Developing an interest in history, particularly of ancient times

 When I was around ten years old, I began attending extra study classes on Sundays. After the classes, I would always visit either the planetarium at Shibuya, the National Museum of Nature and Science, or the Tokyo National Museum in Ueno. While my interest in astronomy eventually waned, I continued visiting the two museums, excited to see ancient artifacts, scientific displays, and dinosaur exhibits. Later, in my upper elementary school years, I started watching the weekly television program “Shinju no kobako” (lit., “chests of pearls”). The show featured researchers guiding viewers through cultural properties along the Kintetsu Railway lines connecting areas that were the political and cultural heart of Japan in ancient times. I became fascinated with Kyoto as a result, and especially with Nara.

 The World Exposition Osaka 1970 took place when I was in the eighth grade, and around that time my father was working in Osaka, while the rest of us remained in Tokyo. During summer vacations, I would take the Shinkansen train by myself, stay at his apartment, and from there travel by train to Kyoto and Nara, often staying at guesthouses in Nara’s Asuka area. It was around then that I started to develop an interest in history, particularly ancient history.

 As I explored various places, I learned about ORIKUCHI Shinobu (1887−1953), who, along with YANAGITA Kunio (1875−1962), is a prominent figure in Japanese folklore studies. Yanagita was a researcher with a highly empirical approach to folklore studies, whereas Orikuchi’s academic approach was of a more intuitive vein, one that was not easily verifiable. Reading his book Shisha no sho (available in English as The Book of the Dead, trans. Jeffrey Angles; Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2016) during junior high or high school deepened my fascination with ancient Japan. Although written as fiction, the book seemed to convey the haunting voices of antiquity and drew me into Orikuchi’s worldview.

Shifting from ancient Japan to ancient Andes

 When I entered the University of Tokyo’s division for humanities and social sciences, I was intrigued by Orikuchi and Yanagita’s folklore studies and my primary interest was in ancient Japan. There happened to be a seminar on Orikuchi during my first and second years, and joining that seminar allowed me to realize that my interest was closely related to cultural anthropology. Back then, prominent authority on mythology Professor ŌBAYASHI Taryō (1929–2001) was teaching cultural anthropology at Tōdai. I was captivated by the broad scope of his discussion of how myths spread from Eurasia to Japan, along with his structural analyses—a popular academic approach at the time—of ancient Japanese myths. His class introduced me to a unique perspective to studying ancient times and inspired me to major in cultural anthropology in my third year of university. While I treasured my experiences tramping around Japan’s ancient sites and visiting museums in my youth, I was drawn to my professors’ unique theoretical approaches.

 For a while, I considered studying Eurasian mythology that relates to ancient Japan. But the Soviet Union was still going strong back then, making fieldwork virtually impossible. Even if I visited the country, the literature locally available would likely have been written exclusively from a Marxist historical viewpoint. So with limited options for fieldwork, I was unsure what to do. It was then that I met Professor TERADA Kazuo (1928–1987), a physical anthropologist who later became my mentor. At that time, Professor Terada was leading an expedition to the Andes, and he and his team were scheduled to be away for the year I entered graduate school.

 In the spring of the year I received my graduate school acceptance (1979), my mother unexpectedly called me at my part-time job and told me a certain Terada had contacted her. At the time, Professor Terada was an assistant dean who rarely taught classes, so I was unsure if the mystery person was actually him. Nonetheless, I called him from work. “Ah, it’s you,” he answered. “I heard you’re interested in ancient topics. We’re organizing an expedition to the Andes in May. Would you be interested in joining?”

 In the 1970s government grants for academic research were still scarce, and traveling abroad was extremely expensive. When I spoke about the invitation with an assistant professor of the department, he told me that I should absolutely go. “The expedition is our field’s leading light. If they invited you, there’s no turning it down,” he said, which convinced me. At that point, not much research had been done about the Andes, and I had little idea of the history of the research team.

 A round-trip economy flight to Peru cost around ¥650,000—a price no student could afford, considering Japan’s wage level in 1979, when a starting monthly salary was just under ¥110,000. It was also impossible to cover a year’s worth of living expenses at the research site on my own. On top of that, I had never been abroad before. All of these factors encouraged me to accept the offer.

Survey methods in ancient Andean archaeological research: Connecting theory and data

 Twenty years have passed since I started surveying the Andean archaeological site that I am still working on today. Every excavation effort continues to offer new finds, but while the initial thrill of discovery is profound, the joy does not last long. I find greater pleasure in exploring how to integrate a new finding into my research, or in working out my own interpretations or scenarios. It is also very rewarding to receive reactions after sharing my achievements internationally and to know that invitations to symposiums or other events come from acknowledgement of my work. But it took me considerable time to attain that level of satisfaction.

 There are quite a few scholars in the natural sciences who receive the Nobel Prize early in their careers. My personal research style combines deductive and inductive approaches, but the typical path for scholars in the humanities is to accumulate data steadily and subject it to inductive reasoning. The methodology for Andean research in Japan was influenced by Japanese archaeology, which involves amassing highly detailed and precise data. The expedition to the Andes that launched in 1958 followed this method by both developing thorough descriptions and publishing significant research data upon discovering the monumental ruins of Kotosh, Peru in 1960.

 The widely accepted theory at the time was that temples were not built before pottery production began in Andean civilization. But the expedition discovered distinctive structures and temples at the Kotosh site that were attributed to an era predating pottery-making. For some time, the Society for American Archaeology did not accept our finds, as they were reported by a Japanese team—considered “newcomers” to the field—although they eventually recognized the achievement. 

 Following the team’s established approach, I collected detailed excavation data and developed meticulous descriptions of the artifacts, a tradition I hope to preserve. By contrast, the archaeological studies of the Americas or Andean research conducted by Western scholars use cultural anthropology methodologies that combine theoretical approaches. Because of this difference, conversations with Western researchers always ended up with them remarking, “I understand the data, but what point are you trying to get across?” Since I, too, was aware of this issue, I aimed to pursue not only descriptive work but also theoretical research that could impress Western academics. So in the latter half of my career, I endeavored to balance both methods. Using that combined approach, I was able to get scholars from Western countries to recognize my work and pay renewed attention to Japanese academics’ research. I also received better responses to what I presented at symposia and saw greater progress in academic interchange. This was my experience in my mid-fifties.

 My unusual late-blooming career was a result of the expedition’s personnel structure. The team had older, esteemed scholars, which made it difficult for younger members to assert themselves. Since research findings were the collective achievement of the entire team, younger academics cannot appropriate it for their independent theses; they essentially have to publish findings through co-authored papers, and, as I mentioned, put effort into descriptive work. The older generation started reaching retirement age around twenty years ago, and gradually dropped out of the expeditions. Once I took the team’s leader, I seized the opportunity to freely pursue my ideas. The first step I took was to incorporate scientific and interdisciplinary methods, and connect theory with data to verify hypotheses. This process was incredibly fascinating, and, to this day, I consider it the essence of research.

Collaboration across different fields

 In the expedition team’s seminars, I repeatedly shared with science specialists what I specifically aimed to prove: the social or religious processes through which a group or an individual in an Andean civilization’s society attains leadership—or as I broadly term it, “power and authority.” I set my research theme by identifying when such power or authority emerges, and, once manifested, what forms the basis of leadership. 

 Pursuing this subject solely through the perspective of archaeologists and their methods often leads to speculation, which is why verifying my hypotheses required interdisciplinary collaboration. When I ask experts in other academic fields about methodologies for verifying my ideas, they present me with endless possibilities. I find this entire process, akin to solving a complex puzzle, truly fascinating.

 The humanities do not pursue “the” truth. Instead, they present how a phenomenon can be understood from different perspectives. This interpretation or analysis of a phenomenon is then evaluated for its acceptability by the academic community. Humanities scholars must therefore make their work more verifiable for the evaluation, which, in turn, highlights the significance of interdisciplinary research. This is why most of my theses are co-authored; they are the product of joint study. And in this regard, an inter-university institute like Minpaku is the ideal environment for me.

(Interviewer: OHBA Go, Researcher, Center for Innovative Research, National Institutes for the Humanities)