So you can imagine the predicament I found myself in soon after JM Coetzee won the 2003 Nobel Prize for literature. With the doomed Springbok campaign Down Under imminent, we were reminded that the venerated laureate and apparent frontman for South African intellectual thought had once described the Rugby World Cup as “an orgy of chauvinism”. Such a conflict for a Sensitive New-Age Guy. What to do? What to think?

More to the point, I would be interested to know how Coetzee — given that his anti-macho sentiments were expressed in an article not so much about sexism in sport as about nationhood and "national" traditions — would interpret the Naked Man Festival, a complex concoction of Japanese manhood and misunderstood culture.

Hadaka Matsuri
Yes, that’s right: the Naked Man Festival! Known as the Hadaka Matsuri in Japanese, this event is held at the beginning of February each year, although dates vary according to the lunar calendar. Over the course of a day and a night, some very strange things happen at the Konomiya Shrine in a place called Inazawa, one of the unremarkable, borderless towns that make up the urban sprawl of Aichi prefecture in the heart of Honshu, Japan’s main island.

Fortunately for us foreigners, the good people at Inazawa City Hall have produced an English pamphlet explaining this rather unusual annual gathering. It reads: "The festival started about 1230 years ago in the year 767 (presumably this pamphlet was issued in 1997?), when emperor Shotoku ordered the entire nation to offer prayers to dispel a plague"… the story goes that the local governor instigated the activities to prevent "bad luck and calamities."

Shin-otoko
So much for the why. As for the how: a man from the community is selected and consecrated as the shin-otoko, or god-man. "Past 3pm on festival day, men clad only in loincloths jostle each other to touch the shin-otoko in order to transfer their evils to him. Then the shin-otoko leaps into the crowd of men. This is the climax of the festival."

The chosen one’s privileges don’t end there, however. After all the slapping and jumping, he becomes a kind of scape-goat: "At 3am the next morning, the shin-otoko, with a mud cake containing "bad luck and calamities’ on his back, is chased away from the shrine grounds." Although I guess it’s unlikely that he turns up for work the next day; but if he does, I wonder if anyone will talk to him?

As it happened, we missed out on seeing the poor guy suffer all this humiliation, but managed to see the equally raucous — and equally scantily clad — build-up, which entails the thonged throngs weaving their way through the streets leading to the shrine, running zig-zags between the crowds and barricades that line the route.

Running of the thongs?
Hang on. A mass of men who, as the pamphlet puts it, “bravely struggle” along fenced-off roads? My girlfriend, having previously witnessed the running of the bulls in Pamplona, remarked on the apparent similarities between this activity and the frenzied dash of the Spanish youths.

A similar heady atmosphere; similar levels of testosterone; and a similar popular appeal, with international ambitions, if the pamphlet’s claim that "in recent years foreigners have also taken part" is to be believed. But there the similarities end. Indeed, the only foreigner participating this year was a slightly deranged looking chap, getting in the way more than anything else as he staggered, smiling vacantly, from group to group — very likely he couldn’t handle his sake as well as the local lads.

For Sake's sake
Aah, sake. This abundant rice-wine is a vital component of the festival. Consumed in copious amounts, it keeps the men in good spirits despite the winter cold and their state of undress, ensuring that they don’t become too embarrassed by their bits dangling about for all to see.

The sake’s potent effect is also the cause of all the bobbing and weaving as the gents jog through the streets. There might not be any rampaging bulls to avoid, but for many it’s enough of a challenge to steer clear of a close encounter with stationery objects or the muddy ground. Things are complicated somewhat by the precious cargo they carry along with them: giant bamboo stems, stretching over the shoulders of ten men; massive fish, strung between poles; colourful mini-floats and portable shrines.

Throughout, the participants keep up the rousing celebratory cry of "Washoii!", while the spectators respond by drenching them in sprays of water and yet more sake, if the icy wind on its own isn’t enough to keep them moving. In exchange for the cold shower, the men hand out torn-off pieces of the red, green or pink ribbons tied around their heads and necks.

Eventually the various crews making up the staggered and staggering procession find their way to the courtyard of the shrine, where they hand over their bounty to the stern-looking officials — the only somber faces to be seen — and perform a few victory laps before shouting a final cheer or three and going their separate ways.

At this point, exhaustion seems to set in: some wander around aimlessly, some retrace their steps to find family and friends waiting on the sidelines, some linger at the numerous food stalls in the hope that sustenance will help absorb the sake. Apart from their state of undress, they could be mistaken for marathon runners who have just crossed the finish line!

Indeed, this unique spectacle could be construed as a kind of sports event, albeit a bizarre and potentially dangerous one (last year the revels were ended by the death of one of the participants, who was killed in the climactic crush). Having said that, there is no real element of competition or strict set of rules - and even that barbaric activity called rugby has a certain code of conduct - so perhaps the label of ‘sport’ shouldn’t be applied.

Coetzee’s tag “orgy of chauvinism” is worth considering, however. After all, even traditionally male sporting bastions, from cricket to soccer to rugby, and even boxing, can count plenty of women amongst their players and spectators nowadays. What place is there for women at the Naked Man Festival? There are some horrendous gender stereotypes in Japan; but, being a man and thus largely ignorant and even insensitive about this issue, I take such social inequalities for granted ... So it was necessary for my girlfriend to point out the indignity borne by the only females ‘participating’ in the procession: those patiently trailing behind the main pack of men, picking up empty cups and sake cartons, re-filling them and handing them out to the crowds like so many longsuffering, submissive waitresses at a cocktail party.

So it’s probably just as well that J.M Coetzee doesn’t survey the scenes of the Hadaka Matsuri with his sharp eyes or subject them to his fine-tuned critical reasoning. He would only spoil the fun.