Scent of a sumo
Osaka, Japan
I AM CHEERING for my favorite sumo rikishi (wrestler) from my seat in the arena in Osaka, Japan. Endo is his name and he is considered very attractive by Japanese standards. I scrutinize him through my binoculars. His skin is fair and smooth, he has full, pouty lips in a baby face. His hair is sleek, shiny, meticulously dressed in a topknot, the ginkgo leaf motif at the very top of his head indicating his upper division status. Yes, he is handsome and I am drawn to him, despite his great bulk which would ordinarily repel me. He is six feet tall and weighs 325 pounds.
He is 33 years old according to my program, and is not doing well. Two wins, six losses. “ENDO,” I yell quietly. I hold up a small towel I have purchased in the lobby, adorned with his face and Japanese characters that spell his name. Sumo fans are restrained, orderly, well-behaved. I see other Endo supporters holding up their little towels, an occasional “ENDO!” softly yelled from the stands.
Sumo is dignified, precise, a 1300-year-old sport steeped in ritual and tradition. Sumo is not a sweaty, bloody mess like boxing or wrestling in the USA. The ring is ceremoniously cleansed beforehand to protect the wrestlers from harm. The rikishi toss salt into the ring to ward off evil spirits. They raise their legs, stomp their feet, throw their hands in the air. They crouch with their fists resting on the clay surface of the dohyo. They are limber, agile, surprisingly pliant. These huge men are athletes, having trained rigorously for this moment, each bout lasting just minutes.
Endo wears a bright pink loincloth, 30 feet of hand-loomed silk carefully tied around his waist and between his legs. The referee, the gyoji, gives a signal and the match begins. Endo and his opponent grapple, push, twist, shove and suddenly Endo steps out of the ring. It is over and Endo has lost. The rikishi face each other from opposite sides of the ring and bow. His opponent is declared the winner and Endo’s tally is now two wins, seven losses.
I get up and walk downstairs to the concession area. I buy a sandwich, look at the merchandise offered for sale, wander around and suddenly come across an area where lower division rikishi are warming up. I quietly take some pictures, trying hard to remain unobtrusive. I am so close to the wrestlers, I can smell them.
Two months earlier in Las Vegas, I met a man who told me to be sure and smell the sumo wrestlers when I get to Japan. They are massaged, exfoliated, powdered, their hair rubbed with camellia oil. He told me the scent of a sumo wrestler is as close to heaven as I can get on earth.
At the time, I didn’t understand what that man meant, his description a bit bizarre. Wouldn’t they be sweaty and smelly? And besides, how could I possibly get close enough to sniff a sumo wrestler? Yet here I am, standing near these champions of the clay ring, and I can smell them. Their scent is unmistakable, filling the air around them, clean, fresh, fragrant. Flowery but not sweet. I breathe deeply.
Is this what heaven smells like?
