Off the coast of Okinawa, Kumejima juxtaposes opposites: a turquoise sea of almost unreal limpidity, a shore of hexagonal stones that seems sculpted by extraterrestrial hands, and a feline population that quietly rules over the villages. Between lunar landscape and kingdom of cats, the island stands out as a singular fragment of insular Japan.
Hate No Hama: 7km of sand
Hate No Hama is the postcard that makes every Instagram filter jealous. Seven kilometres of white sand set in the middle of the sea, without trees, without infrastructure, just a luminous ribbon surrounded by turquoise water. You only reach it by boat, which reinforces the impression of landing on another tropical planet.
Here, swimming feels like a parenthesis in a dream: clownfish and multicoloured triggerfish swim a few metres from the shore, sea turtles sometimes poke the tip of their shells out, and manta rays invite themselves further out. Hate No Hama doesn’t just look beautiful, it’s unreal: a beach out of the world, out of time, almost out of ground.
Tatami-ishi: Walking on a stone tatami
A complete change of scene on the islet of Ojima, connected to Kumejima by a bridge. There, the sea has shaped over millennia a geometric slab made of hexagonal and pentagonal volcanic blocks. The Tatami-ishi resemble a giant tatami or the shell of a mythological turtle washed up on the shore.
The most fascinating thing is the illusion of human work: the shapes are so regular that you think you’re walking on an ancient mosaic or an artificial floor built for a sci-fi film set. At low tide, the landscape takes on lunar airs. You walk on these slabs like Armstrong on the Moon, except here the waves serve as soundtrack and the spray replaces the grey dust.
As if that weren’t enough, Kumejima lines up other mineral oddities. In the north of the island, Miifugaa: two cliffs connected by a natural arch, sculpted by the assaults of the ocean. Elsewhere, rocks stand in the shape of bird beaks or monstrous faces, as if nature had amused itself by engraving its own fantastic bestiary.
You understand why the ancient Ryūkyū kingdoms long compared the island to a jewel. It doesn’t just charm with its beaches: it surprises, intrigues, makes you doubt the line between real and imaginary.
The cats: the real masters of Kumejima?
And then there are the cats. Here, they are everywhere. On the wharves, half-asleep between two fishing nets. On the stone walls, in the shade of the bougainvillea. On café terraces, looking as if to say “this chair is already taken.”
Kumejima has become an unofficial cat island, with a feline population that far exceeds the simple role of mascot. The inhabitants feed them, the tourists photograph them, and the cats themselves don’t care: they reign. The town hall had to launch a sterilisation programme to prevent the island from turning into Catlantis, but felines remain omnipresent.
There’s something sweet and absurd about this coexistence: you come to see the beach or the lunar floor, and you leave with the photo of a tabby cat squatting your beach bag.
An island that doesn’t pick a side
That’s Kumejima: an island that juxtaposes opposites and refuses to be pinned down. One morning you’re swimming in a life-size aquarium, in the afternoon you’re walking on the Moon, and in the evening you get your spot in the sun nicked by a ginger cat who hasn’t read your travel guide.
Little known to the general public, Kumejima doesn’t need overplayed folklore or flashy resorts to seduce. It plays the card of the raw, the singular, the strange. And that’s perhaps why it stays unforgettable: an island where the ocean, the stone, and the cats join forces to invent a world apart.
