Killer Deer of Sacred Destinations

Deer. If peaceful were signed to an animal, most likely we would think of these demure doe-eyed creatures lapping cool freshwater with their soft pink tongues. However, the bashfulness of this allegorically amicable animal completely vanishes once they have had a taste of human-fed biscuits.

They swarm and charge, exposing teeth we once thought were dull, harmless and unused. Their antlers are now understood to be weaponry, and for the first time, we can see that they might actually have some sort of innate defense mechanism other than running the other direction. As for the unassuming tourist who revels in the opportunity to become akin with the deer-kind, they ultimately fall into a halcyon-cloaked park of wild animals who's only motivation is food and revenge against the human race.
Nara is known for it's population of deer that are well-accustomed to being fed by passerby's on the way to Todaiji (Great Eastern Temple), a landmark for the former capital of Japan and one of the largest temples in the country.
We gave into temptation and the opportunity to share a false sense of peace with these conventional creatures.
We brought our friend Snow White along. Actually, she is our Welsh friend, Katherine, who dressed for the occasion more appropriately than if I showed up to my wedding in a white dress. The deer, blue dress, alabaster skin and ebony locks, and an apple gave way to an exceptional photo op of such a classical Disney cliche.
The plan before arriving in Nara was to settle in the grass in a seemingly idyllic landscape with sweet bucks staggered and a spread of fine wine and imported cheese. Our very own rendition of Manet's Petit Dejeuner sur l'Herbe. To our dismay, the image of us in a bucolic wonderland melted as fast as my soft serve in the suffocatingly humid Japanese summertime.

Our four-legged welcoming committee had certainly rained on our parade. We walked further into Nara, dodging the lovely meadow muffins the deer had left behind, until we found an area in the woods (technically, it was near a bathroom set off from the road) where it seemed like no deer would reach. We enjoyed our luncheon, with the idea of the perfect picnic still swirling futilely through our minds. It made for a good laugh and we were so hungry by that point it was hard to care...we knew we could take on the deer fist vs. hoof if we had to.
Above: The aftermath of an over-zealous deer with a hunger for gaijin flesh.
As we emerged from our respite, we began to realize that the 500yen you pay for those biscuits were better off up your ass than in your hand, attempting to feed a deer. They come hungry and they come with friends.
It started to rain just as we arrived at the entrance of Todaiji. Once beyond the masses of schoolchildren and feral deer, the temple stood as this wholly divine construction of quietude. There is this silence when in the presence of a temple or shrine- a sound beyond even white noise or the flurry around you. It truly feels sacred and touched by a celestial hand.
The entrance to the Daibutsuden (Great Buddha Hall) was cluttered with black and white cotton from the junior high field trip blitz. There was a group of them gathered around incense, making offerings to Daibutsu.

The rain had stopped for the time being and there was a steam-like presence in the soft light coming in from the slits in the wooden paneling of the Hall.
This monastery-temple was founded by Emperor Shomu when Nara was the capital of Japan. It was the head temple of the network of provincial monasteries throughout Japan. Immense in scale (significantly larger than the temple that stands today), Todaiji represented the culmination of imperial Buddhist architecture.
According to legend, nearly 2,600,000 people helped construct the Buddha — but as that would amount to nearly the half of the people in Japan at the time, this is probably exaggerated. Even so, by the time the Daibutsu was completed in 751, it had consumed most of Japan's bronze production for several years and left the country almost bankrupt.

The Daibutsuden is said to be the largest wooden building in the world. This is especially impressive in light of the fact that the present reconstruction (from 1692) is only two thirds of the original temple's size. The original complex also contained two 100-meter-high pagodas, probably the tallest buildings in the world at the time, but these were destroyed by earthquake. The Daibutsu is made of copper and bronze, weighs 250 tons and stands 30 meters tall. His intricate hairstyle is made of 966 bronze balls and as a welcome ceremony, was blessed by an Indian priest who stood on a specially built platform and painted in Daibutsu's eyes with a enlarged paintbrush.

The magnanimity of the structure itself was enough to put me in awe. I wish I could have been here alone, to feel the full force of this effectual deity display. I always wish this for myself in museums, but then again, this certainly wasn't as much of a let down as the Mona Lisa.
I'll brave the mucky walk back to the train station fulfilled in this excursion, all the while, looking over my shoulder in suspicion of a deceptively gentle doe.