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Our week in Tokyo coincides with one of the major Sumo tournaments - what luck! We make our way over to the Kokugikan sumo stadium in Ryogokan and buy a couple of tickets. The best seats are all but sold out, and they’re outrageously expensive too, so we make do with Chair Seat B and feel glad that we haven’t paid a fortune to sit on the floor for hours getting pins and needles.
We stop off at the Sumo Museum, which is somewhat slight given the long and proud history of the sport. Nevertheless, the portraits of the champions that line the walls make us feel a bit blubby. As Kay points out, it’s very rare to see semi naked fat people standing proudly and strongly in their bodies. We practise standing in a similar way.
Outside the stadium there are shops selling sumo souvenirs, and statues of famous wrestlers. We notice that Japanese people like a protruding belly on a statue, as with the Godzilla statue that we visit later in the week, the tummy has been made shiny from people patting and rubbing it for luck as they pass by. On the street we see a big guy selling pots of chanko. You too can live like a wrestler.
On the day of the tournament we get to the stadium early to watch the lower-ranked rikishi fight each other and to get an idea of what’s going on. Being a woman of short attention span, I’m expecting to be bored at some point during the day. Not so! The wrestling is totally compelling, as is the circus that surrounds it, it’s a sense-assaulting delight.
The stadium itself
People sit in little enclosures around the ring. Those closest to the ring, as well as the judges, run the risk of being landed on by a flying wrestler during an energetic bout. Those in the most expensive seats are served by men wearing strange, medieval outfits. They bring them bags of treats and refreshments from the street of snack, a long corridor lined with lanterns and kiosks. Above the ring is a symbolic roof with huge tassels hanging from it. Above the chair seats, where we sit, are giant-sized portraits of notable wrestlers. Outside the seating area are kiosks selling snacks, noodles, chanko, and chips. There are stalls selling every kind of souvenir too. We buy crockery and flannels, keyrings, sumo hand prints, books and magazines.
The punters
The stadium starts off quietly, but fills up towards the end of the day when the higher-ranking wrestlers appear. Everyone is here, it seems. People shout out and cheer their favourite wrestlers, including the old woman with an oxygen cylinder who’s sitting near us. People listen to the live commentary on tiny radio headsets, it’s being provided by a pair of gigantic sumo stars sitting at the back of the stadium.
The Dohyo
The ring is sacred. Women are not sacred, apparently, nor are people not directly involved with the fight, because neither are allowed to come near to the ring. At the end of the day’s fighting the ring is surrounded by uniformed ushers, women, who make sure that nobody touches the ring.
Ritual
Everything is ritualised. Everything. From the guys who sweep the sand and salt around the ring to keep it clear, to the wrestler’s belly-slapping. Before popular wrestlers take to the ring, a bunch of guys with adverts on scrolls make a circuit of the ring. The more popular the fighters, the more advertisements there are. The hierarchy is rigid and unrelenting, this rank wears this outfit, that rank wears that. This announcer sings this announcement, that referee wears that combination of uniform. Everything means something, the kanji on the top-ranking rikishi’s cushions, the stool on which sits the man who looks after the box of salt, the quality of the fan from which is delivered a stack of money to the winner. Oh how I wish I could understand Japanese.
The wrestlers
There are stars, who are untouchable. People queue up to watch the high ranking wrestlers arrive in their chauffeur-driven limousines. Kotooshu is an up and coming rikishi, a white guy from Bulgaria, a real hero, the Beckham of Sumo. We see him advertising ice cream at Shinjuku station, the busiest in the world. He’s clearly a star.
But the lower-ranking fighters are much more accessible. The smell of their hair pomade pervades the stadium. They ride bicycles between the Kokugikan and the stables where they live and train. They wear robes and sandals and they look exquisite.
And the older wrestlers, the men who have done their time, they are everywhere, they collect your tickets at the door, they work at the stadium, they are pundits. They still look tough.
The fight
It’s short and intense. Later we watch the tournament on TV. From our seats the men look like cartoon figures, but up close the fight is brutal, people bleed and fall hard, there is headbutting, it’s very fierce. It makes me think of how Sumo wrestlers are regarded in the west, as some kind of joke, fatties belly-bumping each other, those stupid sumo fat suits. It’s not like that in real life at all.
The fat
Some wrestlers are tall, some are big, but many are fat. Wrestlers, who are easily as fat as some of the fattest people I’ve ever seen, take part and fight hard. I can’t tell you how thrilling it is to watch fat athletes in their prime. It is a feast of fat, the belly is central, the stamping and slapping is mesmerising. These guys are so massive and strong, they stretch and flex impressively, they are fast and agile, they fight using all of their bodies and they are godlike, there’s no other word for it.
Look at this film I made at the tournament (.mov, 7.7 of fighting mb)
http://www.sumo.or.jp/eng/ |
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