This couldn’t be the whole festival. The street in front of me had a few food stalls, some people drifting around, and a lot of empty space. I’d come to Shimokitazawa for the Tengu Festival, but so far it felt less like a festival and more like a quiet Sunday afternoon. “This can’t be it,” I muttered.
There had to be a flyer. A map. Something. The weather was perfect, but I’d barely slept the night before.
My legs were already tired. I didn’t have the energy to wander around guessing. Then I saw a poster on the wall. Shimokitazawa Sake Festival, starting next week.
A bar crawl with crazy spicy food, moving from pub to pub. My kind of thing. I made a mental note to come back for that. But right now, I was here for the tengu.
A group of comedians stood outside a small theater, shouting for people to come watch their live show. It reminded me of Daehangno back in Seoul, all those tiny theaters and young performers. Cute. But still no tengu.
Then I spotted someone handing out flyers. I grabbed one. “There we go. ”
Shimokitazawa Tengu Festival.
There was an event at 2:20, then another at 2:40. I checked my phone. It was already past 2:20. I had to catch the second one.
The flyer said it started near Ichibangai. I had no idea where that was. “It starts from here,” I said. “So I just have to follow the route.
”
I started moving. The streets were packed now. People pushed in every direction, and the crowd swallowed me almost immediately. I looked for the landmarks I knew — Starbucks, Flamingo, Mos Burger.
Nothing matched. I pulled out my phone. The internet was crawling. Useless.
“At this rate, I’m just going for a neighborhood walk. ”
Then I heard it. A sound. A rhythm.
Coming from somewhere ahead, unmistakable. Drums. Shouts. Laughter rolling down the street.
“Is that it? Do you hear that? ”
I followed the noise. It got louder with every step.
I turned a corner and there it was. Found it. The first thing I saw was the mask. Huge, red-faced, with a long nose that stuck out like a beak.
A tengu. Not a statue. Not a costume prop. A real one, walking down the middle of the road on enormous wooden geta, swaying with every step like he was about to fall over.
It was incredible. “Look at that guy,” I said. “How can he even walk in those? ”
Behind him came the others.
Smaller masks. Oni with horns. Demons with wild eyes. But the big one in the back was the real deal.
He owned the street. Everyone pulled out their phones. Kids screamed. The drumming got louder.
I felt like I was chasing the Pied Piper. I didn’t care where we were going. I just followed. The best part?
No tickets. No entrance fee. Just a local neighborhood event, the kind people put on for each other. The big tengu at the back was the absolute boss of the parade.
He stopped for a moment, and the crowd pressed in. I was packed so tight I could barely move my arms. Then someone passed out little paper packets. Beans.
“Wait, are these for throwing? ”
I opened my packet. Bright yellow soybeans. This was a Setsubun event.
The beans were for throwing at the tengu. I knew the tradition — every year, families throw beans to drive away bad luck and invite good luck. At kindergartens, kids throw them at grown men wearing oni masks. Here, they were throwing them at the tengu.
The long-nosed one. The one leading the parade. Then the chant started. “Oni wa soto!
Fuku wa uchi! ”
Demons out! Fortune in! It wasn’t some weird cult thing.
Just a tradition. A loud, messy, perfect local tradition. “Here goes. ”
I threw a handful.
Then another. The tengu roared and took a step forward, and the whole crowd laughed and backed up at the same time. Someone handed me another packet. I turned and gave it to the foreign woman standing next to me because she didn’t have one.
A second later, she was throwing beans too. The sun was out. The festival was loud. I was exhausted, but I didn’t feel tired anymore.
The tengu was still standing there, fierce and ridiculous, waiting for the next round. I had another handful ready. I threw it as hard as I could.