South of the Four Countries and the Nine Provinces there lies an island, touched, neither by the slow but all consuming hand of time, nor by the oft haphazard, chaotic, but equally destructive hand of man. A place wrought by wind and rain alone, polishing white granite into enormous, soft shapes, and where a gentle, generous climate covered the rock with thick moss, and the entire island with an even thicker blanket of cedar trees older than most religions.

At the end of Japan’s rainy season, Indi and I had the good fortune of visiting this island of Yakushima. Surrounding a dark and hidden interior inhabited mostly by large black butterflies, droning cicadas and the dual realms of deer and ape, only a very small human community clings to the island’s coastline, a fringe presence enabled by seaborne trade, temporary in the truest sense. 

On the second day of our trek across the peak of the island, having awoken at three thirty in the morning, we finally pierce the thick tree cover of cedars and strangler figs. As the sun starts to bleed onto the horizon like a brutal spill across the centre of a water colour painting, the silhouettes of the surrounding ridges stand out in clear black against the sky. Pushing on into the dawn, we slowly approach the peak of Mount Miyanoura, nearing the firmament with every step.

Once on top, we notice a troop of monkeys occupying the next boulder over. They see us as well, and inquisitively scurry near, their movement betrayed by the swaying bushes. The younger ones play around, pulling tails, lured by their overwhelming curiosity, until the leader of the pack decides that we have been on his mountain long enough. His growl sends the youngest ones running. Then he steals one of our water bottles and swings it over his head, hissing and viscous.

Having learned from her experience in Cambodia, Indi doesn’t scream and run with fear. Instead, showing the power and might of the true apex predator on this island, she jumps atop the tallest rock, throws her arms in the air to make herself larger, and roars with a deep fury. Shocked and surprised, the monkeys all turn and flee, jumping comically into the bushes, leaving them shaking. However, the leader merely drops the bottle and remains defiant in front of the safety of the underbrush. In response, Indi accuses him of being a bad monkey, an evil one. She goes as far as condemning him to a lower status on the primate ladder, and orders him to leave, an order he seems reluctant to follow. 

When I’ve recovered from laughing my head off at Indi’s fierce reaction, I stoop down to grab the nearest piece of granite. I clearly show the pack leader my rudimentary weapon, and despite his small cerebral cortex, his monkey brain understands that the tables have turned. He finds an opening in the bamboo grass and hides, peeking his head out to assess the situation. I signal him my rock again, and like a mole underground, he hides, only to pop out again every ten seconds, to check if I’m still holding the undefeatable rock. (part 2)