Seifuku's Imugé

Seifuku’s Imugé. What exactly is it?

Well, to answer that, we will need to travel back in time about 150 years.

During the Ryūkyū Kingdom (1429-1879), as you may remember from a previous post, the making of awamori was only permitted in what was known as the Shurisanka (首里三箇), three villages just south and southeast of Shuri (or “Shui”), the capital of the kingdom—Torihori (鳥堀), Sakiyama (崎山) and Akata (赤田). Today, you can still find a handful of distilleries in the area, including Zuisen and Shikina. Another awamori maker, Sakimoto (咲元), has since moved out of the area. All that remains of that former distillery is a simple, easy-to-miss stela. The 40 people licensed to engage in the making of awamori were given the raw materials (namely long-grained indica rice from Thailand) from the ōfu (王府), or royal administration. When the awamori was ready, they offered it to the ōfu as a form of tax. They were allowed to keep some of their product to be traded on the market.

Awamori produced outside of the Shurisanka generally began as moonshine. From the Meiji Period on (1868-), however, regulations on the brewing and distillation of alcohol were lifted. Production at local distilleries remained small and was for the most part consumed locally. Today there is a deep attachment and loyalty among Uchinānchu (Okinawans) to their shimā, or hometown’s hooch.

Because awamori made with imported rice was out of the reach for ordinary Okinawans, they made spirits of their own out of sweet potatoes and unrefined cane sugar—kokutō (黒糖) in Japanese, or muscovado. This home-brewed alcohol was known as imugé (芋下, note the Okinawan pronunciation of imo → imu).

You might think—and I must confess I did, too—that because imugé is made from sweet potatoes, it’s just another form imo jōchū, but no. Your standard otsu-rui imo shōchū is singly distilled, using sweet potatoes, kōji (a mold grown on rice that is used as a fermentation starter), rice, and yeast. With imugé, the sweet potatoes are distilled twice and then kokutō is added for a third distillation.

Although imugé was widely consumed by ordinary people in Okinawa, laws enacted which on the one hand encouraged the production of awamori outside of the original Shurisanka area also had the effect of banning home-brewing. (I will look into the reason why the laws changed in a future post.)

Seifuku (請福酒造) of Ishigaki-jima teamed up with Taragawa (多良川) of Miyako-jima and Kumesen (久米仙) of Kume-jima to bring imugé back in 2019. Produced with locally grown sugar cane and sweet potatoes, each distillery’s imugé has its own distinct flavor. All imugé, however, have the rich fragrance of sweet potato and the conspicuous sweetness of cane sugar.

Imugé can be enjoyed, neat, on the rocks, with water, hot water or soda. My father-in-law said he preferred it mixed with hot water.

25% ABV

Moriawaro

More a list of awamori distilleries than a song, “Moriawarō” is, I believe, the first tune Kiiyama Shōten did at the request of the Okinawa Prefecture Union of Distillers (沖縄県酒造組合). (Their second (?) was Kampai Shanshan, which I have also translated.) The title is a play on awamori (泡盛), with the characters inverted to sound like moriagarō (盛り上がろう) which can be loosely translated as “Let’s party!”

I will be working on the translation over the next few weeks, so drop by every now and then. Also, I have added links to each shuzō when possible.

A quick note about awamori is helpful before jumping into the lyrics of the song.

During the Ryūkyū Kingdom (1429-1879), the making of awamori was only permitted in Shurisanka (首里三箇), three villages just south and southeast of Shuri (or “Shui”), the capital of the kingdom—Torihori (鳥堀), Sakiyama (崎山) and Akata (赤田). Today, you can still find a handful of distilleries in the area, including Zuisen and Shikina. Another awamori maker, Sakimoto (咲元), has since moved out of the area. All that remains of that former distillery is a simple, easy-to-miss stela. The 40 people licensed to engage in the making of awamori were given the raw materials from the ōfu (王府), or royal administration, and delivered the awamori they then produced to the ōfu as a form of tax.

Awamori produced outside of the Shurisanka generally began as moonshine. From the Meiji Period on (1868-), however, regulations on the brewing and distillation of alcohol were lifted. Production at local distilleries remained small and was for the most part consumed locally. Today there is a deep attachment and loyalty among Uchinānchu (Okinawans) to their shimā, or hometown’s hooch.

Today there are, I believe, 48 distilleries in Okinawa prefecture with more than 500 different brands and over 2000 individual products. That’s a lot of booze. By comparison, there are about 2000 whiskey distilleries in the whole of the US today. The song lists 46 distilleries. I suspect that there may have been consolidation, which may explain why Takazato, is now known as Yambaru Shuzō. I could be wrong. (Will look into this later.)

I should note that awamori enjoys a lower tax rate, compared to shōchū makers in other parts of Japan, so a typical bottle of awamori will cost less than ten bucks locally. Part of the reasoning, is that in the ritō (離島), or outlying islands of Okinawa prefecture, awamori production is one of the few industries that provides steady employment. Although 3.4% of manufacturing jobs on the main island of Okinawa are in awamori production, on Kumé-jima, that number is 26.2%. On Yonaguni-jima, it’s 23.1%; Izena-jima, 17.3%; and, Miyako-jima, 14.3%. Orion beer, Uchinā’s favorite suds also benefit from lower taxation.

And so, on we go to that “song”. The verses are a list of awamori distilleries followed by their signature product. Distilleries are given for the most part in geographical order, from the westernmost islands of Yonaguni and Hateruma, through the Yae Archipelago, then on to the southern part of the Okinawan mainland and on up in a northerly direction, then back down. I will add more information regarding the location later, so come back in a few weeks.

波照間 (泡波)、国泉 (どなん)、崎元 (与那国)、入波平 (舞富名)

Hateruma (Awanami), Kokusen (Donan), Sakimoto (Yonaguni), Irinamihira (Maifuna)

Note: Distillery name followed by its brand of awamori in parenthesis. All of these with the exception of Hateruma (of Hateruma Island) are located on the island of Yonaguni. I haven’t been there myself, but I have heard (and read) that the island of Formosa (Taiwan) can be see on clear days from Yonaguni.

仲間 (宮之鶴)、請福 (請福)、高嶺 (於茂登)、玉那覇 (玉の露)

Nakama (Miyanotsuru), Seifuku (Seifuku), Takamine (Omoto), Tamanaha (Tamanotsuyu)

Note: Most of these can be found on Ishigaki-jima.

池原 (白百合)、八重泉 (八重泉)、多良川 (王朝)、宮の華 (宮の華)

Ikehara (Shirayuri), Yaesen (Yaesen), Taragawa (Ōchō), Miyanohana (Miyanohana)

Note: Ikehara and Yaesen can be found on Ishigaki; Taragawa on Miyako-jima and Miyanohana on the neighboring island of Irabu.

沖之光 (沖之光)、池間 (太郎)、菊之露 (菊之露)、渡久山 (豊年)

Okinohikari (Okinohikari), Ikema (Tarō), Kikunotsuyu (Kikunotsuyu), Tokuyama (Hōnen)

Note: I believe all of these are located on Miyako-jima, home of the otōri binge-drinking session culture.

Chorus

色んな泡盛飲みましょう　泡盛飲んで踊りましょう
ひやさっさっ　みんなで笑いましょう　泡盛飲んで　盛り泡ろう！
かんぱーい！

Let’s drink all kinds of awamori. Let’s drink awamori and dance.

Hiyasassa! Let’s laugh together. Drink awamori and “moriawarō” (party)

Cheers!

Note: Listen to enough Okinawan music and you are bound to hear the “hiyasasa” or “iyasasa” call. This is shouted during the eisa drumming and dancing performed during the Bon festival honoring the spirits of one’s ancestors. Eisa and hiyasasa are said to originate in an exclamation in Mamauya Ninbuchi (継親念仏, Gishin Nenbutsu), a nenbutsu song of Pure Land Buddhism: Eisa, eisa, hiyarugaeisa (エイサー、エイサー、ヒヤルガエイサー). You can hear the this chanted in the song I have linked to below.

まさひろ (まさひろ)、久米仙 (久米仙)、宮里 (春雨)、津波古 (太平)

Masahiro (Masahiro), Kümesen (Kumesen), Miyazato (Harusame), Tsuhako, (Taihei)

神谷 (南光)、忠孝 (忠孝)、上原 (神泉)、米島 (久米島)、沖酒協 (海乃邦)

Kamiya (Nankō), Chūko (Chūko), Uehara (Shinsen), Yoneshima (Kumesen), Okishukyō (Umi no kuni)

久米島の (久米仙)、瑞泉 (瑞泉)、咲元 (咲元)、瑞穂 (瑞穂)、識名 (時雨)、石川 (甕仕込)、神村 (暖流)

Kumejima’s (Kumesen), Zuisen (Zuisen), Sakimoto (Sakimoto), Mizuho (Mizuho), Shikina (Shigure), Ishikawa (Kameshikomi), Kamimura (Danryū)

Chorus

色んな泡盛飲みましょう　泡盛飲んで踊りましょう
ひやさっさっ　みんなで笑いましょう　泡盛飲んで　盛り泡ろう！
かんぱーい！

Let’s drink all kinds of awamori. Let’s drink awamori and dance.

Hiyasassa! Let’s laugh together. Drink awamori and “moriawarō” (party)

Cheers!

新里 (琉球)、比嘉 (残波)、北谷長老 (長老)、ヘリオス (くら)

Shinzato (Ryūkyū), Higa (Zampa), Chattan Chōrō (Chōrō), Heriosu (Kura)

伊平屋 (照島)、伊是名 (常盤)、山川 (珊瑚礁)、今帰仁 (古里)

Iheya (Terushima), Izena (Tokiwa), Yamakawa (Sangoshō), Nakijin (Furusato)

Note: Iheya is an island northwest of the main island of Okinawa and the northernmost point of Okinawa prefecture. It has a population of only 1,200 people. Izena is just south of Iheya. It has a population of about 1,500. Yamakawa is located on the Motobu Peninsula (near Nago) back on the main island. Nakijin can also be found on the Motobu Peninsula.

龍泉 (龍泉)、田嘉里 (まるた)、崎山 (松藤)、金武 (龍)、 恩納 (萬座)、津嘉山 (國華)

Ryūsen (Ryūsen), Takazato (Maruta), Sakiyama (Matsufuji), Kin (Tatsu), Onna (Manza), Tsukayama (Kokka)

Note: Ryūsen is in Nago City, in the center of Okinawa Island. Takazato, also known as Yambaru Shuzō, is in the northern part of Okinawa Island, near the Yambaru National Park, which I believe was just registered as a UNESCO World Heritage along with parts of the Amami Ōshima archipelago. To give you an idea of how remote the area is, it took me longer to drive there from Naha than it did to fly to Naha from Fukuoka. Sakiyama is located further south, closer to the towns of Kin and Onna.

ゴーヤー (かちゃーしー)

Gōyā (Kachāshī)

Note: Gōyā is also known as nigauri (苦瓜) in Japanese and a variety of names in English, including bitter gourd and balsam pear. Originating in Africa, it was introduced to Okinawa via China some four hundred years ago. On Miyako-jima, it is known as gōra (ゴーラ); in the Yaeyama archipelago, gōya (ゴーヤ) with a short “a”. In Kyūshū, it is known as nigagori or nigagōri. In Amami it is called nigyaguri (ニギャグリ ) or tōguri (トーグリ). In the rest of Kagoshima prefecture, it is nigagoi (ニガゴイ), dropping the “r” as is common in Kagoshima.

Kachāshī is the distinctive folk dance that people in Okinawa do. See it demonstrated here.

おしまい (むるまーさん！)

That’s all for now, Mr. Muromā!

Chorus

色んな泡盛飲みましょう　泡盛飲んで踊りましょう
ひやさっさっ　みんなで笑いましょう　泡盛飲んで　盛り泡ろう！
かんぱーい！

Let’s drink all kinds of awamori. Let’s drink awamori and dance.

Hiyasassa! Let’s laugh together. Drink awamori and “moriawarō” (party)

Cheers!

嫌な事飲んで　忘れましょう　明日の仕事も頑張りましょう
ひやさっさっ　みんなで笑いましょう　泡盛飲んで　盛り泡ろう！
かんぱーい！

Let’s drink and forget unpleasant things; Let’s do our best at work tomorrow

Hiyasassa! Let’s laugh together. Drink awamori and “moriawarō” (party)

Cheers!

Phew. This post took much more time than I originally intended to spend on it, and it’s still a work in progress. I need a drink!

Kampai Shanshan

A few months ago when I was on a flight to Okinawa, I caught a wild, hyperactive music video with the sound off and wondered what the heck was going on. The credits at the end of the video mentioned the Okinawa Shuzō Kumiai (沖縄酒造組合, Union of Okinawa Distilleries). Later, I googled it and eventually found the music video I had seen during the flight.

The song was written and performed by Kiyama Shōten (きいやま商店), a trio of brothers hailing from the island of Ishigaki where one of my favorite awamori, Seifuku (請福泡盛) is produced. According to Wiki, the three were living in the Kantō area, but returned to their hometown the wedding of a relative, where they played a number of songs. So popular was their performance, the guests encouraged them to continue recording and pursue music as a career.

Kampai Shanshan (乾杯しゃんしゃん) is, I believe, the second song they have written for the awamori industry in Okinawa. It’s quite a fun little ditty that will surely have you singing along. I will translate the lyrics in coming days, so stay tuned!

歌/Song：きいやま商店/Kiiyama Shōten

作詞/Lyrics：きいやま商店/Kiiyama Shōten

作曲/Composed by：きいやま商店//Kiiyama Shōten

---

嬉しい時には集まって

At happy times, we gather

みんなで泡盛飲みましょう

And let’s drink awamori together

ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー

Yuga yuga fūfū yuga yuga fū
Note: ゆがふ（世果報）とは、沖縄の方言で豊年満作「世の中が豊かで平和でみんなが幸せでありますように」という意味. Yugafu is Okinawan for hōnenmansaku (豊年万作) which literally means an abundant year, bumper crop, but in a general sense means that times are peaceful, everyone has enough and is happy.

あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

Note: 八重山地方では、美しいとか綺麗の事を「あっぱりしゃん！」といいます。他は、可愛い、美しい、素晴らしいという意味。 沖縄本島地方では「美らさん」といいますね. In the Yaeyama archipelago, something or someone that is beautiful is apparishan. Similarly on the Okinawan mainland, they say churasan. So, they are singing “How wonderful! Cheers!”

ボトルを開けたらうさげましょう
まずは先祖にありがとう

After opening the bottle, let’s drink. (I need to check this. I think usagemashō is omeshiagarimashō, but I need to double check this .)

But first we give thanks to our ancestors.

ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

銘柄たくさん迷っちゃうだけど
やっぱり地元の酒がいい

There are so many brands, you can’t decide,

Still, the best alcohol is local

ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

とぅじにワジられ家を出て
したたか飲んでまたワジられた

Note: とぅじは奥さん、妻という意味。日本の古語で言う「刀自」（とじ）がなまったもの。沖縄の言葉には古墳期から江戸時代までの古い日本語がベースになっているものが非常に多い。意外に格調高い言葉である。Tuji means one’s wife. Many Okinawan words have their roots in the ancient Japanese of the Kofun Period (3rd to 7th century).

ワジられた means to make someone angry. おばーに怒られた時に、「おばーにワジられたさー」という使いかたもできます。When your grandmother is angry with you, you can say “Obā-ni wajirareta sā.”

My wife got angry with me, so I left the house,

Drank hard and she got angry again.

ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

おじーがちぶるー擦りむいた
クースー(古酒)かけたら毛が生えた

Note: ちぶるー means 頭 or head and can be used for both people and animals. チブルワッサン　means 頭がわるい; someone is stupid. Kūsū (クースー) written 古酒 is awamori that has been aged for more than three years.

Grandpa scraped his head,

When he put kūsū on it, his hair began to grow.

ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

世界の国からめんそーれ
飲んで歌って踊りましょう

Note: めんそーれ (mensōre) is one of the most commonly known regionalism. When you arrive at Naha Airport, there is a sign that welcomes you with a big Mensōre!. Okinawans tell me, though, that they don’t really say it. In standard Japanese, it means irasshaimase (いらっしゃいませ). You can also say, んじめんそーれ which means いってらっしゃい or まったん　めんそーれ (Please come again.) んじちゃーびら means 行ってきます or さようなら.

Welcome people from all over the world,

Let’s drink and dance together.

ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

朝から一日お疲れさん
家族が待つ家帰りましょう

It's been a long tiring day, thanks

Let’s go home where our family is waiting.

ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん
ゆがゆがふーふー　ゆがゆがふー
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

でーじ泡盛ちゃーだ泡盛
なーてぃちたーちみーち乾杯しゃんしゃん

Note: でーじ means 大変 which can mean a lot of things from really, extremely, awful, serious, tough to a lot, a great deal. ちゃーだ, I believe, means どうだ which also has a lot of different meanings such as How about . . ? or What’s with . . . ? How was . . . ? and so on. なーてぃちたーちみーち in the second line, is one, two, three . . . So, . . .

A lot of awamori, how ‘bout some awamori?

One, two, three, cheers!

でーじ泡盛ちゃーだ泡盛
なーてぃちたーちみーち乾杯しゃんしゃん
でーじ泡盛ちゃーだ泡盛
なーてぃちたーちみーち乾杯しゃんしゃん
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん
あっぱりしゃんしゃん　乾杯しゃんしゃん

Kumesen Black

 Let me tell you, I’ve been mulling over how to put this blog together for over a year now and have yet to write a single word. And now that I’m finally getting round to writing it, I’m at a stage in my life where I’m drinking less and less.

Don’t get me wrong. I still like a good stiff drink. It’s just that I’m finding that I’m starting to enjoy a good night’s sleep even more. Go ahead, call me an old man. I won’t hold it against you.

Today marks a happy milestone of sorts in my life. As of this afternoon I am no longer an employee of the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Sciences and Technology (What a mouthful!), having resigned from my part-time teaching position at the Kyûshû Institute of Technology. (KIT, Kyūkōdai)

The six years I spent at KIT (I’m practically a grad student) were not always happy ones. The ninety-minute commute by bus, the ghost town the school is located in, the uninspiring campus, the sullen full-time teaching staff, and the miserable students all contributed to making Wednesdays and Thursdays the two most dreaded days of my workweek.

Adi drinks water as if it were 80 proof.

This past year, however, has easily been the most pleasant, or should I say, least unpleasant of my tenure at the university. Instead of the usual required freshman courses, I was given a slew of elective classes to teach. Elective classes, while involving more effort on the behalf of the instructor (class size is sometimes three times bigger), offer a lot of freedom in how the class is taught and who may take part in the class. So, instead of twenty to thirty self-conscious freshmen, most of whom are 18-year-old boys, you get a group of fifty to sixty boisterous sophomores and juniors, a fair portion of whom are coeds. Let me tell you, the atmosphere is like night and day.

This year, I was also fortunate enough to have a Nepali in my class. Adi was the antithesis of the typical Kyūkōdai student. Funny, gregarious, flirtatious, curious, and fairly well-traveled, he became the mood-maker of the four classes he attended this year. I so took a liking to the young man that I even invited him to hunt for girls in my classes at another university I was teaching at  which has a more favorably apportioned student body.

As the second semester was nearing its end, Adi came up to me after class one day and said, “In my country it’s common to give your teacher a present.” And, he handed me a bottle of Kumesen Awamori. When I got home, I immediately opened the bottle and poured myself a glass over ice.

Normally, I don’t drink much awamori in the wintertime, preferring to drink shōchū mixed with hot water or hot saké (atsukan), instead. Oh, I might have a few glasses if I’m at an Okinawan restaurant, but the potent clear liquor has always been a summer drink for me.

The first time I had awamori was on my first visit to the island of Okinawa ten years or so ago. My girlfriend at the time and I had checked into a hotel and were waiting in the lounge where we were served “welcome drinks”. Ordering “something local”, the waiter presently brought me a glass of awamori served in Ryūkyū glass. As I looked out at the clear blue sea just beyond the coral beach I took a sip of the drink and my mouth filled with that distinctive awamori fragrance, unlike anything I had ever drunk before. I was hooked.

The gift Adi gave me took me back, as so many glasses of good awamori do, to that hotel on the quiet northern reaches of the Okinawan mainland and all the tension melted like the ice in the glass.

Shortly after our final class, Adi wrote the following on my Facebook wall: “Thanks for those great classes. It was a wonderful year. At last, there are some teachers who teach life rather than morals and equations. Thanks for everything.”

 “Thank you, Adi,” I said, raising my glass towards that miserable town, Iizuka. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” 

久米仙

Kumesen Black

久米仙 ブラック

Kumesen Burakku

Produced by Kumejima’s Kumesen Co., Ltd. located in Uegusuku Kumejima-chõ, Shimajiri-gun, Okinawa. Kumejima, which lies due west of the Okinawan mainland, is about thirty minutes’ flight from Naha. It has a population of roughly 7,600. Kumejima’s Kumesen Co., Ltd. has been in business since 1949.

Awamori, Japan’s oldest distilled liquor, is made from long-grain indica rice imported from Thailand, what the Japanese call tai mai, and black kōji, a fermentation starter prepared from rice. The distillation technique was introduced to the Ryūkyū Kingdom, modern-day Okinawa, through trade with China and Southeast Asia in the early 15th century.

The longer the maturation, the deeper the tastes and fragrance of awamori, and “Kūsu” (古酒, literally “old liquor”) refers to awamori aged for three to ten years.

Unlike saké, which is made with yellow kōji, awamori is made with black kōji which grows throughout the year in the subtropics, allowing awamori to be produced year-round. Black kōji also produces a lot of citric acid which prevents the souring of the moromi (醪), or the main mash mixture in the brewing process.

Kumesen Black, aged for seven years, contains 43% alcohol by content.

A word about dialects, or hōgen. Rather than say kampai (乾杯, lit. “dry cup”, i.e. “bottoms up”) as most people do in Japan before drinking, the Okinawans say “Karii!” This can be written in katakana as カリー! or in kanji as 嘉利! Karii is used on celebratory occasions and has the same meaning as medetai (めでたい, “joyful, auspicious”) or sachi ōkare (幸多かれ, “May there be many blessings”).

In Naichi, or mainland Japan, it is often the custom to refrain from drinking at a party until everyone has his or her drink or until the toast has been given, but in Okinawa they don’t bother to wait.

Oh, before I forget, Adi. You get an A+. Karii!

Kampai is available in paperback and ebook for at Amazon.

I wrote the above in the winter of 2011, only 8 years ago, but it seems like a lifetime. So much has changed since. Originally, I was leaving KIT to work part-time at two other women’s colleges closer to home, but was then offered a full-time position at one of colleges. I would spend the next seven years there—seven pretty good years, I should add—before I was suddenly let go. This caused quite a bit of soul searching, as you might imagine, but things worked out in the end. That first year being freelance again was one of the best. Money was tight, but I had a lot of time to spend with my boys, and was able to take my family to the States for a month-long holiday which was the best.

In the meantime, Adi moved to the US where he is currently in California working on his PhD. He, too, became a father about two years ago.

Donan Awamori

When my workday has finally come to an end, I consider trying to give my cousin another call, but it is still early in the morning for her. 

Better to try again in an hour. 

In the meantime, Azami and I go out for a quick bite, dropping in at Gyoshu Danshiro Shoten, an Okinawan pub just down the street from my apartment.

Without looking at the menu, I rattle off the order as soon as the waiter comes to our table: “Tofuyo, goya chamburu, rafuté, Okinawan soba, grilled Ishigaki beef, and Orion beer.”

Okinawa. Now there is a place I would not mind being, and to hell with what dé Dale thinks of the place. 

For years, I’ve been operating sullenly on the soppy emotion “anywhere, but here”, but my melancholic longing for greener pastures does have a destination—several, in fact—and Okinawa is near the top of that list.

A friend of mine checked out of life’s fast lane and moved to the southernmost island of Yonaguni where she is now spending her days hanging out at the beach, and lolling about on the engawa deck of her home, plucking a kind of banjo called the Ryūkyū sanshin and drinking the local fire water, awamori.

Although I may not be ready to live the life of a cloistered monk just yet, Ishigaki, the largest, most populous island in the Yaeyama archipelago located halfway between Okinawa and my friend’s new home of Yonaguni, would suit me just fine. The pace of life is slower there—perfect when you have nowhere in particular to go and nothing special to do. When you are rushing from one commitment to another like I usually am, just doing nothing, absolutely nothing, as dé Dale often reminded me, is a luxury.

A dip in the turquoise sea, snorkeling among coral reefs and tropical fish, a bottle of Donan 120-proof awamori and a bucket of ice to ease you into the evening, and an old man strumming away on the sanshin, singing in the Okinawan dialect, “Nankuru nai sah” (Everything’s gonna be all right) sounds like heaven to me right now.

The waiter brings a chilled mug of Orion draught for me, utchin cha [1] for Azami, and a small plate of tōfuyo.

Even in a land like Japan where delicacies abound, tōfuyo still manages to stand out.Made with the Okinawan variety of tōfu, it is first packed in salt to remove the excess water, and then fermented a second time in awamori, rice malt and red yeast until it takes on a rose-colored cheese-like consistency.

I shave off a bit of the tōfuyo with a toothpick and pop it into my mouth. Just then, Azami’s cell phone rings. 

“Moshi-moshi,” she says. “Yes, he’s here with me. Hold on a moment, I’ll give him the phone . . .”

[1] Utchincha (うっちん茶) is jasmine tea from Okinawa.

---

The first posting/chapter in this series can be found here.

Rokuban: Too Close to the Sun and other works are available in e-book form and paperback at Amazon.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Zampa

Yesterday was one of those perfectly sunny days, the kind that hold so much promise for the season to come. Hot—but not oppressively so--and with a gentle cooling breeze, it was hard to believe that we were still in the middle of the rainy season.

Not knowing when weather was going to be like this again, I headed for the beach.

One of my more tired complaints about Fukuoka City is that although it is a coastal town, it is easy to forget that the sea is less than a kilometer away from downtown. Unlike many coastal cities in the U.S. where the land bordering the water is used for parks, posh condominiums, and upscale retail, much of the real estate facing Hakata Bay is reclaimed land and monopolied by industry. To say the least, it makes for a dreadful eyesore.

A few stretches of Fukuok City's artificial coastline have been made into beaches with sand that has to be trucked in every now and again. These include the neighborhoods of Fukuhama, Jigyôhama, Momochihama, and Atagohama, all west of downtown. The most affluent of these is Momochihama where a number of TV stations have their head offices and where the Municipal Museum and the “symbol of the city”, Fukuoka Tower, are located. (The Fukuoka Yahoo! Dome, another “symbol” can be found in neighboring Jigyôhama.)[1]

Throughout the summer months[2] I typically spend two to three days a week on the beach at Momochihama tanning or drinking at a rundown little restaurant & bar called Mamma Mia. (Stupid name.) A better-maintained and tidier café called The Beach (Slightly less stupid name) is just across the way, but unlike The Beach the food at Mamma Mia is “palatable” and the bar better stocked. Besides, The Beach doesn’t really offer much to gaze upon beyond a miniature backhoe that travels back and forth—gluggada, gluggada, gluggada—as it ferries jet skis from a parking lot to the water. At least from Mamma Mia’s rickety deck you can look out at a miserable little boardwalk along which tourists, mostly from Korea, parade by.

Now, that has always puzzled me. Whenever I see middle-aged Koreans in their brightly colored sportswear and sun visors walk by, I can’t help thinking why in god’s name anyone from Korea would travel across the Korea Strait only to visit Momochihama? It’s the same goddamn water after all, and their Haeundae Beach just north of Busan offers oh so much more to see and do.

Silly tourists. Whaddya gonna do?

On this particular day, there was a Hispanic woman sitting on the other side of the deck with a Japanese man who was doing his very best to look like a baddass DJ. He had a MLB cap, with the requisite sticker still on the visor—why, oh, why, do boys think this looks cool—the loose pants falling half off his arse, and a chin-strap beard. He also had the boorish diction and vocabulary of someone who had "mastered" English by listening to hip-hop: every other word out of the guy’s mouth was a variation of “fuck”.

There I was trying to read Paolo Coelho’s The Pilgrimage and this douchebag was all, “fucking, fuckety fuck . . .” I plugged my head into my iPhone, put on some mellow Bossa Nova, and turned up the volume. And yet the guy's “fucking, fuckety fuck” still managed to filter through.

I have written before that the Japanese rarely become belligerent when they drink, but after a while Mr. Check-it-out looked like he was going to prove me wrong and break the stereotype. The way he leaned forward and eyed the woman menacingly, the way his voice grew louder and more agitated, all indicated to me that any moment now he was going to stand up and start swinging. I looked around me to see if there was anything I could pick up to defend myself if push, literally came to shove.

But to my relief, he didn’t. He just slouched back and from that defeated posture shouted at the woman, “Don’t you fucking know how much I fucking wanna fuck you?”

With that romantic overture, the woman got up and disappeared in the enclosed part of the restaurant.

There is no accounting for tastes, as they say, but the guy must have been suffering from an acute case of beer-gogglitis. The woman, while not homely per se, was by no means a knock-out. In addition to being a good ten years older than Rome-fucking-o, she was rather large in the caboose, possessing the kind of hips that in centuries past would have been commended as good for child-bearing.

Once alone, the guy tried to stand up only to end up falling flat on his face, something that the other customers and I took quiet delight in watching. Mustering what little dignity he had, he pulled himself up, and sat back down in his chair. A minute later, the woman returned, paid the bill, and left. The guy staggered along, a few uneasy steps behind her fabulous derrière, as Japanese say, like crap trailing behind a guppy’s arse.

The two of them joined another Latina who had a child of two or three with her. After chatting for a few minutes, the two women and child left, leaving Romeo alone on the beach. He staggered towards the boardwalk, tried to sit down, but rolled off the edge and into the sand. (Boardwalks can be tricky.) He got up again, toddled a few steps, then fell over. A few minutes later he was out cold.

Korean tourists walked up to the comatose Lothario, took his picture or had their pictures taken with him lying in the background. I guess there was something worth crossing the Korea Strait after all.

One of my favorite drinks during the summer months, and the reason I am writing this, is the Okinawan firewater, awamori. If I’m not sipping on a mojito while sweating there on Mamma Mia’s deck, then I am invariably knocking back a glass of awamori. There’s nothing like awamori on the rocks when it’s sunny and the beach is crowded with young women in bikinis. 

Unfortunately, Mamma Mia only has two brands of awamori: Zampa (残波) and Kumesen (久米仙). I have written before[3] about these two brands, the best selling, though not necessarily best-tasting awamori brands in Japan.

Zampa, which can be found pretty much anywhere, from supermarkets and convenience stores to your neighborhood izakaya (pub) has never been my cup of tea. It lacks much of the “oomph” that I seek in a good awamori, which I suppose is the very reason why it is so “popular”. Not having the strong, sometimes off-putting awamori smell or taste, it’s something that can be tolerated, if not enjoyed, by a wider range of drinkers.

Kumesen, on the other hand, retains all the qualities that make awamori the unique drink that it is. With one sip, you know it’ll do the trick.

---

Kampai.

残波 (Zampa)

25% Alc/Vol

Nose: ★★

Subtle awamori fragrance.

Palate: ★

Mellow to the point of being bland

Overall: ★★

---

久米仙

Kumesen Awamori

Kampai!

久米仙 (Kumesen)

25% Alc/Vol

Nose: ★★★

Pungeant awamori smell

Palate: ★★★

Has a very typical awamori kick

Overall: ★★★

---

[1] If the city hadn’t destroyed much of its environment or let its old neighborhoods get bulldozed over and wooden houses replaced by shabby apartment buildings and other prefab constructions, it wouldn’t really need to create these “symbols”.

[2] For me, that usually means early May to late September if the sun is shining and it isn’t too cool. For most people in Fukuoka, however, summer is the one-month period between the Yamakasa festival (July 15) and the Bon festival (August 15).

[3] “Among awamori makers, Kumejima’s Kumesen has enjoyed a 7.4% increase in sales, coming in 19th, up four places from 2009. On the other hand, Higa Shuzô of Yomitan City, Okinawa Prefecture, which produces Zampa brand awamori, has seen their sales slip 13.6%.” From Nikkei Shimbun.

---

More stories like this can be found in Kampai! Available from Amazon.