Clash of the Lanterns

It's 1820, and a bunch of bored Japanese people are sitting around the port town of Fusiki with nothing to do. So one night, probably under the influence of alcohol, they decide to gather the two biggest wooden carts in town, build them up about ten meters high, cover them in paper lanterns, and get the townsfolk to ram them into each other. A national pastime is born.

189 years later, here I am observing a time-honored Japanese tradition: the Kenkayama Festival. With about a thousand beer-breathed, screaming admirers jam packed into one small block of an otherwise dead suburb, I elbow my way onto the railing of a Shinto shrine for a stellar view of the action. The opponents face each other off. One team has traveled from a small town in the west part of the prefecture. The other is from somewhere up north. No one in the crowd really knows or cares who wins, but in the spirit of competition, we and our newly-made Japanese acquaintances begin cheering for Futsumachi, the team whose cart is closest to us (incidentally, one of their guys gave us a free beer, so our allegiance became an iron bond).

The carts are as tall as two story buildings, every inch adorned with paper lanterns save for a small five by seven box in the back sporting a confused-looking marionette. Fifty or so folks dressed in traditional Japanese yukattas grab the four-inch thick ropes at the bottom and begin pulling the carts to the opposing corners of the street, all the time chanting ancient battle songs. A single man in the “driver’s seat” rhythmically clicks together two hollow wooden batons.

With a whistle from the officiator, the two carts take off full-speed toward each other. The whole town erupts in screams and chants. People climb over one another; a young girl on her father’s shoulder perks up for a better view. Suddenly, the chaos is muted by a half-second of silence and BAM: the two carts collide, lanterns flying everywhere, shockwaves knocking the cart pushers back. When the smoke clears, a few lanterns have gone out, one or two have fallen to the ground, and everyone appears to be fine. No one in the crowd knows which team has been victorious, but it doesn’t matter. The excitement of the moment has everyone cheering again: let’s have another go.

Into the wee hours of the night, teams of lantern warriors battle it out, ramming each other incessantly until one, for reasons unbeknownst to anyone observing this madness, finally concedes victory to the other. It’s an event which the scores of tipsy Japanese festival frequenters can’t help but feel the epic nature of. We step back for a few minutes to catch our breath when suddenly I feel a consoling pat on the shoulder from the old man standing next to me: our dear Futsumachi was eliminated in the first round.

Short video from the festival: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVfBUP8bo9w