Nara Tokae Festival

Nara's famous Tokae festival takes place every summer from 5^th -14^th of August and brings the city to life in a dazzling display of light.

As with so many festivals throughout this mystical land that fall within the Obon period, the Tokae festival has its roots in the practice of illuminating beacons to guide the spirits of deceased loved ones back to their families. Nara's unique interpretation of this ancient tradition sees the lighting of some 20,000 candles in and around the city's coveted Parks area; hence the name, which can be translated into candle gathering. The festival was introduced in 1999 primarily as a way to increase tourism to the city, but despite being decidedly young in terms of Nara's 1300 year history, the event succeeds in forging a magical connection between visitors and the surroundings and conduces an almost spiritual understanding of Nara's rich heritage. Having heard many a whispered tale of the festival, my curiosity piques and I grab my camera and head out to see what all the fuss is about.

I arrive in Nara in the early afternoon, eager to fit in a bit of day time temple viewing before the sun sets and the crowds intensify. The day starts off overcast at best, whipping showers at worst, and I feel as if the old city castigates me for staying away for so long since my last visit, like a vociferous, saliva-spraying grandmother chastising her grandchild for not calling as often as they know they should. I digest the quaint urban streets on my way up to the parks from the train station and as I make it to the lawns of the peripheral grounds, find my eyes perpetually fixed on the ground. This is because lurking in amongst the squelching blades of grass are infinite pellets of deer dropping that I must assiduously navigate if I'm to keep my sandal-clad toes dung free for at least a small portion of the day. The situation improves as I get further in with the pellets becoming more scat-tered, and I can finally keep my head up for more than a few seconds at a time to admire the beauty of the perpetrators.

Nara's deer are undoubtably the most celebrated residents of the city, viewed by the locals as messengers of the ancestral spirits. Accordingly they are protected by law and this aspect has allowed them to flourish and reach a population in excess of 1,000 in the park grounds alone. These old souls are evidently thriving here, spry and unafraid of the tourists whom have fed them for centuries. However, enjoying such security, the speckled scamps are not without a propensity for brazenness and tend to throw their weight around in order to snatch snacks from visitors who often get a tad more than they bargained for. Signs warn of the dangers that human food poses to the deer, so it's a must to feed them only the specially designed senbei (rice crackers) sold throughout the park for ¥150 a packet. Upon purchasing, hide them until you're ready for attention, because you'll get it, and in addition to perhaps enticing a couple of deer to perfunctorily bow to you (a slightly less confrontational behaviour they've ostensibly learned as a way to be awarded treats), you may be dealt a couple of impatient head butts and shirt pulls that will leave you in no doubt that here, it is they that rule with an iron hoof.

I walk north along a cobbled path and pass the Nara National Museum to my right, a large concrete building of sleek edges that showcases the city's past through writings and appurtenances of previous eras. A few metres further and I take a left onto the main walk down to Todaiji temple. By some divine order the clouds have now parted and the baking summer sun beats down on the droves of tourists that pack the street amongst park wardens and more wily deer. In addition to a smattering of tacky souvenir shops (which as are as reassuringly ubiquitous here, within the staid folds of Japanese society, as anywhere else in the world), the street is lined with food stalls offering snacks from the hearty Kansai staples of takoyaki and okinomiyaki, to broiled meat on a stick, to shaved ice of all the colours of the rainbow that tenaciously hangs in the blue sky above. I tread dubiously with my just-purchased lance of sizzling chicken, scanning left and right, careful not to attract the attention of the deer whom despite I know to be vegetarian, wouldn't put it past to once again deviate from their so-called natural behaviour and vie for a piece of my succulent prize. Not today, Bambi.

I pass under the splendidly rustic Nandai-mon tori and before long I've reached the gates of Todaiji temple, the most revered of the Historic Monuments of Ancient Nara Unesco world heritage sights and among the most sacred spots in all of Japan. Built by Emperor Shomu (AD 724-49), the temple originally dates back to the 8^th century and remains the beating heart of Japan's Kegon school of Buddhism. I pay the token ¥500 entry fee and am on my way up a wide gravel path flanked by pristine lawns on either side with the main hall looming huge and imposing up ahead. The Daibutsu, as it's called in Japanese, until recently held the title of largest wooden building in the world and no wonder, for its titanic size is equalled only by its majesty. The powerful arched roofs are accented with gleaming gold borders and underlined by stolid beams of black over the weathered white walls, all built to support two glistening horns nested on the lofty apex that point unabashedly heavenward. It's quite a sight to behold, and choreographed by the scrunching beat of chalky stones underfoot, I make it to the front steps, up and inside.

The sun is left for dead outside as within this gargantuan wooden cavern, all is calm and dim save for the spotlights that punch up from the floor to illuminate Vairocana, the world's largest bronze buddha. The picture of placidity, he looks down on visitors with equable eyes and dazzles in his grandeur, filling the room over which he presides with orgone and bigness. Ornate carvings cover the walls and following them around to the side of the hall will bring you to his guardians, crafted in wood and casting almost demonically ambivalent stares over those that dare to cross their path. With my camera pressed up to my face, I weave insouciantly around pillars and meet them with a start. I drop my weapon and it falls to dangle from its leather strap and my neck jerks as my heart churns out a single startled thump. These brutes are terrifying and the fact that they affect me so is curious because their sole purpose is to ward off evil spirits. “Could it be that I qualify?”, I ask myself, flustered with camera swinging pendulously below chin. “No, of course not. You're only evil before your morning coffee”, myself assuredly replies... out loud. With that I continue around to the farthest corner of the room and to a column through which is carved a small tunnel exactly the same size as Vairocana's nostrils and offering the promise of protection and longevity to all those (usually children) that can squeeze through it. A line has formed leading to the hole and kids slowly scrape their way through, sometimes with the assistance of a gentle push by mum or dad. There's a pleasant family atmosphere in this section of the hall, and despite this tradition having ernest roots, the kids seem to be tunnelling mainly for fun.

I finish my lap of the temple and step back out into the day, my eyes small and burning against the ripe late afternoon sunlight. Back up the gravel path I toddle and at the top I strew ¥100 into a slot and pick up an incense stick. I watch others and enjoy the thick, fragrant smoke that emanates from a nearby urn containing perhaps one hundred sticks gently burning and leaving a powdery ash deposit in their wake. Flocks of Japanese light their incense from the big oil lamp in the middle, prod it into the top where the ash secures the stick upright and begin to pray. It dawns on me that this gesture is a buddhist ritualistic offering to the gods in the hope that prayers be answered. Now I face the perennial problem for any westerner living in Japan; that of wanting to join in whilst not wanting to be a complete “tourist” by partaking in acts sacred to many millions that you, with your none-buddhist upbringing, essentially have no business taking part in, and furthermore have the impetus to do so only in the pursuit of a good photo. On this one however I've donated the handsome sum of one silver coin and am aware that the temple relies on the interest of tourists to flourish the way it does. With this in mind I justify the lighting of my incense and imprudently shove it into the powder and pray for world peace and that the deer don't get me on my way out.

The day winds down and the sun begins to slowly sink beneath severe Mount Ikoma in the western distance and long shadows leak slowly eastward over the old city. It's 6:30pm and now unlit candles pepper the greens in preparation for the festival's grand commencement in half an hour's time. Enthusiastic event workers deal out multilingual pamphlets and warm smiles and direct bemused tourists to any one of the eight main viewing locations. I've done my homework and am set on watching the lighting at the Ukimido viewing spot. I begin the short walk, still enthralled with the deer whom, sufficiently fed, now slowly filter towards the lush foothills in the deep recesses of the park, many in herds running and hopping, winding and gambolling playfully.

I make it to Ukimido in time to get a good spot on the footbridge that stretches over a small lake. The bridge is solid and firm consisting of well-maintained chunky pine beams that stretch from the bank at the bottom of a steep ravine across the diameter to skate around the far shore about a hundred and fifty feet away. On the near side halfway towards the middle is a junction leading to the focal pavilion which rises in log pillars from its concentric base to a draped Japanese roof that slides smoothly down from the apex with drooping eaves. Hundreds of unlit candles line the structure and surrounding shores and by now the deck of the bridge is packed with tourists who have arrived with increasing regularity over the last few minutes. Below, a dozen rowing boats glide silently on the water, manned predominantly by young Japanese couples who have hopefully paid an exorbitant amount for such a romantic experience that I didn't get in on. It doesn't matter though, the view up here's better anyway. And especially now as a troupe of festival employees in red T-shirts begin the mammoth task of lighting the candles one by one starting from their stations at various points around the pond. Bearing wand lighters and seemingly well-practiced, they travel quickly and converge on the pavilion followed by trails of twinkling light and before long, they've arrived together at the junction, ready to begin a blitz of the pavilion that will leave it glowing and heartbreakingly beautiful in a matter of moments. The last few candles are set aflame and all is complete: a breathtaking homage to collective effort, the dead, and mono no aware; the Japanese sentiment that beauty is transient and the heavy ache somewhere in the soul that this invokes. My eyes transfixed on the lights and with boats swirling in and out of my periphery over rippling streaks of orange, I suddenly feel as though all is warm and still and everything is at peace.

After a few minutes of quiet reflection it's time to move on. I weave through the crowd and off the bridge, up a flagged staircase to the top of the ravine from which I came. From here I join a path that snakes through the woods and looking left in the darkness I perceive a million distant lights stolen at irregular intervals by narrow black columns that are the trees in the foreground. The Asajigahara area is the next stop, and from the woods the path opens into a meadow alive with the glow of hundreds of flickering candles. They line walkways that wind around large bamboo structures, rising from central shoots to explode outwards and back down to earth like frozen water fountains and creating structures not too dissimilar to the skeletons of Mongolian yurts. Eager tourists venture inside with cameras clutched tightly as excited kids chase each other around the outer diameters and all is jovial in the languid summer evening. The deer that remain in these lower levels of the park look on knowingly from where they rest under trees, no longer on the graft and seemingly happy to take in the pretty lights. Walking on through the meadow, I get on to one of the parks' main thoroughfares which is now awash with kimono-clad revellers, food stalls and music that all add further to the prevailing carnival atmosphere.

The final stop of my tour lands me at Kofukuji temple on the western tip of the parks. The pride of the Fujiwara clan; the most powerful family in the land throughout the Nara and Heian periods, the temple is home to the second tallest pagoda in Japan. Composed of five tiers, the pagoda stands at an impressive 50 metres which is only 7 shy of Japan's tallest at Kuji temple in Kyoto. It was originally erected in 730AD and as a result of its age and grandeur is indelibly etched in the hearts of Narajin as a favourite landmark of the city. Candles light the temple at ground level, the grand old pagoda rising majestically from within their glow and blushing a dancing red hugh against the black night sky. Excited chatter in a myriad of languages falls in between the sharp click clacking of camera shutters resonating throughout the grounds as people capture the splendour on film. The festival has reached its climax and Nara is teeming with excitement. The candles will last another 45 minutes or so but I feel as if now is a perfect time to make a quiet escape before the tens of thousands of Osakans clog up the trains on their way back to the metropolis just over the mountain range. With that I bid the parks and the deer adieu and meander back towards the train station, my soul satiated with a feeling of deeper connection to Nara; the exquisite old city of light.