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A M O S N AC H O U M

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the
Ryukyus
revealed An underwater city, a fountain of youth, a retreat
for the gods — these are the legends of the remote islands
of Japan. A rare trip there uncovers the truth.
S TORY BY T IM N EV IL L E

Zamimi and its


neighboring is-
lands in Japan’s
Ryukyus may
hold the secret
to long life.

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It’s the very end of japan’s typhoon season,


and the swirling arms of Typhoon Krosa have finally slipped
far enough offshore that the ferryboats can venture out.
For the past few October days, I’d been swimming in caves,
ambling through palaces and enjoying pork soup in cozy
restaurants while the winds whipped the sea into a seeth-
ing mess. But now that shards of blue slice the sky, the real adventure can begin.
I meet some friends in the hotel lobby and we race to the docks.
The car’s wheels hiss over streets still black with rain as we lurch down a
hill and let the briny air of the East China Sea whip through the windows. A
monorail train zips overhead on a bridge. Red light: Giggling schoolgirls in crisp
blue-and-white uniforms jump over puddles in front of a restaurant
festooned with lanterns. Green: We gun it, and concrete buildings The sights of the
Ryukyus include
fringed with purple awnings become a blur. soya bean curd,
So this is storm-addled Okinawa, at least the urban southern tip the historic
of Naha, which is home to 314,000. Most Americans know this slen- costumes at
Okinawa’s Shuri
der island 1,000 miles southwest of Tokyo as the backdrop to some of Castle, and the
World War II’s most vicious fighting. Some 50,000 American troops regal landmark
and their families are still based here, a reminder of the post-war years itself in the city
of Naha.
when the island fell under U.S. control in 1945. To the north stretch
rolling farms and limestone coasts where Formosa palms and sparkling resorts
are perched on white-sand beaches. But I’m here for what lies beyond Okinawa:
the rest of the Ryukyus, a remote archipelago possessed of such intense beauty
and charm that locals believed ancient gods would regularly come for visits.
I’d never heard of the Ryukyus. Then one day I pulled out an atlas, ran my fin-
ger southwest from Japan along the craggy fissures of the Pacific plate and noticed
a string of tiny islands — places like Tokashiki, Ishigaki and dozens of others
C L O C K W I S E F R O M T O P L E F T: J T B P H O T O / A L A M Y; C H R I S W I L L S O N / A L A M Y; A M O S N AC H O U M
that popped out of the blue like dollops of green glass. For about 700 miles from
southern Japan toward the steamy hills of Taiwan, the Ryukyus abound in intrigue.
Some believe they may have once been the site of a lost city — a mysterious com-
plex of temples, monuments and a stadium that slipped into the sea 10 millennia
before Christ. Though 5.6 million people visited the Ryukyus last year, nearly all
of them were Japanese mainlanders. To the American traveler, they’re virtually
unknown. If the gods felt at home here, they were about to receive a guest.
The car stops in front of a salt-stained ferry depot. Lisa Slater, my guide from
Open Coast Travel, races inside. “Grab the bags while I get the tickets,” she says.
After a week of no traffic following the storm, the port in Naha, Okinawa’s
largest city, is a zoo. “Gomen nasai!” young men say, begging our pardon, as
they shuffle past. Men in loose button-up shirts mingle around vending
machines selling cold coffee drinks. Taxi drivers jockey for parking as people
carry boxes and suitcases up a gangplank. The engines of the Queen Zamami II,
a 168-passenger high-speed catamaran, hum through a metal deck. This is
the ride to our first stop, the Keramas, a collection of about 20 mostly unin-
habited islands 20 miles west.
Tickets in hand, we jump aboard. The Queen slips past shipyards as we inch
out to sea. I linger outside in the spray as the boat begins to buck violently in
the waves. A seasick girl next to me looks pasty and miserable.
“It won’t be long,” I say. She can’t understand me. In the distance I spot
silvery islands in the sharp, subtropical light.

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O P P O S I T E , C L O C K W I S E F R O M T O P L E F T: J T B P H O T O / D R R . N E T;
DAV I D M C L A I N / AU R O R A ; S E A / A L A M Y; T H I S PAG E : A M O S N AC H O U M ;

for centuries people have made journeys like this one. poised
within easy sailing distance of Asia’s most rowdy ports, the Ryukyus have long
welcomed merchant ships that came to swap Siamese rice for Chinese porcelain
and goods flowing out of the Mongol trade routes to the west.
As a result of those crosscurrents, the once-independent Ryukyu kingdom
became a diverse mix of cultures. Chinese dragons still decorate Japanese-style
palaces. The drink of choice here, awamori, is made with Thai rice, which makes
it extremely potent. In a 20th-century twist, homes can look oddly American,
with blue siding, gables and porches.
By the 19th century the islands were firmly part of Japan. Today the Ryukyuans,
once fiercely suspicious, are so welcoming that it’s humbling. Young women sit at
our feet to check us in at hotels, and ticket agents line up on the tarmac to bow
goodbye to planes taking off. Back at a lively restaurant in Naha, I order a simple
bowl of tofu champuru, and the cooks, waiters, and dishwashers all thank me.
People begin to stir inside the cabin when the Queen’s engines calm to a
murmur. We glide past purple sea stacks plying the green water into Zamami,
an island in the Keramas. “Welcome, welcome!” says Hideyasu Mirahira when
we arrive at the Patio Hotel, a place he started as a diving outfit in 1974. He’s
bouncing around on wiry legs, tending to azalea hybrids, wispy sagari flowers
and birds of paradise that burst from his garden. His arms are braided with
muscle, his skin a rich caramel. People from this region of Japan enjoy the
longest lives on the planet: About 40 people per 100,000 live to be
The Ryukyus draw 100 years old. (In the U.S. it’s only 10 per 100,000.) I’m shocked
in the rare American
traveler with offerings to learn he’s nearly 70.
both above and below The accommodations, which include a western-style bed and metal
water, from the dives armoire, are simple but comfortable. About a dozen rooms frame a
to the waterfalls to the
people to the water patio that holds a traditional Okinawan boat built with bamboo dowels
buffalo rides. and a flat bow. Hideyasu’s grandfather used to paddle this for 12 hours

Today the Ryukyuans, once fiercely suspicious,


are so welcoming that it’s humbling.

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DATAC R A F T / AG E F O T O

The quiet Ryukyus


have serene beaches
such as this one on
Ishigaki, facing the
East China Sea.

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to Naha to take salted fish to market. Inside the dining hall I find a snakeskin
OKINAWA
shamisen (a twangy three-string guitar) in the corner. It seems like everyone in the
Ryukyus can play this traditional instrument, especially late at night after a few JAPAN

rounds of Orion beer. In another cultural contrast, Emiko, Hideyasu’s wife, shows
ZAMAMI
us the fully automatic Italian espresso maker. She will serve us a breakfast in the
morning of miso soup and grilled fish-paste cakes.
“I hear you want to go diving,” Hideyasu says. He explains how we can see
RY U K Y U
a Japanese cannon destroyed in World War II, complete with coral-encrusted
ISLANDS
artillery shells scattered nearby. We opt to get our land legs first and rent a tiny
Daihatsu minivan for an island tour.
We roll along laneless streets, leaving the side door wide open. Kids with fish-
ing rods wave as we slip past concrete walls covered in moss. We pop into a small ISHIGAKI
restaurant over a school and slurp noodles while overlooking the bay where a few
YONAGUNI
humpacks from Alaska wandered in last year. Back in the car we ride up to the

My friends dispatch a woman to fetch me. A pox


upon them. No one ever told the gods to leave.
The vibrant colors island’s high point, a 500-foot rise on the northeast tip, and I can see DETAILS FLY to Okinawa on
of the Ryukyus lazy waves lapping beaches covered in confectioner’s sand. We pass 20 All Nippon Airways (fly-ana.com)
abound in the under- and then board an inter-island
water ruins off bikes for every car. An old woman (she must be truly ancient) ambles fl ight on Japan Transocean Air
Yonaguni, the women by with a bucket of fish, cats mewing at her ankles. (about $900, jal.co.jp/jta). BOOK
hanging dyed yarn My guide, Lisa, eventually slips the car into park, and we pile out onto a tour with Los Angeles-based
and the bright Open Coast Travel, which spe-
Hirakubozaki light- Furuzami Beach, a cuticle of white sand on Zamami’s southern side. “It cializes in trips to the Ryukyus.
house on Ishigaki. feels more developed each time I come,” Lisa says pointing to all the They offer nine-day, seven-night
parasols sprouting from the beach. I count a dozen yellow ones and 10 starter packages to Okinawa
and Zamami islands that include
blue ones from a cove that takes a half hour to walk around — so few I suggest she’s luxury accommodations in Naha
crazy. Large companies have repeatedly tried to open a resort here, but the residents and fi ve nights on Zamami
have repeatedly resisted. “It took locals years to let even a dentist in,” Lisa admits. from $1,095 per person, with
breakfasts and most transfers.
We’ve driven less than two miles and covered three quarters of Zamami. All opencoastravel.com OBTAIN an
around us springs a cluster of verdant islands, each even smaller than the next international driver’s license if
and so tightly clustered that you could practically backstroke between them. you plan on renting a car. LEARN
all the rest you need to know at
White boats flying green flags slip past. japantravelinfo.com and ocvb.or.jp.
Even after the typhoon, the water is surprisingly clear when I jump in with my BEACH HOPPING The beaches
snorkel gear. Parrotfish chomp on coral while butterflyfish fin along a sandy bottom on Zamami and in the Kerama
peppered with black limestone rocks. I get so wrapped up with feisty clownfish and Islands near Naha are by far the

K A R E N K AS M AU S K I / G E T T Y I M AG E S ; C H R I S W I L L S O N / A L A M Y
most stunning beaches we saw.

O P P O S I T E , C L O C K W I S E F R O M T O P L E F T: A M O S N AC H O U M ;
admiring flashing blue anemones that my companions eventually dispatch a woman Limestone cliffs frame gentle
from the beach to fetch me. “Your friends are ready,” she says, treading water. coves, some of which are so se-
A pox upon them. I bet no one ever told the gods to leave. cluded it’s an adventure scrambling
down cliffs to reach them. Particu-
larly impressive is the northern tip
but if i had known why i was being so unceremoniously dispatched of Agenashiku Island, about a mile
— to more completely explore the reef — I would have responded faster. The div- south of Zamami, for picnicking,
swimming and kayaking.
ing around Zamami comes in dazzling waves. The World War II cannon is stuck in
TASTE MAKING Be sure to
a coral canyon burgeoning with Moorish idols, jacks and a little orange firefish the try umi budo, a type of seaweed
Japanese call hatatate haze. But our next stop on the isolated western fringes of the that looks like miniature bunches
Ryukyus is what I’ve really been waiting for. We board a 737 back in Naha and wave of green grapes. Dipped in soy
sauce, it’s crunchy, refreshing and
goodbye to the baggage handlers bowing farewell. We’re skipping off to Yonaguni incredibly good for you (and prob-
Island, a rocky outpost about 315 miles southwest of Zamami. ably one of the reasons people
When the plane touches down, we can immediately see that Krosa, the typhoon live so long here).

that thwarted the ferries in Naha, was far fiercer here. It has (continued on page 104)
islands.com/ryukyu

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Ryukyus (from page 54)


uprooted leggy pandanus trees, oblit- natural, just the product of erosion. But
erated a windmill and shredded a fish- after years of research, he grew convinced
ing vessel that lies broken in a patch of the terraces had been part of a fortress or
scraggly grass. The island is just 17 square temple, twice as old as the pyramids, that
miles with less than 2,000 people, none sank into the sea after an earthquake.
of whom even blink at such storms. This is by far the island’s main attraction,
“The last time we had a typhoon and glass-bottom boats depart regularly
that strong was probably 12 to 13 years so non-divers can see it.
ago,” says Kihachiro Aratake, a local “We found stalactites that prove
who runs SaWes dive shop in Kubura, the area was once above land,” the
a town with red tin roofs and sweet professor says. “Those don’t form
air, thanks to the awamori distillery underwater. Some of the features can
nearby. “They’re a part of life.” be explained by nature. Many of them
Aratake welcomes us with a gift, a can’t.” Later when I visited him, bare-
keychain boasting a drawing of himself, foot in his home in Naha, he fetched a
before taking us out on his bright yel- small bundle wrapped in a purple cloth
low boat loaded with steel scuba tanks. and produced a cast of what he believes
The sea is still rough as we bounce past could be a charm or relic. It is a thin
ragged cliffs lining Yonaguni’s southern black stone about the size of a plate
shore. Unlike the Keramas, Yonaguni with holes neatly augured through the
has few accessible beaches. Instead it top and a small plus sign etched on the
has wild horses that roam grasslands face. “Maybe they hung this on a wall to
near a central mountain range covered ward off spirits,” he says.
with dense forest about 750 feet over Many scientists aren’t buying it,
the sea. At noon, loudspeakers in town writing off the idea of a Japanese
blast the song “Greensleeves,” the sig- Atlantis. When the boat stops, I strap
nal for workers to take lunch. As far as on scuba gear. “One, two, sree!” says Rui
I can tell from talking with locals, we Kuriki, our divemaster, and down we go.
are the only westerners on the island. Visibility is superb, approaching
With long black hair and a bar- 100 feet. I can clearly see the western
rel chest, Aratake is the reason most corners of the monument. The guide
people come to a place like Yonaguni. points out markings in a rock that sug-
“I helped put it on the map,” he says. gest an arrow showing the way to an
Modesty aside, he’s not wrong. entry gate between two monoliths. We
With legs hobbled by polio, Aratake float over giant steps that rise 4 feet
spent a lot of his childhood in the one high and rocks carved into a rudimen-
place where strength doesn’t matter: in tary sea turtle “monument,” its arms
the water, where he swam with the ham- and head extended. Professor Kimura
merheads that school in the currents. In says he’s found five temples, a stadium
the late 1980s he was searching for new and tools. Unicornfish drift by neatly
dive sites when off the island’s southeast cut walls that are hairy with sea whips.
tip he suddenly came across a giant stone “I believe!” says Mitsue Abe, a Tokyo
terrace that had what looked like steps, office worker, after we surface.
water channels and giant monoliths I have no idea what to make of it. If
bearing strange markings. About 100 it’s not a lost city, it doesn’t take much to
feet down, he noticed rocks piled neatly imagine one. I dive on the site four more
as if framing a road. “I got goose bumps,” times. Hovering 50 feet down, next to a
he says. “It looked like an ancient city.” bizarre series of pillars, I stare at the sun-
The find piqued the interest of light. The waves crashing overhead look
Masaaki Kimura, a marine geologist at like clouds boiling in a biblical storm.
the University of the Ryukyus. At first A few more days on Yonaguni and
the professor thought the area was the rhythm of the (continued on page 106)

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Ryukyus (from page 104)


Ryukyus begins to sink in. My friends to down cans of Wonda’s After
are often up before sunrise looking Shot coffee, Pocari Sweat sports » BRING BACK
A favorite local drink is
for photos while I linger in our pri- drink, and Deepresso Espresso, awamori, made with Thai
vate beach house, a four-story palace which actually makes me happy. rice and black yeast, making
with teak floors and gleaming wall-to- Since we lost a week of our two- it more like a spirit than a
wall windows overlooking a crescent week trip to the storm, we’ve had to wine. Shinko Kinjo, 63, has
bay. Today they’re back by 8 a.m., and keep a fairly quick pace to make up been making the strongest
awamori around for the past
we head out for a breakfast that I’m time. We’ve spent most of our days 36 years. Stop by his Donan
now used to: miso soup, lotus flower diving and snorkeling, riding up to distillery in Kubura on Yona-
roots and the fried fish-paste cakes I’ve overlooks and tooling around towns guni, and he’ll dip a bamboo
become addicted to. where kids run up on roller skates to ask ladle into a bin by the door to give
In fact, I’ve become addicted to a where we’re from. Looking to sample you a taste. That burn? Call it a shot
of 120-proof culture shock.
lot of things. The Ryukyus have their the night life one evening, we go wan-
own style of noodles: a flat, soba-like dering around Yonaguni and belly up at
pasta served in rich and spicy soups. a place called Snack Mami, a window- good eye, gets so excited to see us she
No sooner do I finish one bowl than I less bar with Pepto-pink walls. fires up the karaoke machine, sits at
start dreaming of the next. We sit with “Oishii! Oishii!” the barkeep says, our table and belts out a peppy tune
our shoes off at tables sunk into cedar meaning “delicious,” as she hands us a that gets the locals whistling. A man at
floors and devour umi budo, a crunchy free plate of sashimi, the Japanese pub another table takes the mic, and he too
seaweed that looks like bunches of equivalent of peanuts. sings us a song, this one about a long-
miniature green grapes. I can’t get Word has apparently been circulat- lost love. When we leave, Snack Mami

Z AC H S T OVA L L
enough of these horribly stinky yet ing that some gaijin, or foreigners, are gives us black lighters for gifts.
salty-delicious squid chips. We con- on the island. Snack Mami herself, an “Hey, live music!” I say as we wander
stantly feed yen into vending machines older lady with heavy makeup and one past another bar just two doors down.

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We pop in to see a man dressed in a blue


kimono plucking away on a shamisen. His
partner, a woman in a red silk dress, hands
out little castanet-type clackers we can use
to play along. I’m terrible at it, and the
islanders giggle in good fun as I bungle my
way through the songs. “Good!” they say,
being polite as ever. “More beer,” I joke.
Nachi Inada, a 27-year-old diver, and
her friend, Miwak Otsuka, 32, wander
in along with a few others, and we all
sit around a sturdy wood table drinking
Orion beer out of cold glasses. “Even for
us this is all very different,” says Nachi,
who is from the mainland. “You’d never
see this back home, people playing instru-
ments like this. It’s all very Okinawan.”
Despite the ease of Yonaguni, we can’t
stay. As is, our typhoon-altered schedule
now only allows for two days at our final
stop on Ishigaki, an island north of here
with more than 45,000 people, man-
grove swamps and waters twinkling with
black pearls. Artists make radiant clay-
and-glass jewelry with dazzling blues and
greens that recall the island’s beaches and
warm bays. There’s even a festival going
on to celebrate the coming harvest and
village health, complete with karate dem-
onstrations, drums and flutes.
We say goodbye, and Nachi digs into
her purse and pulls out a gift: a dozen
fermented bean-stick snacks. Despite
their repulsively tangy odor, I find them
quite delicious. “Yum!” Nachi says.
There is still one thing I have left
to do. We drive along the dark folds of
the central highlands back to the beach
house, and I head up to the rooftop in
my robe. A huge tub made of smooth
river rocks is perched here with a
crow’s-nest view of Haneida Bay.
The night is heavy and limp; cica-
das rattle the humidity. A ship wanders
along the black horizon. I tiptoe across
the damp roof and draw warm water
across the stones. Tonight I’ll sleep on
a tatami mat with paper-screen doors
flung wide open, but for now I float
on my back and watch stars waft across
the East Asia sky. This time, not even
the gods can pry me loose. ^

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