Kyoto
Even in Kyoto, we long for Kyoto. The city is overstuffed with national treasures from across time, juxtaposed within the city limits. It begs you to ask: How is it possible to have made all of this? From observers of primates washing yams, to builders of great wooden temples and constructors of colossal glass hangars like Kyoto Station, Kyoto is a testament to the accomplishments of humanity. It is more than a Japanese treasure; it is a human treasure—which, in fact, saved the city from destruction in World War II. How could one day be long enough to see this city? It’s barely enough time to see the station.
Unfortunately, one must make choices when enduring the limits on vacation time. So we spend the morning on classics: the endless tunnels of vermilion gates (torii) at Fushimi Inari, where we ogle stray cats perched on Shinto shrines begging for breakfast and lament the fate of the shivering toy poodle dragged up a mountain on its pink leash. Next: The grand Buddhist temple Kiyomizu-dera, with its wish-granting water, also high above the city. Amazed travelers cascade down the hill of souvenir shops like ants returning with their bounty of wants.
But our next stop is less of a sure hit. Having been disgusted by animal parks in the past, we are not inclined towards optimism on our adventure to a place called Monkey Park Iwatayama. We have thrown ginger snaps to desperately craning ostriches at drive-through safaris; we know the horror stories of drugged-out tigers mercilessly cuddled. These are not happy places, these “animal parks.” But we can’t leave Kyoto without seeing monkeys, and it’s very close to lovely Tenryu-ji. Orange torii and temples may be the more traditional treasures of human heritage, but the monkeys are a hidden wonder of Japan.
Starting in the 1950s, Japanese primatology provided an influential counterpoint to Western methodologies. While the West endeavored to neutrally observe and scientifically calculate the meaning of primates, Japanese primatologists adopted an approach more akin to anthropology than a hard science. Early on, they began giving their subjects names. By reputation, they work with empathy rather than running from it. They interact with their subjects, studying their social patterns. They embrace the specificity of their situation and are less obsessed with critical distance. But like all primatologists, they seek to understand humanity. And the study of the macaque, the major native monkey of Japan, is a big component of that project.
What a relief it is to find that the Monkey Park is, if not quite the unspoiled habitat of Japanese macaques, certainly not a bad place for a monkey to be. It is, as the sign claims, a 20-minute walk to the monkeys from the entrance to the park. We pay our fees and make the climb, growing increasingly distressed by the warning signs posted everywhere: Do not look the monkeys in the eye, do not touch. By the time we reach the summit, we’re a bit unnerved by the monkey battle royale scene we are sure will be there to greet us.
At the top of the path, a building walled with metal fencing dominates the hill. Big, curious eyes stare out from behind the rusted grate, hands timidly outstretched to the creatures peering in. The caged primates squeal and shriek, excited to the point of fervor. And the monkeys, clinging to the fence outside, reach in calmly for their prize.
There are macaques everywhere: On the ground, on the building, on the fences, on the mountain. They are grooming, playing, screeching, sleeping. They are ganging up on each other, waging little incomprehensible wars. Though they are a small troop, there is no shortage of monkeys. On the edge of the cliff overlooking Kyoto, monkeys perch on fenceposts, looking at the visitors rather than the view. They mingle with us—a prescribed distance away, and monitored by vigilant guardians, but still disturbingly close.
On the edges of the park, beyond where visitors are permitted, researchers crouch in observation. While the park is successful as a tourist attraction, it also serves as a research site for fledgling primatologists. The behaviors of the troop, along with a comprehensive genealogy, are methodically recorded in view of awestruck tourists.
Of course, most people do not come to the monkey park to watch the slow gears of science turn. We come to see the monkeys. And for a primate enthusiast, the kind of interaction offered by the park is worth the climb. The fenced building is for feeding the monkeys, the main attraction. On this day there are peanuts, grapes, or bananas. Girls screaming “Kawaii!” (Cute!) and children crying in terror line the perimeter. We battle our way to a wall where a grown monkey has pushed a baby monkey out of its way. An American lectures her husband (and half the park) on the social ranking system of the macaques. The monkey waits, patient or bored, to be fed.
I hold out my hand flat, as instructed; the macaque opens his. When his small hand, black and crusty, gently scrapes a grape from my open palm, I am horrified and elated. The monkey looks bored and shoves his greedy arm back through the fence for more. He hangs there, as if he’s seen it all before. And he has.
If we had a week, we would venture to the Japan Monkey Centre in Inuyama, where the oldest English-language primatology journal is published. Later in the year we might visit Jigokudani Monkey Park in Nagano Prefecture to see the macaques bathing in their hot springs or warming themselves by bonfires. But for a hurried afternoon, Monkey Park Iwatayama is the perfect glimpse of the monkeys of Japan.
One warning: If you follow in our footsteps, the “20-minute walk” to the top means a 20-minute vertical scramble up a mountain. That’s the “yama” in Iwatayama. On our way out we wanted to warn the troop pondering the sign: “No, chain-smoking Germans! You will not make it!” But we hope that they did. That moment, with the Kyoto skyline juxtaposed against the silhouette of a Japanese macaque, is thoroughly surreal.
Tara Barnett is a writer in Washington.
