By Mandy Bartok

Paradise Lost
It’s hard to enjoy the beauty of nature when the tourists outnumber the trees

Mandy Bartok is a language teacher living in Tokyo

So wrote Basho, celebrated Japanese poet and creator of the modern haiku. Judging by the content of Basho’s numerous poems, he seemed to be a nature lover, a fact to which I can certainly relate. But even though I find great beauty in the poet’s imagery, the more important question I have is this: how many times was his contemplative garden scene ruined by a gaggle of camera-toting tourists?

The Japanese “fondness” for the great outdoors can be a bit overzealous. Cherry blossom watch is carried out with the same fervor as election coverage in the US. The coming of the sacred blooms is the lead item on the nightly news, and hotels in prime viewing spots are booked solid months in advance. Yet when the actual flowers appear, it’s hard to enjoy their fleeting beauty without tripping over sake-swilling businessmen tunelessly belting out karaoke under the candy-colored branches.

And this mania isn’t limited to springtime. In autumn, the hordes of eager leaf enthusiasts that pour into Japan’s national parks nearly outnumber the maple trees. Hiking paths become prime tripod territory. If you’re lucky enough to stumble upon a lone tree showcasing its seasonal beauty, I guarantee that, within minutes, 27 people with twice as many digital cameras will have “discovered” the same spot.

Shane Busato

This past autumn, I made the rookie mistake of visiting Kamikochi National Park on a three-day holiday weekend in October. The tour buses were packed, the trails suffocating. The only sounds I heard whispering on the breeze were arguments over who ate the last onigiri, or who forgot to pack the extra memory card. Having grown up in the US, a country with room to spare, I had never once paused to consider that I might someday be forced to share my outdoor experiences, elbow-to-elbow, with a million other excited nature lovers. I barely survived the excursion with my sanity. (I vaguely remember there were leaves…)

Armed with the experience of that disastrous autumn adventure, I was determined to find my own slice of floral heaven this year. To that end, I laid out what I considered a foolproof plan. I targeted my “mission” for plum blossom season, which is much less fawned over than spring’s hanami and therefore (hopefully) less chaotic.

I chose my times carefully. The day? Wednesday. (Rationale: everyone else works.) The time? Ten o’clock in the morning. (Rationale: everyone else works.) As I strolled along the outer wall of Mukojima-Hyakkaen Gardens in northeastern Tokyo (rationale: how many people have even heard of this place?), I eagerly anticipated a morning of quiet reflection under the bloom-laden branches.
Yet the effort was in vain. Swarms of flower enthusiasts surrounded the garden’s few blossoming plum trees, like flies drawn to a summer fruit salad. The telephoto lenses of dozens of cameras clicked frantically away, capturing the spectacle from all angles. The wait for a park bench was interminable. Near the entrance, garden goers chatted on cellphones while simultaneously choreographing photos with obasan and the kids in front of the nearest photogenic tree. Suppressing a sigh, I was forced to admit that my plan for solo seasonal enjoyment had failed.

In retrospect, the morning, though markedly different from my expectations, was not altogether a disappointment. The Japanese way of communing with nature over the years has become just that—more communal—and there are benefits to being in the company of others. Perhaps we should forget, for a moment, the dreams of undisturbed solitude, and revel instead in the time spent with friends and family, celebrating the wonder of the natural world. If the old adage is true—that beauty is never more appreciated than when it is shared among others—then haven’t the Japanese actually discovered something wonderful?

I’m not entirely prepared to give up my goal of finding that blissfully empty patch in which to enjoy Mother Nature, but I no longer plan to avoid this year’s hanami parties either. What better way to catch up with friends?

Still, as I ready myself for the onslaught of sakura season, I offer up a few cautionary words to my fellow solitude seekers. A haiku, if you will, to the Japanese and their overly enthusiastic love of nature.

Blossom mania Cameras flash, no room to move Peace? Zen? Unlikely

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