As embers fall down on a field of five hundred onlookers, a war is symbolically waged between two groups of men in the Japanese mountain village of Nozawa. A group of 42-year-olds are sitting atop the shaden, a nest-like structure built of felled trees and kindling over the last few days. Thirty yards away and gathered around a bon fire are more 42-year-olds lighting torches and bringing them to the foot of the shaden and beating the timber structure. Defending the shaden is the village’s younger generation. 25-year-olds hang on with ropes and push back as their elders beat the shaden, and more often the boys, with their fire sticks in a display of resilience and strength.
I stare on in amazement from deep in the packed crowd at this ancient right of passage, unable to look away from the faces covered in sweat, ash, and elation. My concentration breaks when a much older Japanese man grabs my shoulder, his hatchimaki head band tells me he is a former participant in the event, and hands me a bottle; it’s my turn. I take a liberal rip of some of the best sake a white guy like me has ever enjoyed. Japan rules.
An ancient tradition to bring good fortune to the village, witnessing the Nozawaonsen Dosojin Matsuri, or Nozawa Onsen Fire Festival, is an unparalleled experience. Almost by accident Alex and I wandered into the village, not knowing what to expect. We had heard more than a few drunken stories of the fire sticks, burnt spectators, and people missing the bus back to the hostel. This year’s festivities did not disappoint.
The whole event lasts about four hours and while the young men defending the shaden looked to be getting the proverbial shit handed to them, they have quite an impressive record. I was told that it has been over 130 years since the elders successfully lit the shaden, and this year the home team maintained its winning streak.
A few well-placed torches, and what five minutes ago was a pretty rad place for a picnic, becomes an inferno with flames reaching a good 60 to 70ft in the air.
Eventually, the 42-year-olds admit defeat and it is time for the real show to begin. Everyone is covered in ash, soot, and received burns to their clothing and skin. The younger boys untie themselves and embrace each other, as well as the men that just bombarded them with flaming reeds (sportsmanship at its best). Ultimately, it doesn’t take much to light the shaden. A few well-placed torches, and what five minutes ago was a pretty rad place for a picnic, becomes an inferno with flames reaching a good 60 to 70ft in the air.
Nozawa Onsen really does have a beautiful tradition on its hands. It isn’t hard to see through the many foreigners that have come to watch the show and recognise the abundance of local pride. It began as a way to bring good fortune to the city during the harsh winter months. The ages of 42 and 25 are unlucky ages in Japanese culture, so these men are chosen to beat back the bad spirits. Being 26, I watched the younger boys closely and saw how much joy they got out of the day. This festival, I am sure, is quite the coming of age celebration as they enter the brunt of manhood.
After not missing our bus (narrowly), the long drive home allowed my mind to wander to thoughts of my own culture’s rights of passage. In the States, I suppose we have graduation ceremonies. A formal announcement of our completion of a chapter in our formal education where we get to wear robes and silly hats while a dude we have never met delivers a grand lecture on how proud he is of us.
I am a bit nostalgic for the days of old. The days when proving your manhood felt like something, even if that something was a flaming log in your face.
Doesn’t really have the same gusto, does it? I am a bit nostalgic for the days of old. The days when proving your manhood felt like something, even if that something was a flaming log in your face. At least it felt real. For me, turning 16 just meant I had to go to the DMV.
I raise my wooden cup thingy of sake to you, badass dudes of ancient tradition. For your dedication, your pride in responsibility, your bravery in the face of change, and for always coming up with excuses to beat 25 year old little shits like me with flaming sticks. Kanpai!
Born into a family of journalists, Michael Weybret is a traveling storyteller and troublemaker that lives on the road with his trusted ’82 Toyota Chinook, The John Muiracle. Fighting against boredom and complacency, Michael has been working as a photographer and filmmaker pushing the rallying cry of “Do Something Cool” since 2014.
Words and images by Michael Weybret
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