Long, tall poles of green bamboo shoot out towards the sky in the, appropriately named, bamboo forest. In Arashiyama, travellers gather and fill the town to observe the expansive groves of the world’s tallest grass. The groves of bamboo grow close to the riverbank and around local temples and Shinto shrines. The temperature is noticeably cooler amongst the evergreen forest, especially with a gentle breeze passing through. The serenity of the natural phenomenon brings about a feeling of stillness and calm. The bamboo forest is slowly becoming the world’s second most famous grassy knoll.
Among the various groups who’ve come from central Kyoto to view the forest, there is a family group. The group of caucasian tourists plod down the bamboo path talking at full volume, breaking the peacefulness that envelopes the area. They’re loud and, despite thinking they have slipped into the area quietly and discreetly, they stick out like a sore thumb. The worst seems to be their youngest who is precociously leading the group. He’s a short, overconfident nine-year-old who doesn’t seem to fully appreciate that his parents have brought him all the way to Japan. He’s singing songs as he walks through fields of bamboo, ignoring the quiet, contemplative atmosphere. He’s in a sky blue jumper and for some reason has pieces of plant matter in his hair, an attempt to make those around him laugh and draw further attention to himself.
It’s 2007 and the nine-year-old is me. It’s my first visit to Japan. We’ve just visited Tokyo and recently arrived in Kyoto. I’ve taken it upon myself to be tour guide belting out the tune “I Wish I Was A Tour Guide (With Bamboo in My Hair),” a clever and seamless rewrite of the recently popular hit “I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker (With Flowers in My Hair).” I don’t know any other lines in the song apart from the first line of the chorus, itself the title of the song, and so, in my haste, this is the only line that has gotten a rewrite. This doesn’t bother me. As far as I’m concerned, my changes scan perfectly and I take to singing this one line over and over as I play tour guide (who would ever have such a job?) for the family.
Sixteen years later and Kyoto, in some respects, is very much the same. The temples and shrines remain unchanged and are still a drawcard for the average traveller, like myself. Like in the past, the few ‘geiko’ (geishas) that work in Kyoto are occasionally seen walking the old alleys of Gion in the early evening. Thankfully, they have yet to be cancelled for their persistent use of whiteface. The ‘Philosopher’s Path’ still winds its way down a pleasant canal, though now I understand what a philosopher actually is. Department stores still open at nine o’clock on the dot and are welcomed by a frenzy of shoppers. You still enter local buses at the backdoor, a concept I was fascinated by the first time I was in the city, and it’s still not that expensive to get a half-decent bowl of udon.
The city, and country as a whole, is still incredibly safe. Security presence is everywhere but, ironically, due to how safe everything is, security staff only really provide the appearance of safety. Ancient security guards still stand in front of buildings and supermarkets, appearing so frail that they’d likely have a heart attack if they ever had to confront a criminal. Museums still have staff who tell me to keep quiet when I sneeze too loudly. And when I walked too close to a wall outside the Kyoto Sento Imperial Palace I managed to set off an alarm twice followed by an announcement on the grounds, in English, for the “man in the black t-shirt [to] please step away from the wall.” Japan is still very safe but it comes at the responsibility of individuals to maintain an uptight, rule-bound approach to their day-to-day lives.
Some things are a bit different though. Instagram didn’t exist in 2007. People generally weren’t taking pictures on their phones. And those that did take photographs with their digital cameras were only planning to show them to friends and family when they got home from their trip, not barely a few minutes after they took them. These days most people visiting Kinkaku-ji temple spend more time viewing the gold leaf-covered pavilion through an LCD screen than with their own eyes. Taking pictures used to be something you did at an attraction and more and more it has become the sole reason to go to the attraction in the first place.
The bamboo forest used to be a place humans visited to see a forest of bamboo. It seems to now be a place that some bamboo happens to be in amongst a forest of humans. It is a people forest laden with selfie-stick undergrowth. Many many people visit the forest each day and everyone tries to make it appear like they are the only ones there. There’s even a small patch of bamboo, away from the main area, where person after person lines up to take a picture of themselves standing in between poles of bamboo, since the main grove is fenced off.
It seems so vain - going on a holiday, obsessed with the idea of getting your ugly face into every picture.
