they were a bit pricey initially, they have proven to be quite durable and easily re-covered when the paper gets ragged. But these all require specialized craftsmen (like the “door and window man” who did the work here) and materials like paper—which cannot be made by most families at home, and so they represent a step away from true self-sufficiency and into the wider cash economy. At the same time, the design is simple to the point of austerity, is unembellished, and relies primarily on the harmonies and counterpoints of unadorned natural materials for its beauty.
a beautiful extension of space
The zashiki is also located to take best advantage of the engawa. With the exterior shutters open, the space under the eaves becomes a beautiful extension of the tatami room. The deep, low eaves shade the interior and modulate its light, and the shoji may be closed fully or partially to control the light even further. The engawa is an intermediate zone, and people can remain in that part where they are most comfortable at the moment or that part best suited to what they happen to be doing, without needing to break off conversation. It also allows visitors to drop by and chat very informally, standing under the eaves or sitting on the edge of the veranda.
To enter the house proper by removing one’s shoes and stepping up to the hiroma implies a long visit and, consequently, the expectation of further hospitality in the form of food and drink. The intermediate space of the engawa, however, with its “here but not really here” ambiguity, enables both parties to end conversation easily and return to what they were doing.
Tucked most deeply inside the house is the nando, or sleeping room. Like the zashiki, the nando has changed over the course of recent decades due to technical and economic developments. From time immemorial, it seems, the nando was a small, wood-floored room with a deep sill into which straw would be thrown as bedding for the entire household. Cotton futon bedding was unavailable, and actual bedding of any sort was only available to the wealthiest classes. Commoners slept in their one set of daily clothes, covering themselves with piles of loose straw and huddling together for warmth. It was uncomfortable and not particularly warm or hygienic.
The early eighteenth century witnessed an agricultural revolution, however, when cotton was grown on a large scale with the encouragement and support of the government. From the point of view of the government, cotton textiles present obvious advantages for outfitting armies because of their durability and strength when compared to hemp, the most commonly used fiber until then. (Silk, of course, is a superior fiber in these regards, but it remains a luxury item.) As cotton has become more widely available, it has declined in cost to the point where even commoners can afford more than one set of clothes as well as bedding, and everything can be repeatedly washed at high temperatures. Mortality records show that the overall health of peasants has improved with the introduction of cotton.
Like the zashiki, the nando of Shinichi’s house is floored with tatami—as is a small anteroom—and it has the deep closets for bedding storage that have started to become common around this time. It is still a fairly small room, however in which the whole family sleeps together, clean, warm, and comfortable.
We ask to use the toilet and are led there by Shinichi’s daughter. This is the smallest room in the house, and while located close to the entrance, it is an almost separate structure. It consists of two cubicles: one an open urinal for men, another just large enough for a wooden-floored squat toilet. The latter has a lightweight wooden door and latch, though there is no separation by gender, age, or status. It is simple and easy to clean, and though no one would consider it a pleasant place, it is made less offensive by incense and flowers. To the user, the toilet serves its purpose well. It is well ventilated (and consequently quite cold in winter), and a concern for hygiene is clear from the nearby hand-washing basin, which is found even in the poorest homes.
To the household, the toilet has an essential and positive economic value. Human waste, or night soil, has become an irreplaceable fertilizer, and considerable ingenuity has been expended on toilet design to allow these waste products to be easily collected and processed. The toilets are built over large wooden casks or earthenware jars sunken into the ground, with lids easily accessible from the ground level outdoors. The provision of a separate urinal is not purely for the convenience of the user; solids and liquids are processed differently before they are ready for the fields, and the underground holding tanks are also separate. From time to time, one sees outdoor urinals built directly over tanks, conveniently located for men working outdoors and intended to encourage them to deposit their waste fluids into the collection system rather than in the open field. Farmers also build toilets and urinals along well-traveled roads for public use, in the hopes of increasing their yields of fertilizer.
In fact, human waste has become a big business, and farmers go to great lengths to secure contracts to collect and transport night soil from the cities to use on their fields. In Europe, this waste is being dumped into rivers, polluting the water supply and leading to outbreaks of cholera, but here the frequent collection and efforts to minimize leakage and loss have positive health benefits for all.
The practice of bathing regularly also has tremendous health benefits. Whereas privately operated public baths have become very common in cities, where the density of the population can support the business on a large scale, bathing is a household affair in villages (unless there is a natural hot spring nearby). Although rapid development in bath facility design is taking place, including improvements in the construction of bathtubs and the design of water heating and drainage systems, few of these advances benefit peasants like Shinichi directly, and it will be over one hundred years before the average farmhouse is equipped with an actual bathroom, tub, and water heater.
At Shinichi’s household, once a week a large tub is dragged either into the doma or outside, filled with water heated on the kamado and over the irori, and everyone, including the neighbors, takes turns washing themselves and soaking. Bathers scrub themselves with small cloth pouches filled with rice bran, which provide the perfect amount of abrasion. Because no soap is used, the waste-water may be safely collected and sent to the pond. Heating this much water is laborious and consumes as much fuel as a day’s worth of meals, and consequently it is difficult to justify bathing more frequently.
There are bathing methods that use less energy, the most common being the steam bath. Often little more than a shuttered cabinet barely large enough for two people and fitted with a small charcoal brazier and a pan of water, the steam bath provides several intense cleansing minutes of pore-opening and sweating. After scrubbing and rinsing with cool water, one feels very clean and refreshed. In summer months, solar energy is used to save fuel. A large jar of water is placed outside directly in the sun, and over the course of the day, it becomes warm enough to be used for the evening bath. Water similarly warmed may also be used to jump-start the heating of water for tea, also saving fuel.
Over time, a variety of bathing arrangements have appeared, from the cook pot-like iron goemon-buro tub to small rooms that have no tubs but are equipped with drains in the floor. But the key component of the bath remains hot water, and the respect and value accorded it reflects an awareness that the benefits come with a significant cost in fuel and therefore in environmental impact. This drive to economize on hot bathwater will prove to be an enduring value (and continue to influence bath design) in later centuries as well.
self-sufficiency as a way of life
Life in the village is