Now that Jon has given you his account of the naked man festival, I would like to share my view as a woman spectator. First of all, as Jon, I had no idea what to expect. Some of our friends had gone last year and told us that it was the best thing that they had done in Japan. The trip to Okayama was beautiful. We rode the train with our friends Vineeth and Anne and travelled right past a beautiful gorge filled with teal-colored water. After arriving in Okayama, we saw a poster depicting hundreds of naked sumo-diaper-wearing men fighting over a stick. I knew from that point, this truely was going to be crazy!

We arrived late at the temple. Jon and Vineeth were so excited it was difficult not to lose them in the masses of people. Anne and I decided that from that point on we were to remain side-by-side for the duration of the festival. Afterall, 2 was better than 1 in the maze and craze of naked bums. We stopped at one shop to ask if they could help the boys put on the fundoshi (sumo-diaper). They looked frightened and refused. Eventually, we made our way to a tent equipped with people to assist with the sumo-diapering. The man attending the door kept yelling over to us, in Japanese, that women were not allowed into the makeshift changeroom. He didn't need to worry - that was the last place I wanted to be!!! Oddly enough when some Japanese women approached and stated that they were looking for someone, he let them in immediately. I think they just wanted to check out the foreign goods...

About 15 minutes later, a stream of foreigners (Jon, Vineeth, and co) came out from behind the curtain. I have never seen so much testosterone charging through the air. They were really excited. Anne and I, on the other hand were a little grossed out. At one point Anne whispered to me, "eeewwww! look at that hairy one! sick!" It really was sick. In fact, I felt a little sick to my stomach. As with any wierd, disgusting, or frightening event, after a certain amount of exposure, the effect seems to wear off. After seeing hundreds of naked bodies and bums, I developed the skill of no longer having to look (or maybe just not being as shocked by it).

After the boys gathered and chanted and the usual other testosterone things, they headed toward the temple shouting their cheer. "Everywhere we go people wanna know who we are, where we come from. So we tell them, we're from Kochi..." That was our cue to head to the stands.

From the stands, we could see the entire temple filled with men wearing diapers. We were standing on a pole (I say pole because it was like a thick handrail). It was not comfortable at all but it provided a good view of the "water hole" where the teams of men would douse themselves in cold water to purify themselves before heading to the temple. Incidentally, it was also the short cut to the ambulance and other emergency vehicles.

Because of the insight into the E.R., the experience of spectating was even more horrifying. I saw countless men fall off of the stage of the temple in waves enabling at least one gentlemen to be taken to the ambulance on a stretcher. Many were unconscious, others were just drunk and scaped. I was worried someone I knew would be next. Luckily, no one was.

The constant waves of men falling off the platform also dulled my senses and the "oh my god!"s soon became "ouch!"es which became "ooh!" and so on. I believe the entire ceremony (the portion that we saw anyways) only lasted for a few hours. At the end, after the priests had thrown the sticks, we met up with the clothed boys to hear all sorts of stories about crushed toes and other adventures. We headed into the city and went to a bar which served poutine. Vineeth, an Eastern Canadian, hadn't stopped talking about the poutine since the moment we boarded the train. After the festival, the poutine wasn't even mentioned. In fact, he almost forgot to order it.