Inside Kung Fu, April 1987
Training in Japan
Weapons donated to the museum by ninjutsu soke Dr. Hatsumi
The interior of the 400 year old farm house/ museum
A working waterwheel
Yumoa Mura. The famed ninja museum
Chuck Dervenis (left) is shown with Tatsuo Muramatsu (center) and Mark Lithgow of England at the Ishizuka dojo In Kashiwa.
Chuck in meditation under a waterfall in Japan.
In this final installment on returning to ninjutsu's roots, the author steps all over himself and the reputation of 'legitimate" ninja instructors.
By Chuck Dervenis
This one is more or less about Muramatsu.
I have to admit to being surprised with the response these articles of mine have had with ninjutsu enthusiasts worldwide. People apparently enjoy reading about me getting into trouble. It disturbs me that some readers have actually managed to get my address and write to me. How did you manage that? Anyway, you're here to see if you can get some information from me, and maybe share a joke or two at my expense; I'll shut up now, and start the story.
Yumoa Mura (pronounced yuMOah mura) is a small little village in the middle of nowhere, roughly two hours by train and bus from Noda City, Japan. Actually, there's nothing terribly interesting about this small village other than it houses an intriguing ninja museum, run by Tatsuo Muramatsu, an 8th dan in the Bujinkan dojo. Muramatsu-san is a unique character with the added talent of being inherently scary when you work out with him for the first time. He invited me to visit his ninja museum.
The train/bus ride to Yumoa Mura was rather uneventful, other than I missed the first bus and had to ride in a school bus with little brats making wide eyes and giggles at the huge and undeniably lost gaijin. When I finally reached the small village, it was late afternoon.
Muramatsu was waiting outside, puffing on a cigarette and looking bored. His eyes perked up and he smiled when he saw me trudging up the hill.
"You're late..." he said, not knowing that Greeks are incapable of ever arriving on time, and that I was, in my estimation, actually quite early. But I moaned and complained about lost buses and infernal signs in hiragana and all that, and soon Muramatsu-san was giving me the museum grand tour.
The Yumoa Mura ninja museum is a 400-year-old farm house that, as appearances would have it, was in all likelihood the home of a ninja family, though in fact it is far away from their traditional stomping grounds in Iga. The rear section of this farmhouse is a maze where the unwary visitor may easily become trapped or lost. The building's floor and ceiling abound with trap doors and secret passages. A historic weapons collection donated by grandmaster Dr. Masaaki Hatsumi is a main feature of the museum, with many chain, sickle, and guerrilla warfare-type weapons. I spent some time at the exhibit, photographing the weapons and looking at all the neat pictures of Dr. Hatsumi and the shihan instructors demonstrating one technique or another. Then Muramatsu called me in to see the maze, and the fun began in earnest.
He had lit another cigarette and was serenely standing by the open door of what seemed to be a small closet. In the rear wall of this closet, or passageway, a small opening gaped before me, large enough to fit a man. "Go in here," Muramatsu said, ' and come out here." He pointed to a door located adjacent to the one he had opened. I crammed my oversized gaijin body in to the narrow space, and reflected that the thing was idiotic. Big deal. So a passageway" connected the two doors. So what. Resolved to get it over with, I tried to find the mechanism by which one doorway opened into the other.
And was astonishingly unsuccessful.
Not only was there no passageway connecting the two doors, but I found to my dismay that I couldn't get out; somehow I had locked myself in when I shut the door. Remaining calm, I looked around me for a point of egress, arguing to myself there had to be one. After several fruitless attempts I finally managed to move a section of the wall to reveal a narrow passageway leading away from the door I needed to open. Not being one to ever let logic spoil things, I followed the narrow corridor. After trying for ten minutes to find an exit leading toward my goal, I gave in and followed the passageway to its end.
And promptly found myself outside the building.
Looking sheepish, I made my way around the farmhouse to where Muramatsu sat contentedly puffing his cigarette. He neither grinned nor encouraged me in any way, but rather nodded to himself solemnly when he saw me. No doubt I had confirmed some derogatory suspicion of his.
"Come on," he said, leading the way back to the original entrance. Muramatsu stooped and flowed into the open passageway. I followed, curious to see where all this would lead. With a groan of dismay, I saw him swing open a wall I had been working on for at least a few minutes, and step into a dimly lit section behind this "movable wall." Muramatsu beckoned with a finger, and I walked behind him into the main section of the maze. Always serious, he explained the mechanisms by which the various trick sections in the maze operated. "Oh," I said, "I see!"
Muramatsu paused. "Do you?" he said, and the reached over and put out the lights.
Major panic situation. What was he up to?
Slowly my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and I could make out Muramatsu silhouetted against the opening on the far side of the corridor. Putting one hand on one wall and the other on the other wall, I proceeded to move toward his shadow. A low chuckle indicated that he knew what I was doing; soon thereafter his outline vanished. No problem, I thought to myself, he's not going anywhere.
A few seconds later I found myself running up against the wall.
What the ...? How?!!!
Muramatsu tapped me on the shoulder. "Through here," he said, and proceeded to show me the tricks and traps located in the rest of the maze (which incidentally, is huge). I was silent throughout the tour. I could not for the life of me figure out how he had gotten behind me ...
We left the museum and walked outside, for a time in silence. Muramatsu showed me the various highlights of the Yumoa Mura area; here was a waterwheel, there was a log which he used to train his body motion. Here were spaced rocks on which he walked to train his balance. The normally taciturn shihan quickly warmed up to me, and soon was rambling. I was silent throughout the soliloquy. Asking if I was hungry and in response to the affirmative, Muramatsu took me to a restaurant owned by a friend and bought me dinner. When he had quieted down a bit, I finally broached the question: "How did you sneak up behind me in the maze?"
He looked surprised. "Walking," he said, "only walking. This is the basis of taijutsu. You must walk."
On the way home, I scolded myself for being an idiot. I had known all along what his answer was going to be, yet had hoped for something mysterious. (No doubt from reading too many American ninja books.)
Walking. Of course.
Anyone who knows or has visited Hatsumi sensei knows his training consists of walking his dogs three times a day, every day. The reader may find this amusing; that the training of a grandmaster of a martial arts system is the simple act of walking dogs. However, the beauty of this strategy is that he holds all three dogs by the leash in one hand.
Each dog obviously has its own mind, and wants, at any given moment, to indulge in the random activities that dogs indulge in when they are being walked. It is up to sensei to anticipate and control their movement without breaking stride. This he does, quite naturally. Since the emotional makeup of an animal is not too distant from that of a human being, the analogy is obvious. And so sensei walks his dogs.
Anyway, it bothers the heck out of me that I had missed such an obvious point. Excellent examples of this principle are the techniques called kata te nage, or one hand throws, in which the defender uses proper body positioning to throw the attacker with one hand and very little effort. The reader should note the very natural movement evident in the technique sequences; also note the lack of the long, low stances long associated with ninpo taijutsu in the American media. Nor does this very natural motion change when a weapon is used instead of unarmed combat.
This is the big secret of taijutsu that people have been keeping hidden for so long, that everyone was waiting to hear, that for generations and generations has been kept hidden, written and sealed in mystic makimono guarded among the mist-enshrouded mountains of distant Japan:
Use natural movement; train in walking.
Shh, don't tell anyone though, let's keep the secret to ourselves. After all, we don't want everyone catching on.
Or do we?
I often wonder how martial artists of other styles perceive ninpo taijutsu. No doubt the whole situation is very entertaining to the majority of serious martial artists around, what with the constant "political upheavals" and bickering and mud-slinging (for which I am probably setting myself up as a target right at this moment). But I wonder what, for example, an eighth dan in karate or whatever thinks when he sees some of our people ("our" referring to ninpo) move, act, or even open their mouths to spout generic wisdom. I don't know why it is, but it seems to me that people are always looking for an easy way out, and are perfectly willing to pursue any nonsense spouted by anyone, no matter how stupid it sounds or incompetent the person may seem, as long as it appears that this person holds some secret by which he can effortlessly get from point A to point B.
Gee ... it sure is easy to be weak, isn't it?
I mean, let's face it: ninpo taijutsu has to be the only Japanese martial art around with a genuine umpteen times re-incarnated Apache warrior running around claiming to be one of its major proponents and teachers. Why, the situation is so bad in ninjutsu that it reminds me of a science fiction story I read somewhere in some magazine. This story had to do with a hypothetical situation in an imaginary parallel universe, in a country on the world of (Urthh called the Yewnaited States of Merika. It turns out that a martial artist called Step Conrad went to a country called Jap-pon to study the mystical art of nojutsu. and while there learned the Golden Rule (he who has the gold, rules). Being an intelligent fellow, Step returned to the Yewnaited States and said to himself. "Step, you need to be living a life of luxury. Why don't you just hype up the mystical aspects of nojutsu and sell it to the public? I'm sure a lot of people will think you know some really cool hidden secrets, and pay you a lot of money. And the clincher is, you don't really have to show them anything at all about nojutsu! Then you can keep them on a string and . . . hmmm." So Step proceeded with his idea, and soon had a lot of followers. When people saw how much money Step was making, they said, "Gee ... This is a good idea! I want to be just like my hero Step." And so a lot of Step clones popped out of the woodwork.
Which was great for Step, because it just made him all the more well known, and all the Step followers could say. "Oh well, he's a phoney ..." and it made them feel good. Pretty soon the dental hygienists, minority honorary doctorate holders, and streetwise Philadelphians around became jealous of Step and decided that, darn, since Step was a nojutsu teacher, they could be one too, and make a lot of money, just like Step was. Meanwhile other people in Step's organization were too busy to decide who was number two or number three to get anywhere, and so they stopped training. Boy, were they angry when their students got better than they did. Others decided they didn't like what Step was doing in the first place, and left and formed their own nojutsu schools. Still others decided that things would be better if they improved on the martial art, and so they came up with combat nojutsu or Merikan nojutsu or other such drivel. The whole thing got so bad the students who really wanted to train in nojutsu could only sit back, scratch their heads and say, "Huh?" or run away to Jap-pon and try to figure out what was going on.
Boy, it's a good thing the circumstances in ninjutsu aren't as bad as those centering on nojutsu in that fiction story, isn't it?
Still, though, things are pretty bad here in America. I mean, can someone tell me why a good percentage of ninjutsu black-belts are either wimpy, or fat, or both? Is this an exclusive club or something? People are just missing the point, big time. If you really want to get anywhere in this art, and I'm not talking about a first kyu or something like that, you really have to set your sights very high, and face reality. When you train defense against kicks, for example, train as if your partner were Hee II Cho (not that I have any aspirations of ever, I mean ever, having to counter one of master Cho's kicks). When you train a defense against a punch, imagine that it's someone that can shatter ten bricks with his pinky. And so forth (i.e., the national judo champion of Japan has just seized you by the lapels . . . uh oh!) In other words, it's time to grow up, folks! You will never reach mastery of anything until you stop hiding behind other people and assume responsibility for your training and your life. Wake up! Become competent.
Look! In this article you can see a picture of me doing shugendo at a temple site, meditating under an icy waterfall. Everyone please send me $200 now. Doesn't make sense, does it? It was not your head and shoulders on which the freezing water was cascading; it was not your feet that stepped on the hot coals. There is no way I can pass these experiences on to you.
People have seen me do some weird/ exciting/exotic things at seminars and demos, and I hate it when they come up to me afterward and say, "Gee, Elmer, that was pretty keen, can you show us how to do that?" Because the answer is, "No!" There are no shortcuts, no free lunches, no mystical secrets that enable you to bypass years of training.
Look, I'll shut up now. This wasn't supposed to turn into Chuck publicly airing his gripes or blowing his horn or anything like that. It's just. ..
It's just that I want a bunch of friends around the world I can get together and train with, and not a bunch of zombies mindlessly following a few dim sparks. Does that make sense to anyone? Come on, you must be out there ...
Anyway, let's talk about taijutsu. There are three types of interesting movements prevalent in Japan that don't seem to get much coverage in the U.S. These are the san shin ta ken da ho motion, hicho techniques and the infamous taijutsu X-step. Each of these movements has a direct correlation to mental training in the Bujinkan dojo ryu of ninpo taijutsu, so I'm writing about them, since I have decided to quibble about mental training in this article.
The sanshin motion refers to swinging the attacking limb freely in a relaxed manner. In the technique sequence, when the attacker strikes the defender fades under, simultaneously striking the soft areas the bicep with an upward swinging motion. Next the defender strikes again to the same spot with his other hand using the same freely swinging motion. The defender clinches things with a kick to the same spot, using what is called san shin no geri, the equivalent of the arm motion except using the leg. The combination of three such strikes to the same weak point is a terrible attack against the opponent.
Hicho ni ken tobi methods are used to escape quickly from the area of conflict. Jumping should be kept low to the ground and propel the defender out of the danger zone. In the variation of the kappi technique, the defender counters the attacker's strike with a right and left shuto and quickly leaps clear of the area. This method of motion is quick, useful, and unpredictable, and should be practiced extensively by those who are seriously interested in taijutsu.
The X-step is another integral part of taijutsu and should be trained with the idea of retaining total freedom of motion in the execution of technique. Once again a basic application of this principle is shown in the technique sequence, in this case a simple variation of the historic technique kasa sagi.
One important point to be made is that in the Bujinkan dojo, taijutsu and mental training are inseparable. Taijutsu is mental training, and should be treated as such by the serious student.
About the Author: Chuck Dervenis is a frequent contributor to Inside Kung-Fu.