Marauding Monkeys - Good Cheer Publishing

Travel Talk

Monkey Mountain
By Noah Decter-Jackson

In the process of trying to reorganize my life into neat cardboard boxes I come across this vagrant memory fallen from the pages of a photo album. In it an Iberian, an American and I stand at the foot of a vast stone stairway, guarded at each side by the vibrant mosaic of a Japanese autumn.

What marks this brief moment in time is that the three foreigners are making utter fools of themselves: arms extended like crooked claws below tooth-filled faces and eye-wincing mugs, poster children for some mutant experiment gone wrong.

We're trying, in our insolent way, to imitate the cute monkeys we expect to see atop the great Arashiyama. Instead, we've succeeded at looking like a colony of demented beavers on holiday. I would have normally backed away from such childish behavior but despite myself I've been caught up in the thrill of the monkey hunt!

I'd been talked into this adventure after two days of overdosing on Kyoto's history and culture. The countless temples and shrines seemed more numerous than the residents walking the streets and I'd seen about all the Tori gates and Buddha statues I can stand for one weekend.

Marco the Spaniard and Sarah the American convinced me to join them on a visit to the Arashiyama monkeys. The rest of our group have declined. "Ewww! You wanna see monkeys?" one woman declared in a childlike singsong, "Why do you want to see some stinky, dirty monkeys?"

But Marco's obvious glee at the prospect of monkeys swayed me and I'm infected by his excitement. I looked forward to the next day much as I had anticipated some big trip in my childhood. We were going to see monkeys, damn it!

The next morning was an early one. We attacked the hotel buffet, a strange mix of scrambled eggs and rice, miso soup and French fries. It was there, staring at a vast plate of uneaten potatoes, that the master plan took its dangerous turn toward folly.

"You know", said Sarah, breaking the silence, "those monkeys would probably be really friendly if we fed them, right?" I felt a pang of uneasiness as Marco eagerly took the cue and smuggled paper napkins from nearby tables. "Quick, hide them when the waiter isn't looking", he added while handing a second stack to me. Sarah was already stuffing French fries into napkin pouches and I couldn't help but laugh a little hysterically in support.

"Feeding wild animals isn't a good idea. They probably have rules against it!" That's what I should have said. But the monkeys sang their distant siren song and the greasy potato chunks were stuffed hastily into various bags and pockets.

It wasn't long before our eager group arrived at the foot of Mount Arashiyama. We cracked jokes and laughed the whole way there. I thought back to my Japanese Religion class where the nature spirits (or kami) were described:

"They aren't really so much gods in the polytheistic sense, which is how they're often translated, but they represent more the general awe of things unexplainable by the people at the time: forces of nature raised to supernatural status through lack of understanding. The kami were thought to embody almost everything in the earth: rocks, trees, and animals even."

And I thought perhaps that these monkeys might once have been revered as great spirits worthy of respect and how the culture had preserved this place for them so that a pact of peace might be maintained.

The ticket booth at the bottom of the mountain marred that notion a little bit but, then again, no force on earth has yet conquered greed. The old man at the gate seemed even happy to take our monkey-mocking picture after he'd taken our money.

Oh how innocent we were! Directed to a rough sign scrawled in several languages, we read: ëDo not stare at the monkeys! Do not touch the monkeys! Please do not feed the monkeys on the south side!'

"Seems fair enough", I said as began climbing the steps.

"I wonder what's wrong with the monkey's on the south side?" Marco asked.

"Probably eat too much", said Sarah casually, the only one in our group near fluent in Japanese.

A bell, apparently from a shrine below, sounded oddly as we climbed the small stone steps. They ended eventually on a large dirt path, where we continued, following its winding trails up the mountainside. The mountain was covered from top to bottom with vast trees, and through them we could hear the incessant chatter of birds communing above. It was pretty disappointing that after 30 minutes of ascent in relative darkness we had yet to see a single monkey. We had however passed three signs, each larger than the one that had come before it, and each with clear advice, ëPlease don't feed the monkeys!'

Sometimes dark shadows appeared from the trees, sentinels leering down. We grew silent as we continued the climb. Finally, with a gasp of surprise, Sarah caught the glimpse of a shadowy figure walking up towards the path below us,

"There's one, I can see it! Quick, the French fries!" I backed further up the mountain path.

"I really think this is a bad idea, guys", is what I should have said. But I was already under the monkey's spell, and although I had fearfully pulled back, the furry little creature transfixed me.

"It's coming closer! Get out your camera too!" she said, swiftly pulling one of the French fry pouches from Marco's bag. The monkey stopped not four feet from the two conspirators and, as the first fry tumbled to the ground, it jumped back in alarm, taking a moment to examine the fast food remnant. The creature, which looked as much like a giant rat as a monkey, had a reddish face and wore a coat of disheveled gray. It did not resemble the innocent ëCurious George' type I had been expecting.

"Get out another French fry, Marco!" Sarah called. "Hold it out so that it'll come closer." That advice was unnecessary, for as soon as the little monster had finished looking at the food, it screeched violently into the air. The birds squawked back even more loudly in response. In the blink of an eye the French fry was gone.

I wondered for a moment if monkeys could speak with birds but I was soon distracted from my speculations. Three more creatures, much larger than the first, were now coming up the mountain path.

"Oh wait," Sarah asked as Marco drew in the first monkey with another French fry. "Let's get the picture with those monkeys too!" Grabbing a pouch from Marco's bag, she tossed the French fries in a pile nearby, and each new monkey came up and inspected a potato carefully.

"Uh, I don't think this is such a good idea", I said, backing even further up the path. Marco, surrounded by monkeys and looking worriedly at his remaining pouches, seemed to agree with me.

"What are you talking about? They're just harmless monk--," Sarah stopped as she turned around, looking at me in a strangely awestruck way.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I asked, feeling my hair and shoulders for bird droppings. Finding nothing, I looked up.

I am reminded to this day of the monkey house in my hometown zoo, only without any bars or glass or cage. I began to realize that the squawking above was not coming from any sort of birds at all. I beheld a savage wall of impending doom. A brutal group of swinging savages that claimed this mountain long ago, preparing in secret for the ascension of their mighty race. And I thought of the poor Japan Tourism Bureau, who had sold out their country, nay, sold out the whole world for a few lousy bucks and a plot of good land. Perhaps they had had no choice. Was that a pile of bones off the cliff-side? All this I realized and more as our band of companions ran screaming from the monkey onslaught. The last sign we passed in our race down the mountain read, 'Don't show the monkeys any food!'

Although we escaped Arashiyama that day, my psyche was dealt a permanent scar. I have been cursed by the monkey spirits and must be ever vigilant.

Copyright © Noah Decter-Jackson