Death becomes them

Late October, the season of the village Danjiri festival, which takes place in rural locations throughout Japan.

Grown men don headbands, cloaks, skinny jeans and frog boots and, in 20-strong teams, ram into each other with enormous wooden floats, simultaneously growing paralytic as the sun sets.

My initial reaction, this sounds incredibly dangerous, especially after a fellow teacher mentioned in passing, and remaining completely blasé:

“Ellie sensei, a man died at the festival two years ago.”

Such a tragedy hitting England would have seen a blanket ban on Danjiris from that day forward. However in Japan the childhood oblivion to recognize danger seemingly stems into adulthood.

The front of the floats, decorated with willow sprigs and flags representing the nations of the world, are carved to a sharp point to intensify impact. But the drunker the contestants get, the lesser their judgement, leading to a heightened number of hair-raising moments.

Our closest comparison is the village gala in which visiting queens wave at each other, engaging in a vicious smile off as they parade each other’s habitat. While the biggest risk being the threat of multiple face spasms, the Japanese Danjiri competitors may well die.

They also take their sport very seriously, with a number of full blown fisticuffs resulting from instances of failure to adhere to the rules.

Each float contains young boys beating bells and drums as well as a few fighting veterans, and future whiplash victims, who sit on the front, waving fire lit lanterns around, and banging each other on the head as the sake tightens its grasp.

Most of these older teammates are either drunk or hint that they’ve been released from geriatric care homes for one-night only to attend the sporting event, at which they sit with vacant glints in their eyes similar to that of a confused toddler.

As the tonne-weight floats collide they swing sideways, straight into the path of roadside spectators, who are saved only by a one-man deep wall of strapping festival scouts.

In a closing ceremony, the floats unite and contestants climb onto the roofs. In England we would scrabble for sweets or chocolate at this point.

In Japan, a tasteless rock hard substance called Mochi which, the first time I came across I mistook for novelty soap, is distributed to the masses. Upon discovering it was edible, I popped it in the cupboard with a view to working out what to do with it on my return from a fortnight away. By this time it was covered in green fur, the solution was obvious, and I flung it into the bin in disgust.

It transpires it should have been put it in the microwave, transforming into a red hot gloop, which can only be compared to munching on a soft boiled Pritt-Stick. And so it transpires that the original plan of allowing it to grow mold before disposing of it is a far more palatable option.

Yet the Japanese scrabble to their knees to collect as much of the multi-coloured crap as possible.

Again, the oblivion to danger is highlighted as the mochi is not just thrown but propelled from mini rocket launchers along with streamers, lulling me into a false sense of security as I stare at the pretty colours before being smacked on the head with force one not just one but three lumps, which have been sent airborne with the power of a cannon.

No law suits, no event bans, the Japanese mentality is that if you attend, you are liable for the fate that becomes you. It would be great to see this ethos infiltrating the degenerative streets of outback America, where they think it legitimate to claim against McDonalds for scalding their legs when attempting to drink hot coffee while driving, and worryingly winning the case.

We only have ourselves to blame if the next our parents hear is that their offspring has been steamrolled to death by a giant wooden cart containing 20 inebriated men.

With the language barrier, this would probably be lost in translation and they would never actually find out how we met our end, rather draw the conclusion that the company had sold us into Kyoto’s Geisha industry for a tidy sum of 100 Yen a piece.