Landing in a place incomprehensibly hotter than the heat we have now grown accustomed to, we were looking forward to the white sand beaches, clear blue seas and beach parties, which all the guide books had promised.
So upon catching a bus into Naha City on the main island, we were surprised to come face to face with what was more akin to a run down version of Beirut.
Booked into a hostel which hadn’t seen a cleaning cloth since the 1970’s, we made a vow to leave on the first ferry to an island strongly recommended by fellow travellers the following morning.
Rising with the cicadas, we escaped to Tokashiki where we were indeed rewarded with an idyllic beach, azure seas, peace and tranquillity. But prices per person for one night in even the cheapest hostels started at around 6,000 yen, the equivalent of £45 English pounds, no food included.
On a budget tighter than Shylock’s purse, and left with no alternative, we were forced to camp near to countless schoolchildren on an overnight visit for a far more affordable rate of 1,000 yen.
Taking to the sea, the hazy bubble of tranquillity immediately burst as we were swamped by schoolchildren, mesmerised by the token Westerners so far away from home. Climbing on us, splashing water in our faces and screaming in a combination of Japanese and broken English, the afternoon turned from paradise into little more than a crèche. A situation unaided by Scott, who continued to vie for their attention long after they finally lost interest in us.
Kitted out in bikinis, we provided a great contrast to other beach dwellers, who looked like they were about to embark on an artic expedition. With every inch of flesh covered, they transformed the beach into the direct opposite of a nudist colony. Many were in the sea clad in items of clothing far exceeding the total baggage allowance I was permitted to bring to Japan for an entire year.
As the sun set over the beach, more stars than I have ever seen littered the sky, with one after another plummeting to their deaths, symbolising the end of galaxies millions of light years away.
Again an ideal setting.
That is until two young boys began skinny dipping and doing all they could to get us involved. Rumours of Okinawan Japanese youths, breaking the prudish stereotypes of the mainland, most certainly rang true. But despite warnings that people are far more liberal on the island, nothing prepares you to have your knee humped like a cocker spaniel by a skinny, incredibly drunk, 21-year-old.
The next morning we awoke covered in sand and drowning in our own sweat to discover that ants had claimed colony over our faces. It was only at this point that it came to our attention that the campsite was also infested with poisonous Okinawan snakes.
Having stared death in the face, and survived, we returned to Naha.
And the next day, to Kume, which the guidebook promised contained “everything you need for the perfect Okinawan holiday.”
Finding a more reasonably priced hostel at 2,000 yen per night and backing onto Eef Beach, the “best beach on the island,” we were relieved to have found somewhere we could finally relax.
As far as hostels go it was stunning, clean and spacious, with the added bonus that snorkelling gear was all inclusive. And so to the beach. Snorkels at the ready, we ran down to the promised white sands of Kume.
And were confronted with litter, seaweed and razor sharp coral which could cut through diamond.
Despite these drawbacks, and having spent 6,000 yen on the ferry trip alone, cash was dwindling and we were determined to make the most of our time on the island. Entering the sea, it seemed feasible that a person could hobble through coral and reach Australia without the water level reaching anything over thigh-deep. Crouching, we attempted to snorkel anyway but the water was so misty that it was impossible to see anything at all. I did manage to spot two fish and then screamed, gesturing our designated danger symbol as what could only be a huge lump of faeces bobbed towards my head.
And so we evacuated the waters of Kume.
Leaving the beach, we noticed a large stone slab engraved with the words “Eef, voted in Japan’s top 100 beaches.” Needless to say, this left us speechless.
Expenditures on our adventure had left us no cash for meals out. As we drank cup-a-soups for dinner that evening, I realised the advantages of my overpaid, under-stimulating job back in London as Japan had reverted me to levels of poverty we had not known since the Withnail and I-esque student days. We wallowed in self-pity, uncertain when or where our next pint would come from.
The following day, money was scarce and we were forced to return to the main island and sweat it out until our flights home.
Again the guidebook displayed a beautiful photograph of the island’s one and only beach. And so, as a final extravagance, we forked out 150 yen each to hail a taxi to transport us to yet another of the island’s utopic highlights. Letting us out at the other side of a slope leading to the beach, the taxi sped off and we made our ascent.
And so it came into view on the horizon.
A man-made beach.
Overlooking a motorway.
With strict borders the size of a public swimming pool.
At this point it was impossible not to laugh at the utter failure our holiday had become.
Yenless from futile efforts to seek out paradise, we were left with no option but to change our flights, come home early and live off rice and water until pay day.
This sounds dreadful. Is everything we hear about Japan just a big sweaty lie? You tell me they are not a technically advanced culture, you tell me Tokyo 'wasn't all that', you tell be famed beaches are awful. Next you'll tell me 'Hello Kitty' isn't real and is just a cartoon image to sell shit to idiots!
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