Most of us have tried, at one time or other, to “find” ourselves. I pursued my own search during a brief stopover in Japan. Fascinated by the country’s serene rituals and traditions, I naively hoped that in the course of my short stay the power of Zen would help me unlock my innermost being.

Against the odds, the trip revealed a profound human truth, though not through patient meditation in a silent room. This particular bolt of insight struck me on the Tokyo Metro during rush hour.

I was standing on an impossibly crowded platform when an even more impossibly crowded train arrived. The doors opened. A handful of people got off; the entire waiting throng attempted to get on. There appeared to be absolutely no room aboard, yet somehow commuters wormed themselves through the doors into unlikely spaces.

My inclination to await the next train was negated by a uniformed oshiya — a “pusher” — who barged me unceremoniously into the human sardine tin. The doors shimmied closed behind me. The train resumed its journey.

For the next few minutes, I endured intimate proximity with total strangers. My body was poked and prodded in ways I wouldn’t expect even from my wife — at least, not in public. At the next stop I was accidentally carried out by the tide of exiting passengers. But this time I didn’t hesitate — I forced my way back on. The instinct to complete my journey transcended all else.

Beneath the surface order of Japan, there is an underlying pressure that often erupts in bursts of disciplined brouhaha. It even manifests itself annually in the Buddhist temples. Each January, during hadaka matsuri — “naked man” festivals — thousands of men clad in nothing but cloth thongs cram into temple courtyards.

These rituals, thought to have evolved from pagan fertility rites, vary from temple to temple, but usually involve all of the men simultaneously attempting to achieve a single goal — grabbing a sacred wooden figurine, climbing a sacred rope or touching a nominated naked man. The festivals rapidly degenerate into underdressed versions of the Tokyo Metro at rush hour.

This local inclination toward controlled mass mayhem extends to the uniquely Japanese sport of bo-taoshi. The objective is simple: the possession of a large pole. One team of 75 defenders crowds protectively around the upright pole while, at the referee’s starting gun, the other team of 75 attackers launches an all-out onslaught to pull it down.

Traditionally played by army cadets, this is a sport of few tactics and little subtlety. Attackers clamber all over the defenders. Fists and feet fly. The injured limp, or are carried, from the field. Eventually, by sheer attrition, one side prevails, and the pole is retained or toppled. Regardless of the outcome, everyone bears bruises.

Prior to my arrival in Japan, my first misconception had been that I would be able to enjoy meditative solitude in which to find myself. On this congested island, solitude is hard to come by.

The second misconception was to view the omnipresent crowds as monolithic entities. On the Metro, at the naked man festivals and in the vigorous sport of bo-taoshi, the crowd is composed of individuals. From a distance, a crowd can ebb and flow seemingly in unity; but up close, it’s a different story.

That is the profound lesson I learned as I stood cheek by jowl with the commuters of Tokyo, one that has been compounded by witnessing a naked man festival and the sport of bo-taoshi. When push comes to shove, you’re on your own.