This article appeared in THE WEEKEND ARGUS Travel Supplement

17th September 2005

It had previously appeared on iafrica.com’s travel pages in March 2004.

Nobel laureate JM Coetzee once described the Rugby World Cup as “an orgy of chauvinism”. His anti-macho sentiments were expressed in a 1995 article – following the successful Springbok campaign of that year – which was less concerned with sexism in sport than with the vague and contentious notions of “nationhood” and “national traditions”; so I would be interested to know how Coetzee would interpret the Naked Man Festival, a complex concoction of Japanese manhood and misunderstood culture. 

Yes, that’s right: the Naked Man Festival. Known as the Hadaka Matsuri in Japanese, this event is held at the beginning of February each year (dates vary according to the lunar calendar). Over the course of a day and a night, some very strange things happen at the Konomiya Shrine in a place called Inazawa, one of the unremarkable, borderless towns that make up the urban sprawl of Aichi prefecture in the heart of Honshu, Japan’s main island.

How? Why? We had heard about the festival, we had seen posters advertising it, but attempts to get locals to explain the significance of this curious-sounding and curious-looking event proved unsuccessful. This may have been because they weren’t confident enough in their ability to explain complicated Japanese words and ideas in English; or, more likely, because they weren’t confident in our ability to understand what they would have to say (foreigners are held by many Japanese people to be rather clumsy-minded creatures, not particularly sophisticated or subtle in their cultural grasp).

Equally, however, it’s possible that the people we spoke to didn’t actually know the answers to our questions. The intricacies of traditional customs, although these still have a firm place in modern Japanese society, are becoming less and less important – as wide-screen TV features, financial figures, fashion brand names and baseball statistics compete for space on the memory circuits of brains both young and old. So while such a festival provides a great opportunity for a fun distraction in the bleak midwinter (New Year celebrations now a distant memory), the reason for holding it remains unknown to many of the revellers. Guidebooks also remain mute on the subject. Fortunately for us, the good people at Inazawa City Hall have produced an English information pamphlet. It reads: “The festival started in the year 767, when emperor Shotoku ordered the entire nation to offer prayers to dispel a plague.” The story goes that the local governor instigated the activities to prevent further ill fortune.

So much for the why. As for the how: a man from the community is selected and consecrated as the shin-otoko, or god-man. “Past 3:00pm [on festival day], men clad only in loincloths jostle each other to touch the shin-otoko in order to transfer their evils to him. Then the shin-otoko leaps into the crowd of men. This is the climax of the festival.” The chosen one’s privileges don’t end there, however. After all the slapping and jumping, he becomes a scapegoat: “At 3:00am the next morning, the shin-otoko, with a mud cake containing bad luck and calamities on his back, is chased away from the shrine grounds.” (It’s unlikely that he turns up for work the next day; but if he does, will anyone talk to him?) Before all this humiliation, there is an equally raucous – and equally scantily clad – build-up, which involves the thonged throngs weaving their way through the streets leading to the shrine, running zig-zags between the crowds and barricades that line the route.

Hang on. A mass of men who, as the pamphlet puts it, “bravely struggle” along fenced-off roads? Sounds more like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Consider the apparent parallels between this semi-nude activity and the frenzied dash of the Spanish youths: a similar heady atmosphere, similar levels of testosterone, and a similar popular appeal – with international ambitions, if the pamphlet’s claim that “in recent years foreigners have also taken part” is to be believed. But there the similarities end. Indeed, the only foreigner we saw participating was a slightly deranged looking chap, getting in the way more than anything else as he staggered, smiling vacantly, from group to group. He couldn’t handle his sake as well as the local lads.

Ah, sake. This abundant rice-wine is a vital component of the festival. Consumed in copious amounts, it keeps the men in good spirits despite the winter cold and their state of undress, ensuring that they don’t become too embarrassed by their bits dangling about for all to see (although perhaps a tad more self-conscious modesty wouldn’t go amiss). The sake’s potent effect is also the cause of all the bobbing and weaving as the gents jog through the streets. There might not be any rampaging bulls to avoid, but for many it’s enough of a challenge to steer clear of a close encounter with stationary objects or the muddy ground. Things are complicated somewhat by the precious cargo they carry along with them: giant bamboo stems, stretching over the shoulders of ten men; massive fish, strung between poles; colourful mini-floats and portable shrines.

A few supposedly more sober group leaders blow whistles to signal stops, starts and surprisingly successful (if ungainly) attempts to raise the waving bamboo stems to their full height. Throughout, the participants keep up the rousing celebratory cry of “Washoii!”, while the spectators respond by drenching them in sprays of water and yet more sake, if the icy wind on its own isn’t enough to keep them moving. Whether this is done to cheer them on or to douse their debauchery is unclear. Far from dampening their enthusiasm, however, the interaction spurs them forward. In exchange for the cold shower, the men hand out pieces of the red, green or pink ribbons tied around their heads and necks. These are more than souvenirs for the supporters – they are believed to bring good fortune and ward off evil.
Eventually the various crews making up the staggered and staggering procession find their way to the courtyard of the shrine, where they hand over their bounty to the stern-looking officials (the only somber faces to be seen) and perform a few victory laps before shouting a final cheer or three and going their separate ways. At this point, exhaustion sets in. Some wander around aimlessly, some retrace their steps to find family and friends waiting on the sidelines, some linger at the numerous food stalls in the hope that sustenance will help absorb the sake. They seem like marathon runners who have just crossed the finish line. Indeed, this unique spectacle could be construed as a kind of sports event, albeit a bizarre and potentially dangerous one: last year the revels were ended by the death of one of the participants, who was killed in the climactic crush.          

Coetzee’s tag, “orgy of chauvinism”, may also be appropriate. After all, traditionally male sporting bastions, from cricket to soccer to rugby and even boxing, can count plenty of women amongst their players and spectators nowadays. What place is there for women at the Naked Man Festival? Extant Japanese gender stereotypes find expression in the indignity borne by the only females participating in the procession: those patiently trailing behind the main pack of men, picking up empty cups and sake cartons, re-filling them and handing them out to the crowds like so many longsuffering, submissive waitresses at a cocktail party. So it’s probably just as well that J.M Coetzee doesn’t survey the scenes of the Hadaka Matsuri with his sharp eyes, or subject the proceedings to his fine-tuned critical reasoning. He would only spoil the fun.