How being creative gives you the perfect 'in' to enjoying the history of Oita.
In Tsurusaki, a modest suburb to the north east of Oita station, there lies an old school. The wooden, two-storey remains of an old Boarding School, to be exact.
Stumbling upon the place last year with my friend and the three elderly Japanese members of her English conversation circle, we marched straight to the museum, like proper tourists. It boasted many interesting relics such as writings, pottery, and photos of the formidable headmaster. But, missing from its collection, unfortunately for me, were any in-depth explanations in English beyond “Rice Bowl (1798)”. Unperturbed by this however, and pestering our Japanese companions for extra details, we approached the school building.
On the lower floor (with a ceiling that even an averagely tall foreigner would have to duck to avoid) was a tatami room with a dual-purpose as dining room and bedroom. Drafty and candlelit, furnished with low tables for mealtimes, it was joined by a rickety ladder, up which these same tables would be hefted to serve as desks, which led to the second floor “classroom”.
It was this striking notion, of the young charges, from the age of 8 years old, eating, sleeping and learning together in this monastic building that first captured my interest so strongly. Boarding schools, after all, have found their way into countless pieces of English Literature throughout history; just look at Harry Potter.
The interesting practical uses of the building aside, something was still not clear. Why devote a museum to it? What made it special, and, crucially, why we the helpful guides leading us around with such gleeful trepidation and excitement?
Well, what made it special was this. This was a school for the sons of SAMURAI: the sword wielding, Camelot-esque, noble warriors of Japan’s much romanticised pre-industrial period.
Now my impression of samurai is as romantic as they come. But my impression on that day was also uninformed. I understood that the samurai defending Kyushu were more than just warriors: they were noblemen and loyal servants to their local Shogun. I also had the strong impressions that warring factions constantly overthrew each other, and that being a samurai was dangerous and violent work. And armed thus with my guesswork, I began to ponder. Perhaps this danger was the reason that samurai sent their sons to this safe haven, or perhaps they didn't trust their wives, or… or, perhaps I was letting my imagination run away with me…
But wait one second! What was this? Upon entering the third on-site building, the schoolmaster’s house, our guide told us to wait a moment and promptly scuttled away. A moment later, a near-imperceptible scuffing sound, and there he was, hanging out gargoyle-like from a previously invisible partition above our heads. 'I am ninja!' he exclaimed with glee, 'now I can jump and kill you, if you like?'
A window for ninjas! Quite the bold and surprising claim! But apparently the schoolmaster would regularly offer invitations to tea for those people who he thought were trying to assassinate him (happens to me all the time). These potential assassins would of course say yes, either because they were assassins, or because they just thought he was being neighbourly. Ultimately, as they entered the back door, the secret ninja would pounce and it would be curtains.
But, perhaps there's as much truth in these stories as if I were to say that it was the ghosts of schoolboys who took me on the tour. Perhaps, for example, the boys were the sons of samurai, but not as I would have them. A little research has taught me that during the Edo Period, samurai increasingly became courtiers, bureaucrats, and administrators, rather than warriors.
So maybe the ninja window was just a laundry cupboard, and our Japanese guides were embellishing. But why shouldn't they? At every sight in every other city in the world, enthusiastic tour guides are boldly leaping and dancing down the streets in front of groups of visitors, spouting their glorious half-truths. This is exactly the style of marketing that Kyoto has made phenomenally good use of for years. The 'Philosopher's' Walk, 'Spectacles' Bridge, the 'pleasure' quarters of Gion all ignite an irresistible imagery which transports the tourist back in time. Few counties trade so strongly on the glamour and mystery of their past as Japan and my native England, and perhaps that's why I have never before been such an enthusiastic sight-seer. If you do get a chance, I urge you to visit all of the unlikeliest places in Oita, but please take my advice: ignore the official rubric, close your eyes, and get lost in your own story.
Stumbling upon the place last year with my friend and the three elderly Japanese members of her English conversation circle, we marched straight to the museum, like proper tourists. It boasted many interesting relics such as writings, pottery, and photos of the formidable headmaster. But, missing from its collection, unfortunately for me, were any in-depth explanations in English beyond “Rice Bowl (1798)”. Unperturbed by this however, and pestering our Japanese companions for extra details, we approached the school building.
On the lower floor (with a ceiling that even an averagely tall foreigner would have to duck to avoid) was a tatami room with a dual-purpose as dining room and bedroom. Drafty and candlelit, furnished with low tables for mealtimes, it was joined by a rickety ladder, up which these same tables would be hefted to serve as desks, which led to the second floor “classroom”.
It was this striking notion, of the young charges, from the age of 8 years old, eating, sleeping and learning together in this monastic building that first captured my interest so strongly. Boarding schools, after all, have found their way into countless pieces of English Literature throughout history; just look at Harry Potter.
The interesting practical uses of the building aside, something was still not clear. Why devote a museum to it? What made it special, and, crucially, why we the helpful guides leading us around with such gleeful trepidation and excitement?
Well, what made it special was this. This was a school for the sons of SAMURAI: the sword wielding, Camelot-esque, noble warriors of Japan’s much romanticised pre-industrial period.
Now my impression of samurai is as romantic as they come. But my impression on that day was also uninformed. I understood that the samurai defending Kyushu were more than just warriors: they were noblemen and loyal servants to their local Shogun. I also had the strong impressions that warring factions constantly overthrew each other, and that being a samurai was dangerous and violent work. And armed thus with my guesswork, I began to ponder. Perhaps this danger was the reason that samurai sent their sons to this safe haven, or perhaps they didn't trust their wives, or… or, perhaps I was letting my imagination run away with me…
But wait one second! What was this? Upon entering the third on-site building, the schoolmaster’s house, our guide told us to wait a moment and promptly scuttled away. A moment later, a near-imperceptible scuffing sound, and there he was, hanging out gargoyle-like from a previously invisible partition above our heads. 'I am ninja!' he exclaimed with glee, 'now I can jump and kill you, if you like?'
A window for ninjas! Quite the bold and surprising claim! But apparently the schoolmaster would regularly offer invitations to tea for those people who he thought were trying to assassinate him (happens to me all the time). These potential assassins would of course say yes, either because they were assassins, or because they just thought he was being neighbourly. Ultimately, as they entered the back door, the secret ninja would pounce and it would be curtains.
But, perhaps there's as much truth in these stories as if I were to say that it was the ghosts of schoolboys who took me on the tour. Perhaps, for example, the boys were the sons of samurai, but not as I would have them. A little research has taught me that during the Edo Period, samurai increasingly became courtiers, bureaucrats, and administrators, rather than warriors.
So maybe the ninja window was just a laundry cupboard, and our Japanese guides were embellishing. But why shouldn't they? At every sight in every other city in the world, enthusiastic tour guides are boldly leaping and dancing down the streets in front of groups of visitors, spouting their glorious half-truths. This is exactly the style of marketing that Kyoto has made phenomenally good use of for years. The 'Philosopher's' Walk, 'Spectacles' Bridge, the 'pleasure' quarters of Gion all ignite an irresistible imagery which transports the tourist back in time. Few counties trade so strongly on the glamour and mystery of their past as Japan and my native England, and perhaps that's why I have never before been such an enthusiastic sight-seer. If you do get a chance, I urge you to visit all of the unlikeliest places in Oita, but please take my advice: ignore the official rubric, close your eyes, and get lost in your own story.
FACTS
The Mori Kusou Memorial Hall
Born in 1797 and active in both the Edo period and the later Meiji Era, Mori was a Confucian Scholar and educator. The school was home to between 481- 890 pupils during its lifespan. The present-day facility was established to commemorate the great achievements of this local hero.
毛利空想記念館
大分市鶴崎３８１番地の１
097-534-6111
見学時間：９．００ー１６．３０
入館料：無料
This article originally appeared in the Oita International Plaza 'Tombo' Newsletter, Dec 2011
