokyo would have an appropriately grand fireworks display to ring in the New Year. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little baffled by the news – having grown up in a town like Brisbane where the New Year’s Eve fireworks display is pretty much the only thing going on had seemingly made me incapable of processing the notion that there were no fireworks at all in Tokyo on New Year’s Eve. If there were no fireworks, then what did people do?
Well, according to the brochure, they go out and visit shrines and temples. They eat toshikoshi soba noodles as, like in many other Asian countries, long noodles represent long life. They stay in with friends and family and watch specially-programmed music and variety shows on TV, of which the undisputed star is NHK’s Kōhaku Uta Gassen, or, the “Red and White Song Battle” where the past year’s most popular musical acts are offered a prestigious invitation to compete in the show’s epic red team (female) versus white team (male) performance competition.
We decided that a temple visit was the way to go. I definitely didn’t want to stay indoors, despite the cold weather, though my soft spot for enka persuaded me to catch a few performances on TV in the afternoon before heading out. We also decided to boycott the nightclub scene as even though a party vibe would be somewhat guaranteed, we both agreed that when you’re in a nightclub you really could be anywhere in the world… thus missing the point of and forfeiting the cultural opportunities afforded by being in another country almost entirely.
So, after deciding to take the more traditional route, the focus shifted to figuring out which of Tokyo’s many temples and shrines offered the most rewarding experience, given that we’d have to wait a whole year to have another shot at it if we chose a dud. A bit of researching led us to settle upon a famous Buddhist temple known as Zōjō-ji, located in the district of Shiba in Minato, and more or less at the base of Tokyo Tower. A popular spot for New Year’s Eve celebrations, the highlight of the temple’s New Year’s Eve events was to be the epic release of hundreds (if not thousands) of clear, plastic balloons into the night sky at the stroke of midnight. It didn’t seem as though any other temple or shrine offered this combination of traditional (temple viewing) and modern (novel countdown) activities in the one place. In hindsight, it was an easy choice. We were, after all, in a country famous for its contrasts.
The following photos and videos were taken on New Year’s Eve at Zōjō-ji. Once again, faces that have been mosaiced were done so at the request of the mosaicees (so quit asking!).
.
Approaching the temple’s main entrance. Zōjō-ji was built in 1393 and moved to its present location in 1598 by Tokugawa Ieyasu, the founder and first shogun of the Tokugawa shogunate. It became one half of his family’s temple (the other half being Kan’ei-ji in Ueno). Present day visitors are of the “Pure Land” sect of Buddhism.
Zōjō-ji’s main gate, known as Sangedatsumon. Literally translated as the “Three Release Gate”, it is believed that all passing through it will be relieved from three human faults: greed, anger and stupidity. The Tokugawa family mon, or herald, can be seen draped above the entrance.
Posing in front of a countdown clock outside Sangedatsumon. Just over three hours to go!
Daiden, the main hall at Zōjō-ji. We arrived a few hours before midnight, which explains the lack of people about.
Zōjō-ji is sprawling compound that is composed of a number of different halls, buildings and outdoor areas. Above is a photo of the Ankokuden hall with Tokyo Tower standing majestically in the background.
“Please give me the confidence to enjoy a mosaic-free New Year.”
Inside Ankokuden.
Rows of food stalls selling all manner of traditional Japanese culinary favourites, such as…
Okonomiyaki!
Takoyaki!
Pan-grilled seafood!
Candy? It was a chilly night, and those selling hot food were merrily reaping the wallets of hundreds of cold, hungry visitors. This guy, as far as I could tell, was unfortunately not one of them.
The temple’s Jizō cemetary. Jizō is the name of a Buddhist bodhisattva who is recognised in Japan as the guardian of children who have passed away before their parents. Each small, child-like jizō statue represents one young soul who has passed away before their time. They are typically adorned with bibs and other items of children’s clothing as well as toys such as windmills. A colourful but tragically sombre memorial.
In old times, the most common causes of infant death were stillbirth and miscarriage. More recently, however, there has been an increase in the number of jizō statues dedicated to those children lost to abortion. These statues didn’t have anything in particular to do with the New Year celebrations, but they did have the effect of making you feel truly grateful for having made it safely through another year… a blessing denied to so many others.
Nearby, something to lift the spirits back to where they should be on New Year’s Eve. Here you can see traditional glutinous rice cakes known as mochi being laid out in blocks. As far I as I know, this is one of the last steps in the mochi-making process.
Mochi can be found in many shapes and forms throughout the year, but it’s also considered a special New Year food. Before being formed into blocks (or whatever shape one desires), the glutinous rice is left to soak overnight before being cooked. The rice is then put in a big mortar and pounded by wooden hammers in a ceremony called mochitsuki.
Mochitsuki literally translates to “Mochi Moon”. Whereas many Westerners see the “Man in the Moon” when they look at the moon, East Asian folklore originating from China tells instead of the “Moon Rabbit” toiling away at a mortar. In the Chinese story, the Moon Rabbit is busy pounding herbs to make the “Elixir of Life” for the gods. In the Japanese (and Korean) interpretation however, the Moon Rabbit is making – you guessed it – mochi!
Daibonsho, Zōjō-ji’s 15-tonne temple bell. It is recognised as one of the “Big Three Bells” of the Edo period. Giant bells are a common sight at many Buddhist temples and are customarily rung out 108 times at the start of the New Year to “purify” listeners of their 108 conveniently quantified mortal sins.
We spotted this dense queue flowing out from underneath Koshoden, the temple’s lecture hall. As neither of us could read kanji, we decided to shuffle past inside to investigate (and to take a respite from the cold).
Ah, it was the queue for those famous balloons!
We weren’t sure whether the balloons were free, or if visitors were encouraged to leave donations, or if they were forced to pay outright. Either way, we figured that despite being the main attraction, lining up for an uncomfortably long period of time in the cold for one of these balloons just wasn’t worth it.
Back outside at the front of Daiden, a young Scout brigade made a surprising appearance with some much welcome heat. Note the inappropriately short-sleeved uniform… these guys are tough!
Around an hour or so before the clock struck twelve, a huge, balloon-wielding crowd had already gathered at the main strip running from Sangedatsumon to the front of Daiden in anticipation of the midnight countdown.
In the thick of it. We managed to (politely) shuffle our way right into the middle of the crowd, close to the main steps leading up to Daiden (unbeknownst to us at the time, this position would prove to be a crucial factor in us not having to endure an agonising wait to get inside the main hall after the countdown ended). Being Japan, there was little no pushing or shoving and despite the volume of people concentrated in the sealed-off area, everyone had a good amount of personal breathing space. We stood around like penguins in the cold, chatting for just under an hour before the crescendo of excitement in the crowd began to reach its peak mere moments before midnight. Before we knew it, it was time to say sayonara to 2008!
San! Ni! Ichi! WOO! Needless to say, a grainy video taken at night on an old camera doesn’t really do the actual sight any real justice. At all.
Like a thousand giant soap bubbles being carried off into the night wind. For the environmentally concerned, the balloons were apparently made from a material that biodegrades completely in sunlight or on the ground. My first guess would be latex (which is a natural rubber, not a plastic), but I can’t be certain in this case.
Perhaps the most ubiquitous Japanese New Year activity is hatsumōde, which is the name for the first temple/shrine visit of the year. Since everyone at Zōjō-ji was already at a temple for the New Year’s Eve countdown, it made sense to kill two birds with one stone and make it the venue for their hatsumōde as well. As such, almost immediately after the excitement of the balloon release had subsided, everyone shifted their attention to one thing and one thing only – getting inside Daiden, the main hall, for their first temple visit of 2009. Security was on hand at the hall’s entrance to stagger the influx of people into and out from the hall, and as a result there would be short pauses in the queue’s movement every couple of minutes as the people on the ouside waited for the people on the inside to pray, take photos and exit to make room for the next batch. Above is a photo taken of people taking photos on the steps leading up to Daiden. What’s got everyone so impressed?
Yeah, that’s a lot of people.
Remember what I said about us having a fortunate position in the crowd? Getting into Daiden from where we were for the countdown took no more than about 10 or 15 minutes. Can’t say the same for those poor, tiny specks waiting in the distance though.
More photos of people and people taking photos of people. Note the balloons that got caught in the trees on the right.
Before too long, we were inside the warm, inviting walls of Daiden. We’d come in here earlier in the evening, but it seemed like a different place now with the bustling crowd, security guards with loudspeakers and chanting monks.
An eyeful of Buddhist bling and some very well polished floors.
Visitors throw money into a trough presumably to ensure their prayers are received. That, and no-one’s going to be polishing those floors for free.
After we’d come out of Daiden, we saw people tending to this fire pit outside Ankokuden. Not sure what the significance of this was.
We exited Zōjō-ji the same way we’d come in – through Sangedatsumon. The queue to Daiden saw no sign of relenting.
And that was that.
.
All in all, it was a great night out with all the traditional trimmings a tourist like myself could ask for. The massive balloon release was certainly impressive and the typically well-behaved crowd ensured that everyone enjoyed an injury and jerk-free start to the New Year. I wouldn’t recommend it if you like your NYE’s loud and wild, though, as this was nothing of the sort. But if you’re after something more laid back that attracts visitors of all ages and is steeped in tradition (with a dash of novelty to keep things from getting too traditional), NYE at Zōjō-ji won’t let you down.
.
Bonus Material
The next day (which was technically the same day), those who hadn’t already made their hatsumōde went out to join the throng of others helping to keep the old tradition very much alive. I decided to make a visit to two of Tokyo’s most popular New Year hatsumōde destinations – Sensō-ji temple in Asakusa and Meiji Jingū shrine in Shibuya.
I visited Sensō-ji in the afternoon. Above is the view from the queue on Nakamise-dori, the (somewhat) traditional yet impossibly tourist-y shopping street leading into the main temple complex, back to the iconic Kaminarimon (“Thunder Gate”) which serves as the main entrance to the temple grounds.
Approaching the Hōzōmon (“Treasure-House Gate”) which leads into the main temple area. Sensō-ji holds the distinction of being Tokyo’s oldest temple, and on New Year’s Day the surrounding streets are closed to foot traffic and the multitude of stalls selling food, New Year trinkets and omikuji (paper fortunes).
We visited Meiji Jingū at night. Emperor Meiji and his wife are enshrined here. It was, by and large, a rather dry affair with nothing of great significance to separate it from a visit to any other shrine during New Year’s. I’m not sure what we were expecting – it’s just a shrine after all, despite being a rather big and famous one. However, the carpet of prayer money thrown by visitors, above, made for an interesting sight.
Racks of wooden ema, or wooden prayer tablets. A staple feature of many Shinto shrines. Ema literally means “Horse Picture” and these small, votive tablets are made to represent real horses dedicated to Shinto divinities to ensure the fulfilment of one’s wishes. Supposedly, once upon a time, real horses from those who were rich enough to afford them were offered in exchange for blessings from the shrine. These days, buying a wish isn’t nearly as expensive and the custom has proven to be just as popular with non-Japanese people as it is with the locals (notice that the messages are written in a slew of different languages). Wishes you will see time and time again involve success at passing academic entrance exams, finding love, world peace, and…
… “brashing” up those Engrish skills. I got a job as an English teacher a week later.