Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Hamada Seiryō

1. To Okinawa

On January 5th, leaving Kagoshima Port after being seen off by old acquaintances like Mr. Yamazaki against the majestic silhouette of Sakurajima bathed in the sunset’s glow, I found myself aboard a ship with many people returning to Amami Ōshima and Okinawa—those who spoke the local customs and dialects—already drifting into the ambiance of the southern islands.
The ship’s name was Shurimaru.
By fortunate chance, we continued an unusually calm voyage for this winter season. At night, I listened intently to the captain and purser’s terrifying tales of habu snakes and mysterious islands. The next day, at Naze Port in Amami Ōshima, I observed the dyeing workshop for Oshima Tsumugi silk and learned that the Teichiki tree was used as a dye source. Then, on the morning of the seventh day, my heart leaped at the sight of Okinawa’s island silhouette finally coming into view.

Until this unexpected journey to glimpse Okinawa began, I had embarrassingly believed Okinawa Main Island was no larger than Awaji Island or Shodoshima. Yet now, seeing this “Yagiji” stretching like a long decaying rope across the sea from one end of the ship’s portside to the other, I could not help but acknowledge the truth of its being nearly forty *ri* in length.
We had always been shown maps that crudely squeezed this island into a corner of Kyushu—hence why we had nurtured such mistaken notions.
This same illusion had gripped us when we once visited Hawaii’s islands and marveled at their vastness, then crossed to America only to be staggered anew by its expanse—all because we’d grown accustomed to seeing them confined alongside Japan and Europe on a single map page.

The other misconception was that I had been taught Okinawa was a coral reef, so I had imagined it as an island barely rising above the water’s surface. Yet in reality, the northern part had fairly tall mountains lined up, and while the central to southern areas were largely flat, even there the hills rose and fell in uneven profusion.
After finishing my morning meal, I hurriedly packed my belongings and went out onto the deck to gaze at Okinawa’s gradually approaching coastline and Naha Harbor when a spiteful drizzle began pattering down.

2. Arriving in Naha

In May of Kaei 6 (1853), when Commodore Perry of the United States first visited Ryukyu and his ship approached Naha Port, he saw scattered white spots across the beautifully verdant coastline that resembled the scenery of England.
At first they thought these might be houses, but later realized they were tombs made of limestone—an excerpt from the diary of a man named Tyler who had accompanied them was recorded in Perry’s *Narrative of the Expedition of an American Squadron to the China Seas and Japan*.
For us, eighty years after the Black Ships’ arrival—and especially for me as an archaeology student—those white tombs scattered along the coast still caught my eye before anything else.
Yet for Perry’s crew—alongside these tombs—there was another sight that drew their attention: the British “Union Jack” fluttering unexpectedly beside a rocky outcrop jutting out to the left (where Naminoue Shrine stands). This flag had been raised at Gokoku-ji Temple, the lodgings of an Englishman named Bettelheim who was then proselytizing Protestant Christianity in Naha.

When the ship docked at the pier, the crowd welcoming the new Okinawa Prefecture Interior Department Chief Kaikawa-kun—who had traveled aboard with me—surged into the cabin. Perhaps seizing this moment, Dr. Nishiyama Iori and Mr. Mashikena Ankō—introduced to me earlier by Mr. Kiyono—came to call, allowing me to entrust my Okinawa tour to these individuals with full confidence. And my luggage was left to the manager of Hōraikan.

3. Jōgaku and the Habu Snake

Having settled into Hōraikan, I gazed at tropical plants whose names I did not know in the room with its shoji screens thrown open, basking in sunlight akin to early summer while drifting idly in the ambiance of the southern islands—when soon enough, Dr. Nishiyama arrived alongside Elder Mashikena, Mr. Shimabukuro Gen'ichirō whom I was meeting for the first time, Mr. Toyokawa, and other gentlemen including Messrs. Fukuhara, Nakagawa, and Kiyokawa, who came to visit and inquired: "What exactly have you come to investigate in Ryukyu?" This left me momentarily taken aback, but I confessed, "Truthfully, I have no particular objective—my purpose is simply to gain a comprehensive understanding of all things Ryukyuan." We then settled on having them prepare a six-day itinerary, which Mr. Shimabukuro and his colleagues swiftly completed, leaving me to obediently follow their arrangements.

Today, first aiming to tour Naha’s city center, I took a rickshaw to make an appearance at the prefectural office, visited the adjacent library, peered at the abundant collection of local historical materials in Elder Mashikena’s room, and for the first time beheld the magatama beads brought by a certain gentleman that belonged to a Noro priestess.
I was informed that the hill southeast of this library, where a few pine trees grew, was Jōgaku with its shell mounds. When I climbed up there with the others, I was delighted by the sweeping view of beautiful Naha spread out before us.
Long ago, a powerful clan called Ō no Oyakata lived here, but King Shō Sei, coveting his daughter’s beauty, sought to make her his queen.
However, since Ō no Oyakata stubbornly refused, the king declared he would grant whatever he desired. To this, Ō no Oyakata answered, “Then bestow upon me all the land visible from this Jōgaku Hill,” and legend states he received it—a tale well-suited to this terrain with its fine view.

The coral reef covered with grass bore only a thin layer of soil, where slender shells lay scattered here and there, but pottery fragments were nearly impossible to find. Let alone rare artifacts like the Ming dynasty coins that someone like Mr. Kawayama had excavated several years earlier—which stirred academic circles—or the stone arrowheads reportedly picked up by a certain person, such things would not have emerged even if one poked around with an umbrella tip. Yet for me, merely seeing the turtle-shell-shaped Ryukyuan tomb atop this hill was reward enough.

It was said that habu snakes abounded around Jōgaku Hill, but learning they did not appear during this winter season left me greatly relieved. Yet when I remarked how regrettable it would be to leave Ryukyu without encountering its famed habu snakes, someone suggested I view one kept at the prefectural office for serum extraction. I promptly went to see it: though considerably weakened, when prodded with a stick, the viper raised its hooded head and assumed an attacking posture—so utterly fearsome that even encountering this serpent in dreams would be a horror I’d wish to avoid.

4. Naha’s Naminoue Shrine and Gokoku-ji Temple

In Naha’s city center, aside from the city hall’s tall tower—standing as the first and only (?) example of reinforced concrete modern architecture—nearly all shops (old merchant houses being exceptions) were single-story structures crowned with heavy, reddish-hued tile roofs, a feature that faintly evoked Korean cities.
However, the stone drum bridge (Izumi Bridge) spanning a small stream in the city manifested a somewhat Chinese-style atmosphere.
At this bridge’s edge, where a large parasol had been set up with an old woman selling goods beneath it, the scene looked picturesque enough to have been lifted straight from a painting.
The Confucian shrine stood precisely by this bridge, its red-lacquered building glimpsed among deep green groves. Upon entering through the earthen wall to inspect the interior—though small in scale—it proved nothing less than a miniature replica of a Chinese Confucius temple.
Adjacent to this stood the Meirindō hall, where longtime guards from Kume were leisurely engaged in strategic games of crow and heron.

When I visited Naminoue Shrine—the sole government-sponsored shrine in Okinawa Prefecture—it stood atop a mass of coral reef jutting beyond the port that a Ming poet had dubbed "Bamboo Shoot Cliff." Though seemingly ideal for catching cool summer breezes with its scenic location, the shrine buildings purportedly dating back four hundred years appeared utterly new and offered nothing of interest. However, upon being guided to the shrine office where I received sacred awamori from the head priest and viewed the nationally designated Important Cultural Property bell, I learned this ranked as the sixth oldest among dozens of Korean bells remaining in Japan, bearing an inscription from Hyōtoku 3, Tai-sai Hinoe-Tatsu, the twenty-fifth day of the first month. While the route by which it came from Korea remains unclear, I believe this sufficiently proves ancient traffic between Korea and Ryukyu. The phallic stone stored alongside this bell struck me as equally imposing—I wished I could have shown it to Dr. K and others.

Near the entrance to Naminoue Shrine stands Gokoku-ji Temple, where a memorial commemorates Bettelheim—who during Perry’s time was stationed here, raised the British flag, engaged in Christian missionary work, and ultimately published a Ryukyuan-language Bible. The monument features an intriguing design with stone slabs from ten European and American countries associated with him—Hungary, Italy, Greece, Mexico, Ryukyu, Austria, Egypt, Turkey, China, and the United States—each engraved with their respective nation’s name and embedded into its structure. Beside it stands another monument honoring Ryukyuans shipwrecked in Taiwan during the early Meiji period. Adjacent to this temple lies Tenjun Shrine, housing a rather curious statue of Tenjun. Elderly women in indigo kasuri squatted there in prayer one moment and ate their packed lunches the next. After visiting a recently opened Ryūkyū-yaki pottery shop showcasing local art, I returned to my inn while the southern islands’ sun still hung above the horizon.

5. Urasoe’s Old Castle Site

The next day, I set out from morning to tour Urasoe in Shuri.
Driving past Makiminato—where Perry’s fleet had once anchored—toward Shuri, soon the road began winding upward as the hills grew gradually higher, and Shuri Castle’s ruins rose verdantly ahead.
Until now, I had never imagined that Shuri was situated on such elevated terrain.
But at the same time, passing through Shuri’s main street, I had never conceived it would be such a lonely, rural village-like place.

Postponing our visit to Shuri Castle for later, we turned down a quiet path that seemed to belong to former samurai residences, descended the hill, and hurried along the road to Urasoe.
Before long, following a ravine where a beautiful red pine forest stood, we alighted from the car at an elementary school and emerged at the Urasoe Castle Site on the mountain behind it.
Passing by the side of the school building, a large slogan reading “Futsūgo” (standard language) posted outside the classrooms caught the eye.
When I asked Mr. Shimabukuro Gen’ichirō, “Is there some ‘inconvenience’?” he explained that this was to make students speak “standard language.”
Even if we had entered while they were making a commotion, we would likely have been utterly unable to comprehend their words; yet the sight of these barefooted students—with sweet potatoes as their packed lunches—bustling about with glee was endearing, and I felt grateful for how education had spread.
We learned that this school stood where Gokuraku-ji Temple—built during King Eiso’s reign by Zenkan, who first brought Buddhism to Ryukyu—once stood.

When we reached the hilltop behind us, wild cycads grew like cultivated garden trees across the grassy slope of raised coral reef. The day had turned unseasonably cold with biting winds that obscured distant views, yet as we stood shivering on the precipice, Makiminato's coastline churned with white waves directly below us. Scattered roof tile fragments littered this castle site—including the flat tile inscribed “Goryeo roof tile artisan” I had seen at Naha Library—all unearthed from this very ground.

Urasoe literally means “ruler of all bays,” and its appearance as an ancient capital suggests this was Shuri’s predecessor during King Shunten’s reign. Though nothing remains of significance at these castle ruins today, their cliff base holds Okinawa’s famed Yōdore royal mausoleum. Descending coral-carved steps—our shoes slipping on weathered stone—we passed through a stone gate to find ourselves before Yōdore’s solemn facade overlooking an expansive lawn.

6. “Yōdore” Royal Mausoleum

The top of the cliff was the Urasoe Castle Site where we had been standing earlier. A cliff where cycad stumps grew had been cut at a right angle, and there two tombs had been dug, each equipped with an arched entrance though they were sealed. The tomb in the distance was the ancient mausoleum of King Eiso (1260–1299 CE), while the nearer one, with four-paned windows opened on both sides of its entrance, belonged to the much later King Shō Nei (1589–1620 CE). It was said that while King Shō Nei’s ancestors were all interred at Shuri’s Tamaudun, he—ashamed of having been taken prisoner by the Shimazu clan and dragged to Japan—had deliberately ordered his own mausoleum erected beside this ancient tomb. As for the arrangement of the royal family’s coffins within this tomb, there existed a document recording this, and yesterday at the library, I had been shown a copy of it.

I was very fond of the solitary atmosphere of this Urasoe royal mausoleum.
First, even if one does not understand the meaning of the term Yōdore, does it not somehow perfectly capture this desolate cemetery's mood?
The interpretation that "yō" signifies "world" while "dore" denotes stillness akin to toro—a profound quiet—struck my ears as undeniably apt.
On either side of King Eiso’s Mausoleum stood tall cylindrical pillars, atop which rested komainu-shaped statues.
In the space between the two mausoleums stood a small stone monument pavilion, within which rose that famous sandstone monument titled Yōdore no Hinomon, its surface carved with an extensive Ryukyuan text in katakana.
Peering through the fence's gaps made reading its eroded characters impossible in full; however, those who had read "The Last Epigraphic Text Written in Ryukyuan"—included in Ancient Ryukyu by my Third Higher School classmate and preeminent Ryukyu studies scholar Iha Bungakushi—would recall its detailed analysis.

“Ryūkyū-koku te tagasu e anjiosohisu he masaru ō ni sekanashi”

Beginning with the lengthy divine title of King Shō Nei, it records in solemn Ryukyuan text how the king had King Eiso’s mausoleum repaired, moved his great-grandfather’s remains here, intended to make it his own future resting place, and erected this monument.
And finally, the inclusion of “*Kono sumi asaku naraba horubeshi* [If this corner becomes shallow, it should be dug deeper], the 48th year of Wanli (1620), Kanoe-saru [Metal Monkey], an auspicious day in August” is truly fascinating, isn’t it?
Moreover, on the back of this monument—titled “Gokuraku-san no Hibun” (Inscription of Mount Gokuraku)—a text in classical Chinese conveying largely the same meaning is carved; however, the fact that the main text is recorded in the Ryukyuan national script using hiragana is something scarcely seen in mainland Japan.
In Japan, aside from the Amida Sutra Stone at Munakata Shrine in Chikuzen—which bears an inscription with katakana added later during the early Kamakura period—stone inscriptions using hiragana script are scarcely seen until the late Ashikaga period, appearing only in places like Christian tombstones; it was not until the Tokugawa era that one finds notable kana inscriptions such as that on the giboshi of Atsuta Setsudan Bridge.
In this regard, it is heartening that Ryukyu has long been liberated from the constraints of classical Chinese.
Moreover, while in Japan Chinese-style steles use Japanese era names, in Ryukyu steles inscribed in the national script employ Chinese era names—a contrast that speaks volumes about this nation’s history and circumstances, all the more intriguing to us.

Having seen this final epigraphic text written in Ryukyuan at Yōdore's royal mausoleum, I would later come to view its oldest stele at Shuri's Tamaudun.

7. Shuri’s Tamaudun

Returning from Urasoe to Shuri, we visited the villa of Marquis Shō.
I had met the previous Marquis during his studies at Oxford in England, but now in this villa where no familiar faces remained, I met with Steward Hyakumei—an elderly gentleman—viewed the grand shoin-zukuri reception hall and the antique Ryukyuan musical instruments (Chinese-style) arranged in the room behind it, and made requests regarding visits to Tamaudun and Sōgen-ji Temple.
This marquis’s residence was originally called Nakagusuku Palace, having served as the Crown Prince’s palace, and was said to have been newly built in Ansei 4 (1857), but what I found particularly intriguing was how translucent shells had been affixed to the toilet windows in place of glass.

Figure 11: Tamaudun

Now, Tamaudun—the royal mausoleum of successive kings of the Shō dynasty—stood south of Shuri Castle before Tenkai-ji Temple’s ruins. In Kōji 14 (Bunki 1, 1501 CE), King Shō Shin had reburied his father King Shō En’s remains from Miagemori to this site; thereafter expanding it gradually as the royal mausoleum until it attained its present form.

Now eroded and nearly illegible, the “Tamaodon no Hinomon” stele—erected in the ninth month of Kōnin 14 (823 CE) before the mausoleum’s front (left side)—opened with “Shuri ogyakamoigafushima akatodaru,” listing nine members of King Shō Shin’s lineage in its upper register. The lower register stated: “These nine descendants of His Majesty’s august affairs shall rest in this place for millennia upon millennia. Should any dispute arise hereafter, let them observe this corner; should any defy this inscription, let heaven and earth bear witness.” It was acclaimed as the oldest extant example of Ryukyuan epigraphy.

Behind the broad courtyard paved with coral fragments within the stone gate, three stone-built tomb chambers with balustrades at their fronts—constructed against a natural rock wall—constituted the main structure of Tamaudun.
Beyond its darkened stone hues lay a monotonous palette where even the green of trees placed for scenic effect was scarcely visible, paired with its simple arrangement of straight lines—a composition that led Dr. Itō to evaluate this mausoleum as follows: “Within an eerie silence that seeps into one’s very being, a kind of mysterious inspiration relentlessly bears down upon you, as though the very air were charged with it.”
When he stated, “Devoid of any ostentation or technical flourish as architecture, yet profoundly moving—this is what makes it sublime and grand, truly approaching the ideal for mausoleum construction,” he articulated precisely what I myself would express, leaving not a single word to add.
I do not know when Dr. Itō visited this mausoleum, but as I stood before it—buffeted by a skin-chilling wind under a dull, drizzly sky—I found this sensation deepening within me.

8. Inside Shuri Castle

Proceeding east through the Chinese-style Shureimon Gate revealed a stone gate crowned with a curved gable to the left. This was none other than the entrance to Sonohyan-utaki’s sacred grove worship site. That this structure dated back over four centuries could be verified by the ceramic plaque on its lintel bearing the inscription: “Erected during the reign of Shuri’s King Okiyakamo Hikanashi on the twenty-eighth day of the eleventh month in the fourteenth year of Shōtoku (Kinoe-U).” Though modest in size, its form proved pleasing; moreover, I grew fond of its intriguing Sino-Japanese hybrid style that exuded sturdiness. While I had never encountered another like it, gates of identical design were said to exist at Mengadake in northeastern Shuri. These all stood as markers of ancient faith venerating deities within mountains and forests.

Proceeding further through Kankaimon Gate where we scooped clear water from Ryūhi Spring, then passing beneath Zuisenmon Gate to climb the stone steps, I myself felt as though I had stepped into a figure from a Chinese literati painting. Emerging onto the Honmaru’s summit plaza and gazing up at Seiden—Shuri Castle’s grand edifice abruptly towering like Hyakurazoe itself—I was reminded of standing before Nara’s Great Buddha Hall prior to its restoration.

This main hall had been founded during King Satto’s reign, its current structure dating from reconstruction in Kyōhō 14 (1729). Though standing fifty-four *shaku* tall with three internal floors, its exterior presented a multi-tiered facade.
With its grand karahafu gable facing forward and towering like a colossus, this edifice stood as rare majesty in Ryukyu—a land where all things tended toward modest scale—exuding Momoyama to early Tokugawa grandeur while displaying Ryukyuan architectural hallmarks throughout.
Yet now it lay in ruins, its massive eaves tilting perilously toward collapse.
Thus when declared beyond preservation years prior and nearly slated for demolition, Dr. Itō’s fervent efforts had revived it as Okinawa Shrine’s worship hall; that it now stood designated a Specially Protected Structure undergoing major restoration was cause for deepest joy.
My sole fear remained whether those precarious eaves might succumb to Okinawa’s famed typhoons during these languid repairs.

In front of the main hall stood the South Hall and North Hall buildings.
The northern building was called Giseiden—a reception hall for Chinese investiture envoys equipped with Chinese-style facilities—whereas the Southern Hall was a Japanese-style structure used to host Satsuma emissaries; this arrangement in itself narrated the history of the Ryukyu Kingdom.
Adjacent to this South Hall remained a section of the residence that had once served as the feudal lord’s dwelling; now repurposed as a girls’ craft school with young women coming and going, this might actually have been beneficial for its preservation.
Here also remained the ruins of a watchtower.

9. Enkaku-ji Temple and Sōgen-ji Temple

Next, Enkaku-ji Temple—located beside Shuri Castle—was a Buddhist temple rare in this land for its complete seven-hall temple complex, though its scale remained exceedingly small.
We merely viewed from afar the Benzaiten Hall on the islet in Enkan Pond before resolving to return to Naha after admiring the beautiful clusters of trees around the area and the vista of Ryūtan Pond. Along the way, we visited Hachiman Shrine and Oki Shrine in Asato, Mawashi Village—intriguing examples of Ryukyuan shrine architecture—where we observed their varied frog-leg struts and the mask carvings adorning their pillars. Afterward, we saw the successive Ryukyuan kings’ spirit tablet hall at Sōgen-ji Temple. This temple’s gate stood along the main road from Shuri to Naha—a plain stone rectangular solid with three arched openings devoid of ornamentation—yet I found delight in how its technique so closely resembled recent concrete constructions. Dr. Itō had lavished praise upon it,

“Though modest in scale and simple in technique, its natural integration of the central section with left and right wings, the harmonious balance in their respective dimensions, the clarity and purposefulness of its overall silhouette, the economy of lines without a single superfluous element—these reveal countless virtues when examined. At first glance seemingly simple, yet grows ever richer under sustained observation. At first glance seemingly crude, yet reveals elegance upon closer scrutiny. At first glance seemingly artless, yet in reality a work of painstaking craftsmanship. At first glance seemingly shallow, yet in reality a work of profound gravity...”

To his full-throated praise and admiration for its original and innovative design, I found myself utterly in awe of Dr. Itō’s discernment. Moreover, Dr. Itō notes that within the temple grounds, a dismounting stele bears on its front the Ryukyuan inscription “Anshimo kesumo kumakara umakara orubeshi” (All must dismount here, whether noble or commoner), while on its back is carved in classical Chinese “However, officials entering the temple must dismount here”—but I ultimately overlooked it. (From the same doctor’s *Mokuben-shū* [*Collection of Wooden Fragments*])

Figure 12: Sōgen-ji Right Gate

Having returned to Naha and partaken of a belated lunch without a moment’s rest, we attended the Southern Islands Discussion Meeting held at the girls’ school, then proceeded to a welcome banquet at a certain Tsuji restaurant. However, just as we were becoming deeply engrossed in watching the Okinawan beauties’ dances, an urgent telegram arrived reporting an ominous incident before the Metropolitan Police Department in the capital and the Inukai Cabinet’s submission of its resignation—prompting the prefectural officials to hurriedly take their leave.
However, here I also gained the joy of encountering Mr. Kamiyama, whom I had come to know over a decade ago in Britain.

10. Itoman’s Fishing Village

On the third day, I decided to head south from Naha to see Itoman and Nanzan Castle.
After leaving Naha Town and passing through low-lying sugarcane fields for about three *ri*, there stood at the entrance to Itoman’s town a shrine called Shiragindō within a roadside cave.
It had now been completely modernized and held no interest whatsoever, but as always, women in indigo kasuri robes crouched and offered fervent prayers.
This shrine was associated with a legend: long ago, a Satsuma samurai sought to kill a man named Midono over a debt dispute but was persuaded by being taught the foremost proverb on forbearance—“When pride arises, restrain your hands; when hands act, restrain your pride”—and thus spared him. Later, upon returning home, he attempted to kill a cross-dressing woman who shared bedding with his wife to “protect the bride’s chastity,” but recalling this proverb, he escaped sin.

Figure 13: Itoman’s Fishing Boats

Itoman was said to be a place in Okinawa with a distinct ethnicity—whether due to intermingling with Caucasian blood or deriving its name from a foreigner called Eetman—but from what I observed, such things did not seem to be the case.
In this fishing village, men went out to sea to catch fish while women carried the catch on their heads to sell in Naha; given how active the women were, their physiques naturally became robust. Moreover, the fact that many housewives sitting in shops were plump might have related to exercise and diet.
At the fish market, all those engaged in trade were women: husbands caught fish at sea, which their wives and daughters haggled to purchase, then took a profit by reselling, while each family member maintained separate assets—a rare individualistic property system in Japan. Some years earlier, a certain scholar had come to investigate this practice, and it had since become renowned.

However, of course, matters like this property system differ entirely from the earlier racial issue; one cannot comprehend them merely by walking through the streets and gazing at the faces of Itoman’s people. Thus, all this is simply parroting the erudite Mr. Shimabukuro’s account.
So we went to the coast, looked at the utsubo boats pulled up on the shore, walked through the blood-stained fish market to observe the seafood, entered a nearby fisherman’s house, purchased a hollowed-log water scoop, and then decided to visit Noro-san’s house located slightly up in the foothills.
This marked my first such encounter since arriving in Okinawa; unfortunately, I could not meet Noro-san herself due to her illness, but her daughter-in-law brought out magatama beads to show me.
However, these turned out to be very new glass-made ones, which disappointed me; yet while feeling interest in the altar’s arrangement, I was treated to rakkyo-zuke pickles before taking my leave. When we stopped the car before the town office, a kind official presented me with a guidebook authored by former Mayor Tamagusuku Gorō, which I gratefully examined. Through this, I learned that some 1,200 emigrants had departed this town for foreign lands—their remittances reaching ¥110,000 in Shōwa Year 4—and also discovered several proletarians here paying an annual tax of merely one sen, thereby becoming quite the Itoman connoisseur.

11. Nanzan Castle, Takamine-no-Kuchi

After finishing my brief survey of Itoman, I headed to the ruins of Nanzan Castle on the hill east of town.
This was the castle where Taromai, who had been vanquished by Shō Hashi of Chūzan, once resided. From when Shōsatto first proclaimed himself King of Nanzan through four generations spanning 104 years, the unification of the Three Kingdoms was finally achieved in the early fifteenth century.
There being no grand castle structure to speak of, now only an elementary school and a small shrine stood upon the site.
However, the nearby view overlooking Itoman’s sea was worthy of appreciation.
In front of the altar were placed a small wooden mortar and pestle; I took them without permission as materials for folk customs studies.

Descending the hill, I entered Ōsato Village in Takamine while gazing at village maidens washing clothes in the clear spring—the source of the Kadeshi River gushing forth beneath a great banyan tree.
This was Ōsato Village, where Minamoto no Tametomo—after landing at Unten on the island and migrating southward—wed the daughter of Ōsato Aji and fathered Shunten.
In this village stood two houses of the Noro priestess.
At one house emerged a Noro priestess over sixty, mysterious and melancholic in demeanor, who showed us a long hollowed-out sword box and coins with threaded holes—though no magatama beads had been passed down.
When Mr. Shimabukuro Gen’ichirō posed various questions in Ryukyuan, she responded with “U-u,” which I learned signified “Yes.”
Upon asking how one says “No,” she produced nearly the same “Uuū” sound but with a rising inflection—a nuance I found utterly fascinating.
Yet I recalled that we Japanese too employ “U” and “Uun” similarly, reinforcing them with nods and head shakes for emphasis.

The other Noro house (Nishimei Noro) had built a hall upon a beautiful lawn, its garden exceptionally well-kept, while the elderly Noro priestess herself proved remarkably lively and modern. Lumps of brown sugar were presented on a tea tray; crystal prayer beads and a single somewhat aged dark green magatama bead lay stored there. From the guiding principal I received brown sugar wrapped in paper—reuniting after decades with this exquisite confection I had savored as a child filled me with delight.

12. Madama Bridge, Ryukyu Theater

The return path to Naha diverged from our outbound route, bringing us to Madama Bridge spanning the mouth of the Kuba River. This stone structure has three arches at its center (the central arch being Madama Bridge, the southern one Yomochi Bridge, and the northern one Yoyose Bridge). Devoid of any ornamentation, it instead exuded a simple and sturdy elegance, truly deserving to be called Okinawa’s foremost bridge. At the southern end of the bridge stood a monument bearing the "Inscription on the Reconstruction of Madama Bridge," inscribed with details of this grand undertaking: how over two hundred years ago, during King Shō Tei’s reign spanning the fourth to fifth year of Hōei [1707–1708], laborers from thirty-five magiri across the island’s three districts—over eighty-three thousand in total—had been conscripted to construct it. I sketched the bridge from the northern bank, returned to my lodgings in Naha around 1 p.m., and—without a moment’s rest—headed out to Naha Elementary School to deliver a lecture titled “The Origins of Japanese Civilization” for about an hour—a rather trying experience.

Figure 14: Madama Bridge

However, that night, guided by Mr. Shimabukuro and Mr. Fukuhara, I was delighted to go see the Ryukyu theater play *Amawari* being performed at the Asahi Theater in the city.
The theater was small and crude, but not only was I impressed by the audience’s quiet demeanor—the modern play serving as a prelude was quite interesting, with scenes that moved spectators to tears.
What particularly astonished me was how male actors in the *kumi odori* could dance with such feminine grace.

At last came the play *Amawari*.
This largely followed old mainland theatrical conventions but featured Amawari—that notorious medieval Ryukyuan warlord—as its protagonist alongside his beautiful wife Momoto Fumiage-hime and others through numerous dramatic scenes. Even for someone like me who had only heard the basic plot of this historical drama from Mr. Shimabukuro and Mr. Fukuhara earlier that day found it intensely engaging; one could scarcely imagine how profoundly it must have moved local audiences.
The partial incomprehensibility of Ryukyuan language meant little to me—I who had often attended Western plays without understanding a word of their tongues.
Rather, I felt immense delight whenever recognizable words surfaced through the dialogue.
Though night deepened, the performance showed no sign of concluding.
Yet I resolved to depart Naha early next morning—to view from afar Katsuren Castle where Amawari now played out his fictional reign upon stage—and visit Nakagusuku Castle fortress of his loyal rival Gosamaru.
Fearing excessive lateness, I returned to my lodgings an hour before my two companions—this being around eleven o'clock.

13. From Futemma to Ogidō Shell Mound

On the fourth day, I finally departed Naha and set out on a journey to Kunigami with Mr. Shimabukuro, Mr. Toyokawa, and Mr. Kotake.
Our outbound route was planned to follow Nakakaidō Road from Futemma—visiting the Ogidō Shell Mound, viewing the Nakagusuku Castle Site, and passing through the Iha Shell Mound before reaching Nago—but in Dr. Itō’s *Mokuhenshū*, there was a record of his terrifying experience: he had encountered a fierce storm while traveling to the base of Nakagusuku Castle, only to ultimately turn back without ascending to the castle site.
Fortunately, under today’s clear skies, such concerns were unnecessary; we had nothing to do but give thanks for the blessed weather.

On the outskirts of Naha, our car was frequently hindered by unemployment relief roadworks for a time, but soon we emerged onto a highway lined with rows of large pines—a wise facility planted by Sai On during King Shō Kei’s reign—known as Ginowan’s Pine Grove, evoking the sensation of traversing the old Tōkaidō road. After traveling about three ri, we reached Futemma and inspected the limestone cave housing the famous Gongen Shrine—precisely the sort of cavern that seemed to harbor remnants of a Stone Age dwelling. At Kishaba Elementary School below, we were greeted by the principal and proceeded toward Ogidō, though the path narrowed into a perilous mountain trail; when we finally ascended to Ogidō Village, the shell mound’s owner emerged to guide us to the northern village mound. What we found was a sloping field no larger than a postage stamp—so diminutive as to startle one into doubting this could be a shell mound—bordering directly on a cliff edge. The scattering of shells proved exceedingly sparse; pottery fragments were nearly absent altogether. Standing at the site now, I realized Mr. Torii, Mr. Matsumura, and their team must have expended tremendous labor to excavate even that meager yield. Yet regardless, this place—as Okinawa’s first discovered shell mound—deserves eternal remembrance.

Descending the hill and proceeding eastward, the vehicle soon halted at the foot of Nakagusuku Castle Site's hill, where we left it behind to climb up to the castle ruins.

14. Nakagusuku Castle Site

Sketches of Nakagusuku Castle Site and what appeared to be its floor plans were included in Perry’s records of his Ryukyu visit, which detailed how the fleet’s exploration team had ventured even to this remote area at the time.
In terms of its stone walls and such, this castle resembled those of mainland Japan, but the areas with small arched gates were distinctly Ryukyuan.
As it had earned the admiration of Perry’s fleet members, it was constructed in a most intriguing manner.
We emerged onto the ivy-clad stone walls and, from the main enclosure where the village office building now stood, indulged in the panoramic view: below our feet, Nakagusuku Bay’s azure waves danced, while directly across, the Yosho Peninsula—once home to Katsuren Castle—loomed in a haze of pale purple.
Truly, it was during the reign of King Shō Taikyū that the loyal retainer Gosamaru (Mō Kokutei) had constructed his fortress in Nakagusuku—to counter the formidable warlord Amawari, who had built his castle in Katsuren and kept a watchful eye on Chūzan.
At that time, the prosperity of Katsuren and the renown of Amawari were such that:

“Katsuren is likened to a bustling,
Yamato’s Kamakura it is likened to,
High-spirited and bustling,”
and was sung in *omoro*,
“Momoto Fumiage, surpassing even the mountains since this morn,
Momoto, lord and master to a hundred Aji,
Kimi no Fumiage, Shuri Mori Castle,
Matama Morigusuku”

The envied consort Momoto Fumiage-hime—that beautiful lady we had seen at Asahi Theater last night, daughter of King Shō Taikyū—became the pretext: seeking to eliminate Gosamaru, Amawari mustered his own forces and slandered him before the king as harboring rebellious intent.
Believing this, the king ordered Amawari to lead an assault on Nakagusuku. At this juncture, Gosamaru found himself with no means to plead his innocence before the king, yet disdained to resist the royal forces. In the end, he swallowed his bitterness and committed suicide alongside his wife and children—and this main enclosure stands as the very stage where this tragedy unfolded.
A kingdom falls, yet mountains and rivers endure; the castle in spring, now deep with grasses and trees. Having witnessed the *Amawari* play last night and now standing upon this castle site myself, I felt a profound depth of emotion.

The village office building retains fairly old traces in features like its tokonoma alcove, though it naturally does not date back to Gosamaru’s time. As for items claimed to be Gosamaru’s relics—tobacco trays and such—they are hardly worth discussing now. However, I believe the old local maps produced in Qianlong 5 [1740] and 10 [1745] will prove highly valuable for regional studies.
We soon returned to Kishaba Elementary School, ate our packed lunches, and gratefully received the doughnuts and other sweets kindly prepared by the principal’s wife.

15. From Iha Shell Mound to Nago

Heading north from Kishaba, we arrived in Iha in less than two hours along a pleasant country road.
Here too, we had the elementary school principal guide us to the shell mound located northeast of the school.
Amid uplifted coral reefs undulating like garden stones, cycad clusters flourished as though they were ornamental trees.
“The shell mound is here,” came the indication, but I was astonished to find the designated spot lay midway up a cliff several dozen feet high, where a narrow path descending toward Ishikawa Village clung like a staircase.
Even if this east-facing cliff had once overlooked azure waves at its base in ancient times, it remained utterly perplexing that humans would choose such an extremely dangerous and inconvenient place to establish dwellings.
Later I heard that the shell mound’s center lay further north than where we had seen, though they said the general topography remained much the same as here.
In the midsection of the cliff we observed, shells were scattered in meager quantities, and pottery fragments—even small ones—were rarely found; yet those pottery patterns matched exactly with Ogidō’s style.

After catching a glimpse of the Iha Shell Mound, we emerged onto the west coast prefectural road near Onna Village and, this time passing by beautiful coastal scenes—adan windbreak forests and intriguing rock formations—finally arrived in Nago Town as the clock neared four in the afternoon.
The street in front of the police station, where a large banyan tree stood, was so open and airy it could be called a plaza, giving a distinct impression of a grand post town.
Upon settling into the Isshinkan inn located in the backstreet, the newly built second-floor room offered a fine view, with a small hill visible nearby to the east.
That was Minamijōgaku of Nago, where Ms. Noro resided atop it, preserving magatama beads. “How about it? If you’re not too tired, let’s go see it before dinner,” Mr. Shimabukuro suggested—and though I was indeed somewhat weary from travel, I resolved to muster my courage and set out.
Atop the mountain stood Ms. Noro’s residence; a short distance away, a small shrine-like structure had been erected, and before it lay a worship hall.
This was an entirely new-style Noro hall.
At that very moment, Ms. Noro was praying before the shrine, and upon inquiring about the two girls and two women who appeared to be their mothers standing beside her, we learned this was a prayer for the girls’ successful admission to the girls’ high school that year.
Moreover, it was said that the Noro priestess of this mountain was currently a student at Nago Girls’ School, so for the time being, a female relative was serving as her proxy.
It was precisely for this reason that schoolgirl uniforms and textbooks became visible in Ms. Noro’s living room.
Now that we had entered this era of Ms. Noro the schoolgirl, various changes must surely manifest in both faith and rituals.

At Ms. Noro’s house, we saw magatama beads and two bronze mirrors excavated in this area.
The mirrors, if categorized by Yamato’s historical periods, would belong to the post-Fujiwara era; they were most likely believed to be Chinese imports.
After climbing further up the sacred mountain behind us and returning to our lodgings, we found that Mr. Fukuhara—who had been following our group—had arrived. When after dinner we learned that a dozen or so members of the village youth association would specially perform a Bon dance for us, we changed into Western-style clothes and went to watch.
It was precisely because this was Ryukyu that we could watch dances under the open sky with bonfires lit at the beginning of January; we could do nothing but offer our deepest gratitude for the villagers’ kindness.

16. The Ancient Tombs of Uendo

The next day at nine in the morning, we set out with Mr. Kanda, Mr. Fukuhara, and others to see the ancient tombs of Uendo, located about one ri west of Nago.
This was newly discovered by Mr. Shimabukuro Gen'ichirō—within caves dug into a Tertiary-period cliff abundant with fossils lay numerous stone sarcophagi.
There were two or so holes; the mouth of the larger one had been blocked with a stone fence. When someone slightly removed part of it and peered inside, around twenty small house-shaped stone sarcophagi—some painted red or blue—along with terracotta and wooden coffins lay haphazardly arranged, their bleached bones peering out from within in an eerie display.
This was likely an ancient cemetery in Nago, though by "ancient" we meant it dated back to the Ashikaga period.
Moreover, on the mountains above there were similar, slightly smaller burial pits, and also on the tree-covered mountain to the right; however, those on this mountain had stone sarcophagi exposed not only within the cave interiors but also along the front hillside, with white skulls protruding.
A place where someone like Dr. K would have clung to investigate was one from which I found myself wanting to flee almost immediately.

Figure 15: Stone Sarcophagi Inside Uendo Cave

Figure 16: Stone Sarcophagi Inside Uen'yama Cave, Uendo

Urging our car onward toward Unten, we saw raised storehouses in Kurega Village and Yanbaru women carrying bamboo baskets on their backs, suspended from their foreheads. We decided to purchase one such basket and requested a shopkeeper to hold it for collection on our return journey. Further along the highway, vendors selling the customary tofu had formed lines before the houses. Entering Unten Port from the back mountain, we climbed to the monument bearing Admiral Tōgō’s calligraphy commemorating Minamoto no Tametomo’s landing—a small, pristine harbor spread out below us, though only one or two boats of the sort Tametomo himself might have sailed lay anchored there. Whether Chinzei Hachirō, entrusting fate to heaven, had truly braved raging waves to reach this port in Eiman 1 [1165] remains unproven as historical fact, yet it was certainly from here that the Shimazu clan launched their hundred-ship invasion of Ryukyu in Keichō 14 [1609].

17. Hundred Aji Tomb

On the cliff halfway down the mountain below the Tametomo monument lay the old cave tomb known as the famous Hundred Aji Tomb. Parting the dense thicket and proceeding forward, we found among the many tombs a cave now encircled by a stone wall. When I climbed over the wall and peered inside, several wooden coffins had already decayed, their bleached bones pitifully exposed—a state resembling the exposed tombs of Uendo. Mr. Kikuchi Yūhō's *Ryukyu and Tametomo* records that one coffin bore an ink inscription reading "Esaishi no Ashi." Furthermore, characters said to read "the thirteenth year of Kōji [1557], ninth month" allow us to generally ascertain its age—yet even in this ancient cemetery, bones must have been interred in later eras, indeed even recently. Since detailed accounts of this tomb exist in Mr. Yūhō’s book and Mr. Simon’s treatise, I resolved to consult those works instead and hastily fled this unnerving burial site.

Regarding this tomb, some assert it holds retainers of King Shō Toku, who perished four hundred years prior, while others claim it belongs to northern mountain royalty destroyed by King Shō Hashi. Regardless, it remains factual that during the Keichō era—over three hundred years ago—descendants of the northern mountain king invested over six hundred gold pieces to repair it and construct a wooden shrine, with Mr. Yūhō including its illustration in his published work.

Descending the mountain and peering into the relatively new tomb constructed beneath the cliff, we found its interior filled with bone urns, while deeper within, wooden coffins and bleached bones lay scattered about.
I stayed in this village to investigate such tombs, but I cannot help but admire the dedication of Dr. T.K., who slept side by side with bleached bones—though this may not be his specialized field.

18. Nakijin Castle and Magatama Beads

It was only after arriving in Okinawa—a mere few days prior—that we learned how to write Nakijin as 今歸仁 and pronounce it as such. Now we were setting out for Nakijin Castle, site of the Northern Mountain King’s former stronghold.
Ascending the hill from Imadomari Village and passing through a place called Ataibaru where former estates once stood, the cycads and other garden trees lining both sides evoked memories of bygone gardens.
At the site of the mountain-top honmaru stood a monument to Nakijin Castle and a small shrine; overall, the stone walls remained well-preserved, and traces of a watchtower could also be seen.
The grand scale of its structure far surpassed even that of Nakagusuku Castle.
To the east in particular lay a cliff several dozen jō high, beneath which a gurgling mountain stream flowed; the view of Iheya Island within arm’s reach was of a beauty beyond compare.
Upon the mountain stood a stone called Aisōseki—a fearsome rock said to have been cleaved in two by the blade of General Pan Anchi. This occurred during the fall of the Northern Mountain, when the valiant commander, enraged that the sacred stone he had long venerated showed no efficacy, split it asunder just before exhausting his strength and taking his own life.
And I heard that this sword was still passed down in the Shō Marquis family.

At the foot of the mountain, precisely where Mr. Shimabukuro Gen'ichirō's father-in-law's house stood, our entire party was kindly received there and partook of lunch; then, through Mr. Shimabukuro's arrangements, we were fortunate enough to have someone bring for our inspection a single magatama bead passed down by Noro Kumoroi of Nakijin, twenty-one magatama beads of Aō Rie Aji of Imadomari, and jade sandals—a stroke of luck beyond compare.
In particular, the latter included two Kure-shaped magatama beads and one made of Izumo stone, most possessing T-shaped heads; given that their stone quality was white-tinged jadeite, this resemblance to Silla magatama from Korea—extending to their shape and craftsmanship—was perceived as contributing significantly to understanding both Ryukyuan magatama's essence and magatama as a whole.
As there was no time to spare and I felt compelled by the thought that the people of Onna Village—whom I had requested in advance—were surely waiting to show us their dance, I resolved to conduct a detailed investigation another time by having Mr. Shimada come instead, and we returned to Nago around two o'clock.

Figure 17: Magatama Beads of Aō Rie Aji from Imadomari, Nakijin Village, Kunigami District

19. The Usudeko Drum Dance of Onna

In Tatcha of Onna Village, where they had previously brought their old local dance to Naha some years ago, when Mr. Shimabukuro suggested we might view it on our return from Nago, I gratefully requested this favor above all others. However, upon hearing during our outbound journey that the Tatcha villagers had gathered many women from the village and had been practicing since two days prior for my sake, I could not help but regret having caused them such great inconvenience.
To make the most of this rare opportunity and view it for as long as possible, we raced by car from Nakijin, arriving at Tatcha Village without even a brief rest in Nago—yet it was still past four o'clock, over an hour behind schedule.

Led promptly by Mr. District Chief up to Kamiyama Plaza behind the highway, even the approach had been newly maintained, and the area around the plaza was thronged with spectators, resembling a grand festival. In the semi-circular seating area, spectators had already settled in, eagerly awaiting my arrival, while forty to fifty lavishly dressed female dancers of all ages appeared fully prepared yet growing restless. Never before had such an event been arranged solely for my sake; I found myself overwhelmed with nothing but feelings of profound embarrassment and gratitude.

Before long, the Usudeko drum dance began.
As someone entirely ignorant about song and dance traditions, I could hardly grasp the details, but about forty women formed two large circles—the outer one consisting of elderly people. At one end stood eight grandmothers around fifty years old, their heads wrapped in purple and red cloths while holding drums; all others held bamboo clappers, folding fans, or fly-whisk-like implements.
The inner circle consisted of young girls with long purple and light blue cloths hanging from their hair.
When the leader initiated the chant, the entire group sang and moved in step—yet their progression was exceedingly slow, the pitch quite leisurely, and their movements lacking in variation—but this was simply inherent to the characteristics of this most ancient Usudeko drum dance's performance style.

Figure 18: Onna’s Usudeko Drum Dance

Fortunately, the lyrics had been provided in mimeographed form, but even while following along with them, I found it quite difficult to keep up.

First:

Shuri Tenkanashi: Grant us a hundred years.

御萬人の間切 拜でしやでびら

Beginning with [the lines] that went, “...”, I was astonished to hear that singing the entire song would take four hours, so I requested that they considerably abbreviate it.
From the lengthy song, if I were to select a few representative examples, they would be as follows.

Seventeen or eighteen around—all because of her.

Eight and nine—all because of chiji bonds.

Were my thoughts realized / In midnight’s darkened forest

Under the moonlit night, Imochi / Chiyusa was lost

Small anchored boats / Drifting lightly on the waves

だちよてちびふゆぬ かぢどーあやーめー」

However, it is not as though I properly understood the meaning of even these examples.
When the Usudeko drum dance concluded, there were several group dances by young girls; all the dancers were either in split-toed socks or completely barefoot.

Though Mr. Shimabukuro Gen’ichirō, the local historian, was far more deeply absorbed in admiration than I myself, as the sun gradually sank into the western sea, I expressed gratitude to the villagers for this unparalleled kindness and departed for Naha with reluctance—yet I shall never be able to forget the warm sincerity of Onna’s kind-hearted people.

20. A Glimpse of the Tsuji Red-Light District

On the return journey, we emerged onto the coastal road at Kadena and for the first time saw a light railway train running.
Through villages with broad streets flanked by rows of large pine trees, our eyes repeatedly startled awake by passing car headlights as we drifted toward slumber, we entered Naha just past seven in the evening. Seeing trams running again after two days filled me with a nostalgia that felt quintessentially urban.

Having visited Nanzan Castle from Itoman in the south and Hokuzan Castle from Nago Unten in the north, I rejoiced at having finally achieved my goal of surveying Ryukyu—when Mr. Kotake, who had escorted me back to my lodgings, interjected, “Ah, but one crucial site remains.” That was none other than the famous Tsuji Red-Light District. Since he had said he would guide me later if I wasn’t too fatigued, and given how persistently I had been told about this red-light district since arriving in Naha, I felt somehow remiss not to glimpse it; thus after dinner, I resolved to trouble Mr. ○ for his company.

The Tsuji Red-Light District traces its origins to Kanbun 12 (1672, the 11th year of Kangxi), when the *oirui*—prostitutes who had been scattered throughout various areas—were gathered here. After merging with brothels from Nakashima Watati in Meiji 41 (1908), it grew increasingly prosperous, reaching its present state.
Unlike Naha’s other residences, the brothels were mostly two-story buildings, though far from grand edifices.
In this district, even around nine at night—still early evening—the place bustled with customers coming and going.
In the entrances connected by wooden-floored corridors, two or three women stood visible at every house, though rarely seen aggressively soliciting patrons.
No—should a first-time customer attempt to enter tentatively, they would be tactfully refused with “Achiyamensōri” (“Please return tomorrow”), and I heard our Mr. S.K. had unfortunately met this fate several years prior.

Thanks to Mr. ○'s guidance, I ascended to a house called "Take no Ie," where being so "heartily" welcomed proved a most fortunate blessing. The women each had separate rooms; the interiors were beautifully decorated, and even the neat futons visible inside the bedding cupboards were exactly like the gisaeng rooms I had seen in Pyongyang, Korea. When we were invited to the large upstairs tatami room, Ms. Tsuru—an old acquaintance of Mr. ○—emerged to pour cups of awamori and peel mandarins for us. They did not serve an abundance of food; instead, three or four of Ms. Tsuru’s fellow women entered one after another to attend to us. When we requested a dance from Ms. Tsuru, to the accompaniment of an older courtesan’s sanshin, she performed various dances in her signature indigo-dyed kimono, front-tied obi, and comb-style hairdo. The gentleness of her gestures and movements differed from what we had seen at the theater the other day, exuding instead a parlor's serene refinement. My brief journey to Okinawa ends tonight, and when I wonder when I might next visit this island brimming with the ambiance of the Southern Islands, I cannot help but feel a profound lingering reluctance toward the lovely dances of its women. Despite the modest gratuity, they expressed their gratitude, and after about an hour, we were seen off with Ms. Tsuru’s handshake and safely returned to Hōraikan.

What made the Tsuji Red-Light District intriguing was that beyond its ostensible purpose as a pleasure quarter, it actually functioned as a multifaceted facility encompassing cafés, restaurants, salons, and other such establishments. In the past, banquets for military officers and educators had often been held here, and it was said that even women’s associations had occasionally convened there. This was doubtlessly because it proved most convenient and affordable while providing the cheeriest atmosphere. On one hand, one might say various social institutions remained undifferentiated; at the same time, there was merit in how the women preserved all qualities of being hostesses, geisha, and prostitutes alike. Thus I had heard that frequenting this quarter did not necessarily invite condemnation from scholar-gentlemen—yet upon returning to Kyoto and perusing Mr. Iha’s *Okinawa Women’s History*, I was startled to find it stated that such practices constituted an imported vice cultivated after the Meiji Restoration by unmarried prefectural officials from mainland Japan. Even so, these women, alongside Korean gisaeng, preserved vestiges of shirabyōshi-style traditions, remaining one of modernity’s pitiable yet poignant existences. That they were referred to using the characters for "tail category" struck me as undeniably cruel—a sentiment I doubted I alone felt.

21. Shikinaen Garden, Farewell to Okinawa

When I returned late to the inn last night, Mr. Nakagawa from the hospital had been waiting for me, having brought old Ryukyu patterned garments and simple folk pottery pieces—thus I obtained these fine souvenirs without even needing to rise from my seat.
Now on the final day of my Okinawa stay, accompanied by Mr. Nishiyama in the morning and together with Mr. Kotake and Mr. Shimabukuro, I paid a visit to Shikinaen Garden—the southern estate of the Shō family located in Shuri's southwestern area.
Though not particularly expansive in scale, it was largely a Japanese-style garden: at the heart-shaped pond's central island stood a hexagonal pavilion, and while the shoin palace too followed Japanese aesthetics, only the stone arched bridge exhibited Chinese styling.
At one end of the elegant garden stood a viewing platform called Kannōdai overlooking Shimajiri's plains and hills. It was said that long ago, kings observed their people engaged in agriculture from here, and that even when Chinese envoys from Shina visited, the sea remained entirely concealed from view—a design meant to disguise Okinawa's modest size.
However, now that distant hilltop trees had thinned, glimpses of coastline occasionally appeared; nonetheless, it remained an expansive panorama.
On the return journey, I took some "Ōtani-watari" growing atop residential stone walls as mementos and also observed a raised storehouse.

I returned to the inn and had a midday meal, but just as I was about to board the ship scheduled to depart at 2 PM, I learned the departure had been delayed until 5 PM—which allowed me time to bid farewell at the library and prefectural office. When I finally boarded the Tainan Maru past four o'clock, both ship and shore were crowded with men and women seeing off the former Home Minister returning to the mainland. I happened to be traveling with Mr. Fukuhara, who was headed back to Kyoto, and unexpectedly shared the voyage with Professor Numata from the Agricultural Sciences department—who had stopped at this island on his return from Taiwan—so I could forget the loneliness of the four-day journey to Kobe.

Before long, the Tainan Maru left the wharf and swayed out into the open sea.
After the figures of Mr. Nishiyama, Mr. Majikina, Mr. Shimabukuro, and others—who had treated me with the kindness of old friends these past few days—vanished from view along with their waving hats' shadows, and after Naminoue Cape and the wireless telegraph poles too disappeared from sight, I entered the cabin of the Tainan Maru. There, recalling how my late father had traveled aboard this very ship to Taiwan shortly after the First Sino-Japanese War over thirty years prior, my heart broke even as I grieved the fateful transformation that had reduced what was once a vessel of distinction to ferrying to Ryukyu.
And from the day after we called at Ōshima, by day I would listen intently to Nakagusuku, the House of Peers member's impassioned speeches while enduring the great swells of the monsoon, and by night my dreams would race back to the joyous journey through Okinawa.

Carrying with care the Southern Islands souvenirs—the wooden leaf butterfly plaque that Mr. Kiyokawa had gifted to my young daughter, the cycad pot from Mr. Fukuhara, the Ōtani-watari plants, the papaya basket, and so on—

(Dolmen II—IX; Shōwa 7, V—XII)