How to explore the tropical side of Japan in Okinawa

It’s show time. Up heaves the sail, a concertina of heavy canvas pulled taut against the creaking wooden mast. It gulps the breeze that’s whisking cotton puffs of cloud out to sea. Black butterflies, big as sparrows, rise from the steep jungle at our backs as the droning of cicadas meets the surf raking the beach. The air is flower-scented, hot and heavy as water. Up comes the anchor, out come the paddles; the nose of the traditional sabani boat plunges into the waves.

Any sailor leaving Ishigaki island needs to be absolutely certain of their course. Head north west, and the next landfall lies hundreds of miles away in China; east, and it’ll be the considerably farther-flung shores of Mexico. Here, in southern Okinawa Prefecture, Japan fizzles out in a spray of its remotest isles.

Closer to Taiwan and the Philippines than the mainland and fed by warmer currents, the subtropical Yaeyama Islands, of which Ishigaki is a part, are unique within Japan. The people living on the archipelago embrace the concept of nonbiri (a laid-back lifestyle) and follow time-honed traditions. West of here lie Taketomi island’s coral houses, and beyond these the wildest outpost, Iriomote — an island so remote it’s evolved its own species of cat.

Over the following days, my plan is to island-hop by ferry, continuing a journey that started in Kyoto and continued south via the forested trails of Okinawa Island. Ferries are the main mode of transport here for locals and travellers alike ­— but to truly experience Okinawan culture, it’s a sabani boat that you must ride.

“The sabani is very important to these islands,” says Yoshida Tomohiro from the stern. Wearing a blue cap and a serious expression, his beige T-shirt damp from sea spray, he’s a celebrated sabani builder who settled in Okinawa as a teenager. Back then, he says, he had the distinct feeling of having found the ‘right’ place, which he attributes to “Kami-sama” — the gods. He’s built 29 sabani boats, with each one taking around two months to build; when he finishes his 30th, he’ll earn the title of ‘grand master’.

To our right, the sabani’s outrigger slices through aquamarine water so translucent that I can count the shell fragments on the flooded sand below. Somewhere beyond, a little puff betrays a sea turtle coming up to take a breath. Yoshida explains that the sabani ­— carved by hand from Japanese cedar — were historically used for fishing and travelling between islands. “On a ferry, the journey from Ishigaki to Iriomote takes 50 minutes,” he says. “In a sabani, it takes 10 hours.”

Voyaging has long been integral to islanders. For centuries, Okinawa was a separate kingdom, only fully assimilated into Japan in the late 19th century. The Ryukyu kingdom was known for its prolific maritime trade, bringing ceramics, silks, dyes and spices to and from China, Taiwan and the rest of its Asian neighbours. The local culture has been coloured by this amalgamation of outside influences, most notably in its dialect, cuisine, traditional dress and the popularity of the martial art karate. Following the US invasion of 1945, American brands including Levi’s and Spam were added to the mix — the latter a core ingredient in hybrid local dishes such as pork champuru stir-fry. Okinawa Prefecture makes up less than 1% of Japan’s area, but even today contains 75% of the country’s US military bases.

Mangroves and wild cats

Two days later, I’m en route to Iriomote, following a day cycling between Taketomi’s sleepy, terracotta-roofed Ryukyu bungalows and paddling into the shallows from beaches of star-shaped sand (the distinctive grains are the exoskeletons of tiny marine organisms). Where the ferry yesterday had been packed with selfie-taking teenagers, all bleached-blonde hair, muscle vests and Orion beer T-shirts, the mood on the one this morning as it steams across the Pacific is more subdued — perhaps because we’re heading to a place that’s about as wild as Japan gets.

Arriving beside the Maera River later, on the eastern side of Iriomote, it’s low tide and the water is as murky as chocolate milk. On the opposite bank, a battalion of mangrove trees stands in an unbroken wall of green, their spidery buttress roots — once used to make oars for sabani boats — rising a few inches above the water.

“Don’t worry, there aren’t any crocodiles,” guide Hiroaki ‘Hiro’ Imamura says with a smile, up to his knees in it, as he helps me into a blue two-seater kayak, his long hair swept back into a loose bun. Our plan is to paddle into the heart of Iriomote on a mangrove superhighway — and learn more about this enigmatic island in the process. Iriomote is Okinawa Prefecture’s second-largest isle, but it has a population of just 2,400 dotted sporadically along the coast. Around 90% of the island is unadulterated rainforest: a warren of waterfalls, rivers and mangroves.

“More than 70% of Japan’s mangroves are found here,” Hiro says as we push off from the shore, our paddles soon falling into rhythm. Snowy-white little egrets pick their way among the buttresses through the tannin-rich waters. Yellow leaves, neon-bright, splatter the landscape — “salt leaves,” says Hiro. “The mangroves suck the salt from their roots and then drop it in the leaves — it’s how they survive.”

Hiro explains he moved here 16 years ago from Tokyo because he craved the countryside — although that word is an understatement when it comes to Iriomote. This island is so remote it’s even evolved its own species: the Iriomote wild cat. Resembling a scruffy tabby with a faintly exasperated expression, it was formally discovered in 1967. Today, it’s a creature so little seen and mysterious that it’s earned the moniker ‘meepisukaryaa’, or ‘that which has flashing eyes’, among others. “There are only around 100 that live here,” says Hiro, as we paddle around a bend. “I’ve only seen them at night.”

This isn’t the only creature unique to Japan’s southern isles. Okinawa Island is home to the endemic Okinawa rail, a flightless jungle bird with a vivid orange beak, while to the north east the Amami Islands are burrowed by an eponymous species of dark-furred rabbit. All three — cat, bird and rabbit — live only on these castaway shores.

A little egret cackles and takes flight, meeting its partner in mid-air and together looping beneath the ancient palms leaning over the water. The trees’ buttress roots are more exposed now, the water draining away, low tide slowly transitioning to an even lower one. Beneath our paddles, ghostly river fish are briefly visible, arcing through the water as their scales catch the light before fading back into the murk. But these aren’t the only phantoms on the Maera.

“Look — sagari-bana!” Hiro shouts, plunging a paddle and skidding the kayak to a stop. He gestures to a fluffy powder-pink flower, as big as the palm of my hand, that’s floating on the river. “They bloom only at night in the summer, and after pollination the flowers drop into the water all together,” he explains. “You can come here early and see 10,000 of them all floating.” These nocturnal blooms are known colloquially as ‘phantom flowers’. Here in this remote archipelago, the Japanese tradition of hanami — flower-viewing ­— takes on an alternative and little-seen form. But that’s just the Yaeyamas: rare, unique and offering a side to Japan that few ever get to see.