AWOL: Sanja Matsuri Festival, Asakusa

'Matsuri', the Japanese word for festival, has a special meaning in this country that beats (hands down) the notion of a festival in a lot of other countries.

As my insider at anime studio Production I.G once told me, albeit sarcastically, “Japanese love their matsuri” - and he was spot on.

That affection usually doesn’t get much bigger than this: Sanja Matsuri Festival (三社祭), literally the Three Shrines Festival, in Asakusa. It's one of the three more over-the-top annual Shinto matsuri here in Tokyo... and also happens to be considered the wildest and weirdest.

Purportedly established to honor the triumvirate that set up Senso-ji, the ancient temple at Asakusa almost 1,500 years ago, the festival actually kicks off at the adjacent Asakusa Shrine on the third weekend of May, and has done so since the early Edo period (1603-1868).

That is, it usually has every year but was cancelled in 2011 as a direct result of the March 11 earthquake and tsunami up north-east, and the subsequent power supply problems (related to the travails at the Fukushima nuclear power plant) that have gripped the region.

So May came and went without any dose of this festival, and that's just plain sad.

It usually takes over the entire district, involving hordes of locals, hundreds of thousands of spectators, and a dozen or more mikoshi (portable shrines) lugged along by chanting, sweaty bearers of all ages, many of whom also happen to be members of the yazuza clad in happi jackets and exceptionally short pants.


There’s also taiko drumming, shamisen, other kinds of traditional music, performance art, a highly-charged atmosphere, beer, Ozeki One Cup saké aplenty - and geisha. Well, not quite the spectacular apprentice geisha (actually called maiko) in Kyoto, but more of a working-class, downtown, down-to-earth Tokyo variant with subdued kimonos and middle-aged lady-next-door looks.

Anyway, here's to seeing the matsuri up and running again next year, and my #1 tip for anybody planning to go: after a cursory look, steer clear of the main drags and investigate the more honestly lively side-streets instead.

Kuramae 蔵前: Downtown Tokyo

I thought it was prime time to get off my self-indulgent corporate head-butting now that I've let off a bit of steam and come to understand these things are little more than storms in teacups in the grand scheme of things. ;)

Anyway, the other day I was in the Kuramae (蔵前) district of downtown Tokyo, conveniently packing my camera, and took some happy-snaps of what is quite an inspiring older area of this city.

It's located on the west bank of the Sumida River, near Asakusa, and apparently used to be the site of the government rice granaries in the Edo period; it's still to this day a warehouse/wholesale area and there're some amazing old buildings to be found.

The area offers up a great view of the almost-finished Tokyo Sky Tree, and it turns out that, up until 1984, this was also the home of post-war sumo - namely the Kuramae Kokugikan (蔵前国技館), a building erected by the Japan Sumo Association in 1950 since the previous, bomb-damaged Kokugikan had been taken over by occupying Allied forces after World War 2.


Tournaments were held in Kuramae until September 1984, and in January 1985 the new Ryōgoku Kokugikan was opened nearby.

Kuramae still has a few interesting toy shops, smaller shrines and temples, some signposted in English, and a number of smaller shops that look unchanged since the Edo era (1603-1867) selling everything from cleaning materials to sumo-related goods.

And then there are the exceptionally old school toy shops and the book shop pictured here (see top of page).

Kuramae Station (蔵前駅) is a subway station on the Toei Asakusa Line and the Toei Ōedo Line, in case you feel like checking it out when/if you come here.


I happen to teach at a kindergarten in Kuramae on Mondays, so on this occasion wandered around a bit post-lessons.

Ace. I loved the snakes-in-a-box (right), and the area is an absolute treat.

Asakusa: Reconstruction Town

Legend has it that back in the 7th century AD two brothers taking a fishing jaunt on the Sumida River managed to hook a statue of Kannon, the goddess of mercy - and no amount of lobbing the object back into the murky waters would relieve them of the burden.

So, Sensoji Temple - dedicated to that persistent goddess - was built nearby, in an area now known as Asakusa, right here in the heart of what’s now Tokyo.

A millennium on after its foundation, a rabbit-warren of streets just north of Asakusa - named Yoshiwara - developed into a licensed brothel area, whose denizens ranged from higher class courtesans to el cheapo prostitutes; by the latter half of the 19th century, the grounds of Asakusa Park were given over to a Kabuki theatre, jugglers, geisha houses, circus acts, photography booths, dancers, comic storytellers, performing monkeys, bars, restaurants, and archery stalls where sellers of sexual favours were reputed to have offered a rather wide variety of services.

While constantly the victim of nuisance customers like fire and earthquake, most of this disappeared in the conflagration of World War 2. So, while it rates as this city’s oldest temple area, the buildings themselves are amongst Tokyo’s newest places since WW2 bombing destroyed all the original stuff.

Just a few minutes’ walk from Asakusa Subway Station, the imposing Kaminarimon (Thunder Gate), houses two effigies of the gods of thunder and wind—although this gate is in fact a replica built in 1960, as its predecessor was destroyed in an air-raid.


Visitors must pass under its improbably huge paper lantern, then negotiate the historic, forever-crowded Nakamise shopping arcade (a maze of stalls that’s over 200 meters long, full of faux Japanese historical odds and ends, yukata robes, fans, regional snacks, and plastic samurai swords), then pass by a five-storied pagoda (itself a 1973 reconstruction) and under the Hanzomon Gate, before even reaching Sensoji - which is usually awash in incense, used for purification, and guaranteed to induce a cough or two.

Even Sensoji Temple is itself a replica, constructed in 1958. Like the Kaminarimon and much of the rest of Tokyo, it was flattened in the Allied blanket bombing in 1945.

Still, you can’t complain about the location, and if some of the spice and sizzle of previous centuries has disappeared, you can still spot the occasional geisha.

There's also Kappabashi-dori (かっぱ橋), best reached from Tawaramachi Station on the Ginza Line. This is Tokyo’s restaurant wholesale district, and sells that insanely detailed plastic food you see displayed in Japanese eateries, metal spatulas, deep fryers, cool restaurant food banners, and an intense array of crockery.

And just nearby, on the banks of the Sumida itself - where that goddess statue came from—is the commercial HQ for a famed Japanese company that for some is itself deified.


Called the Asahi Building (not to be confused with the TV Asahi premises in Roppongi Hills) the place has what looks like a golden piece of crap atop, and is mecca for anyone who’s dabbled with Japanese beer or brushed up against the silver-shrouded contents of Asahi Super Dry - without doubt Japan's most famous international amber fluid.

Mmmm... beer.

The Asahi Building

You can't complain about the location - on the banks of the Sumida River, a short walk from Sensoji, Tokyo's biggest temple district, and the hugely popular Asakusa tourist area; you may even see a geisha or two, if you're exceptionally provident.

And the product is virtually a trademark - if you've ever dabbled with Japanese beer, you would've brushed up against (or at least guzzled a few drops of) the silver-shrouded contents of Asahi Super Dry, without doubt Japan's most famous international amber fluid.

Almost as famous is the commercial HQ for the Asahi company itself.

Known quite simply as the Asahi Building (not to be confused with the TV Asahi building in Roppongi Hills), it was completed in 1989 at the height of Japan's excessive bubble economy to replace Asahi's old offices. Some of the building's harsher critics have suggested that French designer Philippe Starck had had one Super Dry too many when he finished the design for the monolith, which is constructed from super-expensive black granite and capped by his trademark gilded flame, an icon apparently weighing in at 300 tons.

And confusion reigns supreme in this city as to what the symbol really represents - is it a firework that reflects the nearby Sumida River's annual hanabi (fireworks) festivities? Is it an overturned post-modern glass of beer? Is it a golden radish or turnip? Or is it - as popularly espoused around the traps of Tokyo - just a humongous blob of excrement that'd do Godzilla proud?

Others see it in a warmer light - the windows are tinted yellow, apart from the top few floors, where the windows appear white... mmm... beer...