Yokosuka Matsuri

Fried food might not be the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of the Shinto religion, but today the smell of yakitori, halumaki (spring rolls), and tempura permeate Yokosuka's Atago Shrine.

A large line forms at the entrance, as two local news reporters enthusiastically wave to the festival goers. Broadcasting live from Owari Yokosuka Matsuri, they call me over to hear my opinion about this year's festival. Growing nervous in all my excitement, I choke out, "Wakarimasen [I dont know].  Wakarimasen [I dont know], ” as I notice the large monitor broadcasting the channel’s feed overhead.  

There’s such little information about this tradition in the West, it's surreal to see these puppets transmitted on live network television. In Japan, people know these wind-up dolls well, and surrounded by camera crews and a thousand festival goers, these puppets  continue to play a major role in Japanese life.

We travel from Atago shrine through the narrow streets of Yokosuka, where vendors fill the path selling grilled squid, toys, and the chance to win stuffed Anpanman by knocking over empty aluminum cans.

As the crowd grows larger, our guide, Mr. Jino, leads us to a small tent near the city center for a quick respite. We are treated to cold beer, sushi, and one of Yokosuka's specialties: boiled peanuts.

City officials wildly gesture over trays of octopus as the conversation grows more rambunctious - and not just because of the flowing Asahi. In November the city finds out if Aichi Prefecture's dashi tradition will be granted Intangible Cultural Heritage by UNESCO [United Nations' Educational Scientific Cultural Organization]. It's on everyone's mind: in one month these floats might join the honorable ranks of Bunraku, Kabuki, and Noh Theater.

Well fed and rested, Yasuko-san and I are ready to head back into the crowd and watch the first performance.

An enormous audience gathers at a narrow intersection, as the musical ensemble, ohayashi, plays from the float's bottom tier. Although it's one the first days of fall, the humidity is ruthless. The tight cluster of spectators doesn't make it any cooler as a PA system amplifies the sound of the flutes, shamisen, and taiko drums. In Tahara, the puppets and musicians performed together, but here in Yokosuka, the first twenty minutes belong solely to the ohayashi.

I can't say for sure if the crowd is enjoying the music. All around me, audience members stare upwards, hands shielding their eyes from the sun, waiting for the karakuri ningyo. The ohayashi have rehearsed every day for three months, Mr. Jino beams, as the woman next to me fiddles with her camera. 

These twenty minute concert introductions to each short-lived karakuri show help emphasize the role of tradition and ritual as an essential part of the celebration. Even in the sun, with hundreds of sweaty people standing shoulder to sweaty shoulder, there aren’t any short cuts. The ohayashi play on.  

In the West, our attention is always being fought for. It’s odd to attend a performance where this isn't the case. I keep half-expecting the shamisen to start plucking out Don't Stop Believing as someone grabs a microphone, jumps on the dashi, and shouts:

"You all ready for some karakuri ningyo?! I said, Are. You. All Ready. For Some. 

KARAKURI NINGYO!!!!"

Instead, an intercom announces the family name of each musician as the karakuri ningyo puppets slowly take their place. In the first performance, a young boy hoovers above a large ceramic kettle and, expectedly, falls inside. The pot's creator must rescue the boy by destroying his own creation. The cauldron splits open, the boy emerges, and the crowd cheers.

At the end of the show, a three foot mechanical shrine attendant, or miko, appears on the float holding two white gohei. The miko performs a purification ritual, swinging the gohei towards the horizon. The puppeteers emerge from below and mimic the robotic priest, throwing white confetti across the sky as the dashi rocks back and forth on its rear wheels. 

The young men who pull the dashi, or kajikata, shout in unison as they rotate the 5 ton dashi 360 degrees. This is the crowd's favorite moment; they cheer ecstatically as the street vibrates with the beat of the taiko drum, and confetti falls in an endless paper-white firework. As the dashi heads directly towards the onlookers, the crowd parts on its own volition, and the theater rolls right through the audience. 

On top of the float, above the countless golden details and wood trim etched with dragons and wide-eyed tigers, the puppeteers raise the sashigane above their heads, joyous and victorious. Half the spectators follow behind, while the others turn around to prepare for the next dashi's entrance.

Yasuko-san preps her camera. One of her favorite karakuri ningyo is about to perform. It's a sanbaso puppet, wearing a golden hat stamped with a blue moon. Without warning, the puppet nods his head and starts his remarkable transformation. His limbs turn and twist in unexpected directions, transforming into a miniature Atago shrine before turning back into Sanbaso. 

The puppeteers emerge. The five young girls help each to the top platform and wave to the audience surrounded by falling white confetti. Yasuko-san and I both look at Mr. Jino bewildered.

In most districts it is forbidden for women to enter the dashi's puppeteer platform, let alone manipulate karakuri ningyo. However, Mr. Jino explains that given Japan's declining population rate, particularly in more rural areas, the city has invited females into the tradition for the first time in half a century. According to Mr. Jino, there are only three female karakuri ningyo troupes in all of Japan.

The final puppet performance this afternoon is a world premiere. Last year, Owari Yokosuka Matsuri commissioned the leading karakuri ningyo maker, Tamaya Shobei IX, to recreate a traditional scene. The robotic doll will string and shoot a miniature bow and arrow at a target a few feet away. The audience stands poised, iPads in the air for the upcoming feat. The archer puppet is approached by his assistant, who holds a collection of arrows in a quiver. The archer removes an arrow, places it in his bow, and pulls back. The crowd grows quiet as the mechanical doll releases the arrow and it hits the red target. While this seems like more than enough to delight the wide-eyed onlookers, the target opens like a music box, and a tiny puppet glides out on a track. His head nods to left to to right, greeting his human visitors. With a delightful grin, the tiny puppet plays the cymbals towards each side of the dashi. When his ritual is complete, he returns to his small home, the door closing behind him.

This is my favorite moment from the dashi performances. It was unexpected, bizarre, and a great example of karakuri ningyo's mechanical magic.

As the sun sets, participants start to adorn the dashi with hundreds of beautiful Japanese lanterns. There's not a single electric candle in-sight as one man lights a wick and then passes it to a woman who delicately expands a paper lantern. A third person carries the flickering lantern to the dashi, where a teenager carefully hangs it from the float.

Although ritual is prominent in every aspect of Owari Yokosuka Matsuri, it continues to pulsate with fresh new life. The sound of the ohayashi still echoes in my head as the candlelight illuminates the float's golden trim and the painted eyes of the cypress carved dragons appear to glow.

Preparing for Ota Festival

I climb the steps to the second floor of the town home in Yokosuka. The young puppeteer gestures towards an aluminum door adjacent to a small tatami room holding a dozen festival organizers. I open the aluminum door, and teeter over a 16 foot drop into a vacant garage. My stomach flips as I survey the drop. Soon enough I realize that this is the doorway to the top of the district’s 6 meter festival dashi; but today’s ornamental float sits in in the front yard, surrounded teenaged boys sipping ice coffee as they greet passersby. 

The puppeteer zips across the 4 x 6 mesh floor with ease, locating two large wooden crates. It's the perfect place to show off the Ota Festival Preservation Society's karakuri ningyo. Crouched inside the suspended platform, my mentor and guide, Ms. Yasuko Senda, and I explore the puppet's mechanisms and movements. The puppeteer sets the three-foot mechanical actor on the ground and gestures for us to take photographs. Yasuko-san translates:

"We used to keep this secret. But not so much anymore," he expresses with a shrug.

I notice a similar sentiment later in the day. While at rehearsal for another district's karakuri ningyo performance, Yasuko-san and I gather in a tiny rehearsal room, as puppeteers nonchalantly illustrate the karakuri ningyo's once-mysterious mechanisms.

Unlike Tahara Matsuri, where the puppets are operated by strings, these characters are manipulated through handcrafted rods, or sashigane, adorned in multi-sized hooks and sleeves. The sashigane moves in and out of the karakuri ningyo during performances, releasing or igniting the puppet's internal mechanisms. The sashigane works together with the dashi's internal framework to create these karakuri ningyo's magical robotic feats.

But knowing the secrets is inconsequential. The amount of precision, practice, and complexity I observe only further fuels my fascination.

You hook that where? And rotate it here? While guiding that? 

If anything, it appears even more impossible. In translation, the sashigane is frequently mixed-up with the English word weapon. It's quickly corrected to “rod." But rod doesn't give the tool justice. Weapon works - the shashigane is wielded with careful deliberation and power.

Back at the garage, the puppeteer's younger brothers, cousins, and friends stand around the towering float, laughing and doing their best American accents. Eight of us practice lifting the 5 ton dashi. Specific positions are called out by the group's director, and the young men move in and out of the dashi arms in synchronized efficiency, balancing the 18th century float atop our shoulders. The act of pulling the dashi is an art in itself. It requires rehearsals, dedication, and superb calf muscles.

"And this is without the musicians and team of puppeteers on board," I think, red-faced and out of breath. My mind travels to Tahara Matsuri, where a cooler of sake and cold beer followed the dashis like a golf caddy through the city streets. I hope this group has the same amenities, but I can't bet on it. It's clear Ota Festival is very different than Tahara Matsuri.

For one, the dashi looks surprisingly distinct. Built in 1826, hand-chiseled dragons in cypress wrap around the float, framing the tiers in ornamental grandeur. On the second tier, a miniature proscenium protrudes like a majestic memorial. The dashi is a temple on wheels.

In the puppeteer's cabin, a large wooden track, or toi, helps guide the karakuri ningyo puppets up and down the dashi stage. The toi can also slide across the width of the dashi, moving the puppet left to right with graceful deliberation.

Unlike Tahara, where a ladder carried me up to the second tier, climbing up Ota's dashi isn't easy. My hips lodge in-between the cypress supports as I hopelessly pull myself through the unforgiving wooden beams. The puppeteers look around nervously, unsure if they made the right decision allowing me join their rehearsal. At the top, I grip the sides tightly and let out a whimper as the float is tilted into the air and the puppeteers next to me try to recall the English phrase "scaredy cat".

The puppeteers carry the tradition in their blood. Their fathers and uncles used to ride the same dashi, skillfully manipulating sashigane from puppet to puppet. Today, the youngest puppeteer is thirteen and the oldest twenty-five. Despite their youth, they take the job seriously. As I clumsily put my shoes back on and fumble with my camera, they cluster around the majestic dashi, shouting, laughing, and calling out to their friends with an envious natural hipness. I walk away from the waving teens in disbelief: in this town, it's cool to be a puppeteer.