Holidays in Hoi An

The Thu Bon River delta has been an important cultural and commercial centre for centuries. Throughout history, the hot, rainy climate and regular floods have provided the population with natural abundance and fertile soil for agriculture, even though they have also caused inconvenience and suffering. The first capital of the Champa kingdom, Tra Kieu, was located in this area, while nearby My Son served as its religious centre. Their port, Dam Chien (present-day Hoi An), was one of the largest in ancient Asia. The Cham were a seafaring people, after all, who engaged in international trade and piracy. It was here that Indian religious and artistic elements were first introduced to the country, and Champa civilisation developed.

Due to a series of wars, in the late medieval period the Champa kingdom fell into decay, and gave way to northern invaders. The Chinese-influenced culture of the Red River delta gradually spread south, where it incorporated and transformed local traditions. Thus, by 1400, Hoi An had become ‘Vietnamese’. Despite the political and cultural changes, however, it continued to be a trade centre of great economical significance. In the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth century, the port town was an important international trade hub, where merchants from different parts of East and Southeast Asia met.

For instance, until the Tokugawa shogunate implemented its isolationist sakoku policy in the seventeenth century, many Japanese traders visited Hoi An. Their influence is visible in some of the old houses, and in the famous temple bridge allegedly built to tame a dragon that caused earthquakes and volcano eruptions in the home country. In addition, large parts of the population of the town were Chinese. The powerful Chinese merchant clans built their own houses, temples and community halls, which can still be visited today. In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese were the first Europeans to do business in this town, which they called Faifo. Later, the Dutch East-Indies Company repeatedly tried to arrange a trade agreement, but their attempts were not successful.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth century, Faifo / Hoi An was struck by several natural and man-made disasters. Most devastatingly, the river became more and more shallow; as a result, large ships could no longer get access to the port. By the time the French confiscated the land, Hoi An had been more or less forgotten, and commerce had spread to nearby Danang (which the French called Tourane). Later, during the war, Danang would become one of the most important American military posts. Meanwhile, freedom fighters took refuge in the ancient Cham towers of My Son, some of which were severely damaged by US bombs.

Hoi An was one of the few places in Vietnam that was not bombed during the war. It remained a small, unknown provincial town until well into the 1990s. At the time, very few foreigners had seen the beautiful old town or the lovely nearby beach . But the ‘hidden gem’ could not remain hidden forever. Some of the first foreign visitors wrote lyrically about the place in a popular guidebook called Lonely Planet (an overrated yet highly popular series of travel guidebooks that combine sarcasm, cultural essentialism and lyrical mythmaking about ‘hanging out with the locals’, and exercises great influence on the development of tourist infrastructures), and soon the number of visitors increased rapidly.

In 1999, Hoi An was given world heritage status (and money), and the houses and temples of the old town were restored – but also, perhaps inevitably, transformed into tailor shops, restaurants, bars and souvenir shops. Backpackers were followed by wealthy package deal tourists, new hotels and resorts were built, and within a couple of years the old town changed completely. It became a little gentrified Asian amusement park, where few locals can afford to spend time – so much for ‘hanging out’ with them. Today, prices in the most popular restaurants are several times what they used to be a couple of years ago. A cocktail in a trendy bar now costs about as much as seven meals in a local eatery.

As a result of the rapid changes, some successful entrepreneurs have become very rich, but many others have not. Hence, income gaps have widened dramatically. In fact, many of the wealthy owners of hotels and restaurants are Hanoians – people with capital, who can afford to invest in real estate in the old town or near the beach. By contrast, many local people moved to Danang as they could no longer afford living in Hoi An. Thus, mass tourism, increasing income gaps and domestic migration have contributed to inflation, the erosion of social cohesion and the loss of traditional rural and urban landscapes. This development is not limited to Hoi An’s old town: the once-gorgeous beaches between Hoi An and Danang are turning into yet another hideous jungle of concrete and neon letters. All of this is part of the mixed blessing called ‘progress’.

When our plane arrived at Danang International Airport, construction workers were just removing the letters from the old terminal building. We were taxied to a brand-new, large building we had not seen before. Danang is desperately trying to attract foreign tourists to stay (i.e., spend money) at one of its myriad new beach resorts, and the construction of an impressive new airport building is part of its strategy. So far, few (if any) airline companies are offering international flights to and from Danang, but the city government seems pretty convinced that this will change in the near future.

We took a shared taxi from the airport in Danang to Hoi An (for some reason, no shuttle buses operate on the route yet). It was cloudy, wet and a bit chilly, and unfortunately the weather would remain pretty much the same all week, with the exception of one sunny day. But we were happy to be back in Hoi An and spend time with our family, whom we had not seen for a year and a half.

It was Christmas, so we went to a church service. Vietnam is in name a communist country, but its population has always remained highly religious, including many people who are not affiliated with a particular religious institution. The dominant religious traditions are so-called ‘ancestor worship’, Mahayana Buddhism, the Chinese traditions (Taoism, Confucianism, yin-yang practices), as well as the cults of national heroes and local deities. In addition, however, a significant proportion of the population is Christian – official statistics suggest approximately six to eight percent, but the actual number may be higher. In fact, Vietnam is one of the countries in Asia with the highest percentage of Christians (only the Philippines, Lebanon and South Korea have more). Traditionally, most of these belonged to the Catholic Church. In recent years, however, as in other Asian countries, Evangelical churches have gained quite some popularity.

The church we visited was one of those American-style Evangelical churches with a neon cross on top of the roof. The lyrics of songs were projected on a large screen, the music was electronic and had a loud beat (clearly adjusted to Vietnamese preferences) and the members of the choir were bad singers, but they did wear beautiful red-white dresses and candles. The church was completely packed; there must have been several hundreds of people, many of whom probably do not usually come to church services. We had to sit on plastic stools in the back of the church, and we considered ourselves lucky, for many others had to stand. Most of the attendants were in their twenties and thirties, but there were many children as well, reflecting Vietnamese demographic developments and suggesting significant church growth.

The service lasted way too long. The first hour and a half or so were mainly devoted to singing songs. Silent Night and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing were the only traditional Christmas carols passing by; the others were Vietnamese versions of American songs (with alternative, religious lyrics) such as White Christmas and Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, as well as Vietnamese-style folk songs, performed by solo singers. In fact, it sounded more like some sort of music festival than an actual church service, and the police officials and Party officials standing outside the church to report the contents of the service to the authorities must have felt very bored. Eventually, we did get to listen to a sermon – as far as I could tell, it was mainly about the notion of wealth, and about how to achieve true happiness. As expected, political or social critique was absent.

Except for the church service, our week in Hoi An was mainly devoted to social activities. We spent a lot of time with family and friends, and my language skills – while still limited – improved quite a bit. We also did a bit of shopping. Vietnam is still relatively cheap, so it is a good place to pick up new glasses, a coat or a pair of shoes, especially if you live in the world’s most expensive country. We did not do any sightseeing, but we did enjoy the occasional motorbike ride around the rice paddies, which brought back happy memories.

So what do you do, when you spend Christmas with family? Exactly: eating and drinking. Hoi An has fantastic food, and we enjoyed our stay to the fullest. For breakfast or lunch, we could choose from many different kinds of noodle soup – pho, bun, or one of the local specialities, mi quang or cao lau. Other simple but delicious streetfood includes chao (rice porridge), com ga (chicken rice), banh xeo (savory pancakes) and springrolls. For dinner, we could choose from different kinds of fresh seafood, such as crab or fish, eaten with rau som (mixed fresh herbs and lettuce), rice crackers and nuoc mam (fish sauce). Or, alternatively, eaten in soup, with noodles and vegetables – so-called hotpot (lau). I also love the clams steamed with lemongrass and chilli, the fish-filled tofu, and of course hoa chuoi – banana flower salad with shrimp, mint and peanuts. Three of my all-time favourite dishes, in fact. Washed away with the local beer Larue (with ice, of course), cold tea or fresh fruit juice.

Yes, did I mention the fruit? Fresh tropical fruit is one of the great delights of any visit to Southeast Asia, and Vietnam is no exception. Banana, coconut, custard apple, dragonfruit, guava, jackfruit, kumquat, lime, longan, mango, mangosteen, milk fruit, nashi pear, papaya, pineapple, pomelo, rambutan, sapodilla, soursop, starfruit, sugar cane, watermelon… The list is endless, the variety of flavours amazing.

We know that Hoi An will always be a home for us, no matter how fast she changes, and no matter how mixed our feelings about those changes. It will always be the town where my wife spend her childhood, the town where we first met, the town where we got married. There will always be fresh fruit, herbs, fish sauce and seafood waiting for us. And, last but not least, there is the sea, and the beach, with all its memories. The town is like that sea – ever-changing, yet timeless. 

Back to Vietnam

Our airplane arrives at Tan Son Nhat International Airport in the late afternoon. The journey has been happily uneventful. Istanbul has a modern, well-designed airport, so the transit went smoothly. Turkish Airlines serves some of the best airplane food I have ever had (the eggplant and chicken in tomato sauce was absolutely delicious), and the flight attendants did their best to keep the passengers hydrated. The plane made a brief stop in Bangkok before moving on to Ho Chi Minh City, which was somewhat annoying, but as we were allowed to stay and wait on the plane it was not a big problem. Throughout the journey, we could enjoy movies of our own choice. A completely different experience from Air China, which I took last week, despite the fact that both airline companies belong to the same international alliance.

Like most Europeans, I need a visa in order to visit Vietnam. There are two ways of getting a Vietnamese visa: one can either get one at a Vietnamese embassy or consulate abroad (and pay around 50 or 60 euros), or one can apply for a ‘visa on arrival’ online. Basically, you sign up for a visa at the site of a Vietnamese travel agency, who will then get the required permission from the immigration department, and send you a scanned copy of the official approval letter. This usually costs about 25 US dollars, but I found an agency that charged only 11 - I assume they have a ‘special connection’ within the immigration department. You print out the letter, which you hand in (together with a passport picture and a filled out visa application form) upon arrival at one of Vietnam’s international airports, after which you have to pay an additional 25 dollars ‘stamping fee’. In total, I paid 36 dollars.

Getting a visa on arrival is an excellent way to experience authentic Vietnamese efficiency. In stead of passing through immigration immediately, you have to go to a small office in a corner of the immigration hall. You are not the only one: several dozens of foreigners are standing and sitting around the office window, waiting for their visas. Some look completely alienated, others indifferent, others frustrated. If you are lucky, a queue has emerged spontaneously; if not, survival of the fittest. I was lucky. While queuing, however, I realised that I had not filled out the second visa application form, and I did not see any lying around. My wife went to a nearby desk and asked if she could get a copy of the form, which the young official behind the desk kindly gave her. In addition, he informed her that if we did not feel like waiting for a long time, it would of course be possible to get the visa faster – the ‘priority treatment’, so to speak. Everything can be arranged, after all, for everything has its price. Welcome back to Vietnam.

We did not pay him. We have had plenty of experience with Vietnamese corruption in the past, and I consider it a sick system that I do not wish to support if I do not have to. So I filled out the form, and waited for my turn. As I approached the office window, the queue dissolved into chaos. Some people were making applications, while others were paying their fees, while others got back their passports, while others were impatiently asking why they had to wait so long, while others were simply standing there, blocking the way for new applicants, naively believing that unlike everybody else they would get their visa within five minutes – all in front of the same desk.

Eventually, I handed in the letter, application form, a picture and my passport. We waited. As I had not bribed the officials, I did not receive ‘priority treatment’, so we had no choice but to be patient. After approximately forty uneasy minutes, during which several people received their passports and many more arrived and applied, I heard a lady say ‘Mitta Aika Piita Rót’. I assumed that she was referring to me, and my assumption turned out to be correct - so after paying the official fee I received my passport, together with its newest Vietnamese visa. The seventh, I counted.

Tan Son Nhat Airport is located inside the city. As we had a connecting flight the next day and did not feel like spending our first night in the city centre, we simply walked out of the airport, and stayed at a nearby hotel. Saigon triggered my senses. If you do not experience it for a while, you forget what tropical air feels like, only to be forcefully reminded when you return. It was not very hot, but the moist, warm air engulfed me like a bath, and the myriad strange yet familiar smells made me feel both dizzy and excited. But the most impressive feature of Saigon is the incredible amount of noise it constantly produces. No other city in the world has such a density of motorcycles, and they all produce a fair amount of sound. Add to that the noise of construction work, street vendors and shops vomiting loud dance music, and you get the cacophony that is called Ho Chi Minh City. 

We found a hotel not too far from the airport, with clean sheets, a bathtub and a minibar. We enjoyed a delicious first dinner of grilled fish, water spinach with garlic and fresh green herbs. My wife treated herself to her favourite food, the most disgusting fruit Creation has ever seen: durian. Everything was fine. We slept very well, until the noise of construction work downstairs woke us up at 7am - a lovely way to get over a double jetlag. Any first-time traveller to this country, be warned: earplugs are an absolute necessity. 

We somehow managed to catch some more sleep before we got up and checked out. We enjoyed delicious bún noodle soup and Vietnamese ice coffee with condensed milk. Afterwards, we walked back to the airport for our connecting flight, which would bring us to Hoi An where we were going to spend the holidays.

It is good to be back.

Japanese autumn

If a novel is recommended by both Mr. DuPont and Mr. Engelen (independently, as they have not yet made each other’s acquaintance), it must be a good novel. Hence, I decided to purchase a copy of David Mitchell’s The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, and bring it with me on the airplane. No lack of airplane journeys, this week, so it did not take me very long to finish it. And I concur: this is an extraordinarily rich historical novel, full of memorable characters and events. Set against the background of the Dutch trading post Dejima (Nagasaki) at the turn of the nineteenth century, Mitchell’s latest novel is an intriguing story of hope, betrayal, prejudice, corruption, religion, imperialism, science and, inevitably, impossible love; at times sarcastic yet in the end naively romantic. The author beautifully describes sounds, smells, city life, random thoughts and other small details that may not be directly relevant to the plot, but contribute greatly to the overall reading experience. Thus, he succeeds in bringing to life his characters and the world in which they live. Frankly, I doubt the historical probability of some of the events; in particular, the morbid cult of Mount Shiranui does not seem very convincing. Nevertheless, I highly enjoyed reading this book, not in the least because it evoked nostalgia by reminding me of my own initial fascination with Japan, my first exotic Other.

The title of the novel contains the name of the main character, a devout VOC clerk from Zeeland, who resists the temptation of corruption but hopelessly falls for the temptation of female beauty. It also refers to one of Japan's nicknames: the land of the thousand autumns. Of course, the Japanese isles have four different seasons, each with their distinctive beauty – as any tourist pamphlet or kitschy ‘Zen’ book reminds us of. And of course, spring brings the annual extravagance of white and pink cherry blossoms, giving the nation an excuse for two weeks of jouissance. However, as any expert or resident will confirm, Japan is at its most beautiful in autumn, when the summer heat is gone but the winter cold has not yet arrived, when nature is at its most dynamic. In autumn, the maple trees in temples and parks turn red as fire, the ginkgo trees yellow as gold. Flocks of tourists come to the old capital to visit famous temples (and queue for hours to take pictures of themselves in front of famous sightseeing spots covered with red leaves), but the forested mountains around the city have plenty of quiet hiking trails. Throughout the country, towns and temples are covered in colourful dresses of red, yellow, green and orange. The air is fresh, but not too cold; the sky is usually clear, except for the occasional shower. Long periods of grey skies and never-ending rain, so common in the Netherlands or the UK during this season, are very rare. Autumn is also the time of many great festivals, religious ceremonies and cultural events. In sum, autumn is probably the best time to be in Japan.

Some pictures of the past few months. 

CA 911

The plane is crossing the Sayan mountains, near Achinsk, approaching Novosibirsk, not too far from Barnaul, Kansk and Ust Kamenogorsk. Geographical names as empty signifiers. I know that the names refer to real places, with real houses, where real people are born and work and love and suffer and die, but I find it hard to imagine what the places look like. Siberia, Mongolia, Central Asia: vast terra incognita, whose exotic names have long ago come to represent the liminal space between my beloved Japan, and whatever European country I call home. But the physical realities behind the names remain a mystery.

The sky is turning bright orange. It will be dark before I have finished writing the next paragraph. As my reading light is not working, I anxiously anticipate a long and dark evening, without the solace of a novel. I do not expect my laptop’s battery to last until our destination, and the amenities that make long-distance air travel bearable these days – so-called ‘in-flight entertainment systems’ – are sadly absent from this plane. So I enjoy the view as long as I can. The sky changes every minute: shades of lilac and violet are now absorbing the orange, but behind it is a long line of yellowish green, giving way to dark grey and, higher up, intense blue.

For some reason, I ended up on an Air China flight. Unfortunately, the airline company turns out to be inferior to most other companies I have flown with – as bad as Air France and Aeroflot, or even worse. I can survive without an entertainment system, but I would be grateful if the flight attendants were so kind as to smile, and use the simple phrases ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘here you are’. I would also appreciate edible food, in stead of the old, tasteless ‘chicken’ and non-descript jelly we were served for lunch. And I would appreciate a bathroom with a garbage bin that closes properly, so I could use the toilet without having to look at used sanitary napkins. Or, for that matter, a bathroom with a tap that could be turned off. I would have also appreciated a kind word of thanks from the flight attendants, when I notified them of the fact that the toilet was about to get flooded.

That said, it is a sad but undeniable fact that toilets are not among China’s greatest contributions to human civilisation, as previous experiences have taught me – so perhaps I should have been prepared, and not expected so much. But Japan has spoiled me. Its toilets are arguably the most comfortable in the world, not only because many of them are equipped with heated toilet seats, but also because they often have a great variety of options for rinsing, cleaning and drying those parts of the body that tend to get dirty during toilet activities. A proper, well-aimed, warm ‘shower’ is more efficient and pleasant than dry toilet paper, trust me. You can even adjust the water strength.

It is perhaps not very surprising that such fancy toilets have been developed in Japan, and not in China. While Japanese culture is strongly influenced by Chinese civilisation in many ways – ranging from language to religion, from architecture to political ideology – there are also some significant differences between the two countries. One of those is the importance attached to cleanliness and purity in Japanese culture. This interesting Japanese cultural preoccupation applies to physical cleanliness as much as ritual purity, which are two sides of the same coin.

For instance, bathing is a favourite Japanese pastime, and most people do it every day. Despite the fact that nearly everybody has a bath at home, public baths and hot springs are everywhere, for bathing can also be a social activity. As they spend a lot of time and money on grooming and washing, Japanese people are usually clean, and few smell, even on hot summer days – a nice cultural trait for such a densely populated country, one has to admit. As the outside world is considered dirty, it is important to regularly clean (we might use the word ‘purify’) oneself. Likewise, the prohibition on wearing shoes indoors is enforced universally. Wearing shoes at home is considered a mortal sin, and one of the few faux pas that even ignorant foreigners cannot get away with.

The same principles of cleanliness apply to practices of a more symbolic nature. For instance, before one enters a sacred place such as a Shinto shrine, one is supposed to wash one’s hands and rinse one’s mouth with water. In addition, in order to enter the worship wall (which is only allowed for certain rituals and on special occasions), one has to be ritually purified by a priest. He (or she) does so by chanting prayers and waving a special ritual purification wand over the participants’ heads. Approaching the deities in an impure state may insult them, make them angry and, ultimately, cause misfortune. While today taboos and prescriptions regarding pollution and purity are not taken as seriously by most ordinary people as they used to be in the past, these notions and practices remain an integral aspect of Japanese society and culture.

Sunset takes much longer than usual. The sky has turned a beautiful deep orange and indigo, but it still is not dark yet. I assume this is because we are flying westwards. But I also assume that we cannot escape the darkness forever. By the time we have reached our destination, it will be completely dark. But, fortunately, there will be little lights burning everywhere, telling me that Christmas is on its way. I will also see my first snow of the year. Most importantly, I will be reunited with my dear wife, after three long months of living and studying on opposite sides of the planet. The plane goes way too slowly.

The three months have been successful, though. I have managed to collect a great amount of relevant books and other useful materials. I have met a number of interesting people, and conducted interviews with priests, scholars, activists and leading ideologues. I have visited several shrines, temples and sacred forests. I have learned new things – not only about Shinto history and ideology, but also about forestry practices and spatial design. And I have experienced life in Kyoto, Japan’s ancient capital, especially beautiful when wearing her colourful autumn dress. It was, in sum, a great period.

Although I greatly enjoyed spending the past three months in Japan, I am not very sad about leaving. Three months is not a very long period for fieldwork research, but it has worked out well, for it has forced me to focus and plan as well as I could. Hence, it was an intense period, and I have had little time to read, write or reflect. I was particularly busy in November and early December, during which I visited shrines, academic events and people not only in Kyoto, but also in Kumano, Awajishima, Nagoya, Tokyo, Mount Fuji, Ise and Nara. In between trips, I managed to present a paper on Shinto environmentalism at a research seminar. While I have undeniably missed some opportunities – people and projects I did not get in touch with, because I simply did not have time for more appointments – I do believe that I have made the most of the limited time I had.

As you have noticed, during this period, I only updated my weblog once. I apologise for this negligence, for which I blame my busy schedule. There is a great number of stories in my mind that have not been written down; a great number of experiences and conversations that have not yet been reflected upon properly. I hope to be able to write down some of those stories in the next couple of months. The ones that will not be published elsewhere will appear at this place. In addition, I have taken a great number of pictures, some of which I will upload here soon.

The colours have almost disappeared from the sky. Apart from the occasional laptop screen and the ‘no smoking’ signs, the inside of the plane is now pitch black. I am hungry, and I fail the understand the rationale of airline companies trying to create an artificial nighttime experience during the afternoon. I also fail to understand why the Swedish hooligans behind me are so noisy, and keep on moving the back of my chair. Perhaps they forgot to take their ritalin this morning. But then, I remember from previous stays in Japan that the culture shock usually did not occur until after I had left the country and returned home – so perhaps I should not really be surprised about the fact that, as soon as one leaves Japan, suddenly a great number of people seem rude and insensitive, at least in public.

As we approach the Ural mountains, we also approach the symbolic boundary between Asia and Europe; between those two mythical entities, ‘East’ and ‘West’. In the south, not very high above the horizon, a single star is shining brightly. It reminds me of the fact that it is almost Christmas.

No white Christmas for us, this year – except for the white sand of the Vietnamese beach where we will be spending our holidays. That is, in just a couple of days, I will board another plane, and return to Asia in order to visit my family-in-law and enjoy a nice vacation. Fortunately, I will not have to travel alone then. And fortunately, we will not be using Air China. In stead of the Ural mountains, we will cross that other East-West boundary: the Bosporus. I am looking forward.

More stories are on their way. Please stay tuned.

New notes from Japan (7): Football priests

In the past decades, church membership rates in the Netherlands have decreased steadily. A majority of the population no longer attends church services, except for special occasions. This applies to Catholic churches as much as to Protestant ones. Whereas many people are interested in diffuse types of 'spirituality', they no longer feel attracted to traditional Christian beliefs and/or church services. Churches have tried to come up with new ways of attracting visitors, but most of these attempts have failed.

In the summer of 2010, Catholic priest Paul Vlaar came up with a creative strategy to attract people to his mass. It was the summer of the Vuvuzela World Cup, in which the Dutch national team made it to the final (where, sadly, it lost in the last minute of extra time because of a capital mistake of the incapable British referee). Capitalising on the football hype, the priest decided to organise an 'orange mass', in which he used football and petty nationalism as a way to get people interested in Christianity. He was very successful: his church was filled completely, which usually only happens on Christmas Eve, and his parish loved the service. The bishop, however, was not amused, and the popular priest was suspended.



I will refrain from criticising the Catholic Church now. Let me just say that I do not really understand why people would follow a religion in which some faraway, powerful yet all-too-human authority prescribes them what to do and what to believe. I guess I am a child of the Reformation, after all. Much more interesting, however, is the question as to why the orange mass seemed to appeal to the participants, and even attracted new visitors. Some of them may have come out of curiosity, no doubt, but there is a little bit more to it. Most of us have experienced feelings of excitement and passion when watching sport games, especially when watching in a group of people. During the most exciting moments, watching sports can arouse feelings that seem almost religious: heartfelt wishes, devotion and even ecstasy, if only temporarily. Hence, the association of religion and sport seems quite natural.

And why would it not? After all, 'sport' is a 19th century modern, secular, European category. Before the invention of 'sport', however, there were all sorts of competitions, celebrations, displays of physical strength and so on. 'Sport' existed long before it was categorised as such. So did, incidentally, 'religion' and 'theatre'. But for most of history, the three were not clearly separated, institutionally nor conceptually. The separation of religious ceremonies, performing arts and spectator sports is a fairly recent historical phenomenon.

"But there were already Olympic Games in ancient Greece," you may argue, suggesting that sport is not a modern invention at all. True, but those Olympic Games were not classified as sport in the modern sense of the word. They were, first and foremost, religious worship. That is, they were entertainment: primarily for the gods, secondarily for the people. They were also useful for preserving and improving relations with rival city-states, of course, or prepare for the next war - but their main significance was religious. Hence the name, for the Olympus is the mountain where the Greek gods used to live.

Likewise, there are plenty of examples of ritualised physical competitions - wrestling, running, horse-riding, fighting, swimming, archery and so on - with strong religious significance, all over the world. Even in modern times, sport often incorporates religious practices and beliefs. In Latin America and Africa, for instance, football is full of magical and ritual elements. And such practices are not limited to 'non-Western' cultures, as illustrated by the fact that Catholic priests often bless cyclists in the Giro d'Italia and other cycling competitions. The separation of sport and religion is an odd historical anomaly, their intertwinement the rule.

This fact is beautifully illustrated in Shinto shrine practices. Did you think football was invented by the British? Think again. Shrine priests have been performing a kind of ritualised football for centuries. Likewise, Sumo (the quintessentially Japanese sport that used to be broadcast live by Eurosport but in recent years has suffered from corruption and other scandals - perhaps due to its secularisation, who knows), originates in local shrine festivals, which had the dual purpose of entertaining the deities and contributing to social relations. And recently, I was invited by a shrine priest to attend the annual yabusame festival at Kamigamo shrine: a fascinating combination of high-level horseriding, archery, Shinto ceremony and popular entertainment. I greatly enjoyed it. But I would not know whether I should classify it as sport, as religion or as performing arts.



Last week, I went to Kumano. Kumano is an ancient pilgrimage centre, located in the Kii peninsula, an area in the far south of the Kansai region. It is one of the most beautiful places in Japan: high forested mountains, dramatic cliffs, ancient pilgrim trails and romantic hot springs. It is also one of the most interesting places in terms of religious history. The natural landscape evokes feelings of awe. Accordingly, it has been associated with Yomi, the underworld, as well as with Buddhist mandalas. Kumano is a traditional centre of Shugendō, ascetic mountain worship, and shinbutsu shūgō, the combined worship of Japanese deities and Buddhas, and the belief that the former are incarnations of the latter. It is also a place that has been associated with nature worship, which is quite understandable, considering its impressive physical features and centuries-old symbolic significance. It comes as no surprise, then, that Kumano is often mentioned in contemporary discourse on Shinto and the environment.

The main deities enshrined here are the mythical ancestral deities of the Japanese imperial family and, ultimately, the nation, whose stories are told in the Kojiki: Izanagi and Izanami, the primordial brother and sister whose sexual intercourse produced the islands of Japan; Amaterasu, the sun goddess and symbol of imperial power; and Susanoo, god of the underworld. The three main shrines are Hongū Taisha, located in a valley surrounded by mountains and a famous pilgrimage destination; Nachi Taisha, where a beautiful tall waterfall is worshipped; and Hayatama Taisha, located near the place where the river meets the sea. Needless to say, when I received an invitation to join some people from NGOs trying to promote traditional culture on a trip to these three shrines, which would give me the opportunity to meet the head priests, I did not have to think very long.

However, last September, the area was hit severely by a typhoon and floods. The world did not notice, as mass media internationally had got bored of natural disasters in Japan and were busy reporting other hypes. But the damage was severe, and dozens of people were killed. Embarrasingly oblivious, I was shocked to see entire parts of mountains washed away, hundreds of trees uprooted, completely destroyed houses and deforested river islands. But reconstruction work was going on everywhere. Banners and people proudly declared that the rebuilding of the entire nation would start here, in Kumano. Shock had given way to optimism. Kumano will overcome the difficulties.



In Japan, Kumano is not only famous for its ancient pilgrimage trails and recent natural disaster, but also for football. In particular, it has come to be associated with the national football teams (M/F). The gods of Kumano have become the protective deities of these teams. The reason is prosaic: the man who introduced modern football to Japan in the early twentieth century was originally from Kumano. Looking for a symbol of the national football association, he opted for a famous symbol from his native region: the yatagarasu, or three-legged crow. Thus, the crow of Kumano was appropriated by modern sports, or vice versa. Today, at any of the Kumano shrines one can buy amulets, talismans and other religious souvenirs with the logo of the national football team printed on them. Few people seem to perceive this as problematic. Shinto traditions are pragmatic, after all, and subject to change and reinvention - one of the reasons they have survived the storms of history.

Last summer, the Japanese national team became world champion women's football. The Dutch did not notice, as they are a bunch of sexists who collectively ignore women's football, but the Japanese did, as they are a bunch of proud nationalists who like any sport in which a compatriot excels. Nobody had expected the Japanese team to win, so it was a great surprise, which was celebrated widely in their home country. Upon return, the players visited Kumano, where they met with the head priests and donated some signed shirts and footballs, carefully monitored by accompanying journalists.

The relics of this visit are kept well. In a prominent place in the middle of the visitors' room of one of the shrines hangs a large picture of the football captain and head priest - signed by the former, of course. More problematic, from a secularist point of view, might be the fact that the worship hall is full of signed footballs and shirts. It is a somewhat alienating experience - sitting on your knees in the worship hall (a place ordinary visitors are not allowed to enter, as it requires official ritual purification) attending a ritual ceremony with centuries-old prayers and spirit-arousing percussion, while looking at football paraphernalia. The sacred is a category that is open to reinterpretation, let's put it that way.

The most interesting experience, however, was the conversation we had with the head priest of one of the other shrines. An old man, he must have lived and worked there for decades, but few moments in his long career were as interesting as the visit of the female football players, last summer. He excitedly recounts (I paraphrase, based on my notes):

"I couldn't watch the game, really. I was too nervous. Boom-boom-boom, my heart went. Next morning, they told me we had won. I knew it. You know why? Because I had prayed and performed a ritual to Amaterasu-no-Oomikami. Really, a special ritual! That's why they became champion, thanks to me. And then they visited me here! The team captain talked to me and thanked me for my support. She said she wants to get the gold medal at the Olympic Games, too. I will pray for them. I am sure they will get it. The TV journalist was here, too. It was broadcast on national TV, did you see it? But you know, I knew they would become champion. They are the best. They have the true Japanese spirit, the spirit of our great nation, Nippon. No country in the world can defeat Nippon. We are number one. We are the best in the world."

I felt somewhat alienated. But I did manage to resist the temptation to remind him of the fact that at the 'real' world cup football, last year, my country defeated his by 1-0. Perhaps, at the time, Paul Vlaar's prayers were more effective than his. Perhaps the Holy Virgin is more football-minded than the Sun Goddess.

How I love studying religion.