Sugarcane Season: Okinawan Traditions That Bridge Hawaii

Sugarcane harvest—a tradition that runs deep in both Okinawan and Hawaiian culture

Memories of Nakagusuku Village

January is the middle of sugarcane season in Okinawa. Every year around this time, my mind goes back to Nakagusuku—the village where my family is from.

In Okinawa, they call sugarcane uoji. Back then, it was the main crop of the islands—it still is today, covering about half of all the farmland. The harvest runs from December through March, when the cold slows the plant's growth and the sugar content peaks. When the cane starts to flower, white tops waving in the wind, that's the signal. It's ready.

I remember those fields. Tall stalks, taller than me at the time, stretching across the hillsides. And I remember how the families in our village would take turns helping each other cut it down.

Here's how it worked: One week, everybody would show up at one family's field to cut the sugarcane. The next week, we'd all move to another family's place. No one got paid. No one expected anything back—except that when it was your turn, everyone would show up for you.

In Okinawa, they call this yuimaru.

The Philosophy of Yuimaru

Yuimaru is one of those words that's hard to translate. It means mutual assistance—neighbors helping neighbors, people thriving by supporting each other. The word itself comes from yui, meaning "to bind together," and maaru, meaning "to go around in turn." It's about reciprocity. You help me, I help you, and together we all get through.

This philosophy became essential after World War II, when so much of Okinawa was destroyed and families had to rebuild from nothing. But it was already part of the culture long before that—woven into how people farmed, built houses, raised children. You still see it in Okinawan communities here in Hawaii. Strong bonds. People showing up for each other. It's in the DNA.

Anyway, that's what sugarcane season was. Yuimaru in action.

The Harvest

The land in Nakagusuku was steep in places. We'd pile into kei trucks—those little Japanese trucks you see everywhere now—and jeeps to get up into the hills. Back then, everything was done by hand. You'd cut the cane at the base with heavy blades, strip the leaves, bundle the stalks, and stack them on the side of the road for the trucks to pick up later. It had to move fast. Once the cane is cut, it needs to get to the mill quickly before the sugar content drops. Harvesting was a race against time.

My grandfather was always the first one out there. He'd be in the field cutting before anyone else showed up. Just quietly working. Then everyone would arrive, and we'd get after it.

But nobody killed themselves. We'd work for a while, then take a break. Work a little more, rest again. Someone would pass around onigiri—rice balls. We'd sit in the shade, talk story, then get back to it. The older guys knew how to pace themselves. They weren't trying to be heroes. They just knew how to keep going all day without burning out.

I didn't appreciate that rhythm as a kid. I just thought that's how you worked. Now I understand—there's wisdom in pacing yourself. You can't sprint through a harvest that lasts months. You have to sustain.

The Celebration: Sanshin, Awamori, and Kachāshi

At the end of the week, after that family's field was finished, we'd all gather at their house for a big celebration. The men would sit together in one part of the house—these traditional Okinawan homes with the open floor plans and deep eaves called amahaji that let the breeze flow through. My grandfather would bring out his sanshin and start playing.

The Sanshin: Foundation of Okinawan Folk Music

The sanshin is a three-stringed instrument, the ancestor of the Japanese shamisen. It came to Okinawa from China in the 15th century and evolved into something distinctly Okinawan over the centuries. The strings were traditionally made from silk, and the body is covered in snakeskin. You play it with fingerpicks rather than the large plectrum used on the mainland. The sound is different too—lighter, more rhythmic.

Here's something that surprised me when I looked into it. I always thought the sanshin used habu skin—Okinawa is famous for the habu, the venomous pit viper that lives throughout the islands. The habu is iconic there. Historically, it was revered as a god-like symbol with the power to bring happiness and riches. You still see it everywhere in Okinawan culture, especially in habushu, the local awamori infused with habu snake that's believed to boost energy and vitality. But it turns out, the habu is actually too small for its skin to cover a sanshin body. According to sources like Wikipedia and the Samuraitiki, the snakeskin for sanshin has always been imported from Southeast Asia—python, not habu. I had no idea.

Anyway, the sanshin is the foundation of Okinawan folk music, and when my grandfather played it, everyone would gather around. Some would sing. Some would just listen. The music connected us to something older, something that had been passed down through generations.

The Kachāshi Dance

And then, once the awamori started kicking in and everyone got a little tipsy, the Kachāshi would start.

Kachāshi means "to mix" or "to stir" in the Okinawan language, and that's exactly what the dance looks like—hands in the air, stirring the sky. Women dance with their palms flat and open, men with fists curled. You raise your arms above your head and sway side to side, moving your hands in a pushing and pulling motion. The steps are improvised. The energy is contagious. Before you know it, everyone is up.

The dance goes back to the old village and beach parties of pre-war Okinawa—mo-ashibi, they called them. It's traditionally accompanied by sanshin and sometimes finger-whistling, yubi-bue, that sharp whistle you make with your fingers. Some people say the hand movements echo the same principles found in Okinawan karate—both arts coming from the same island, the same people. But nowadays, nobody thinks about that. When the Kachāshi starts, you just dance.

Awamori: Okinawa's Indigenous Spirit

And it would go late. Really late. Into the early morning hours sometimes. That's how celebrations were. You worked hard all week, and when it was time to celebrate, you celebrated.

While the men drank sake and awamori, the women would be in the kitchen preparing the food.

Awamori is Okinawa's indigenous spirit—the oldest distilled liquor in Japan, dating back to the Ryukyu Kingdom. It's made from long-grain Thai rice and black koji mold, then single-distilled into a potent spirit, usually around 30-40% alcohol. Some families age it for years in clay pots, which gives it a smoother, more complex flavor. It's not sake. It's not shochu. It's something uniquely Okinawan. And at the end of a long week cutting sugarcane, sitting with family and neighbors, passing around cups of awamori—that was celebration.

The Food: Nakami Jiru and Sata Andagi

The food was always special too. We'd have nakami jiru—a traditional Okinawan soup made from the internal parts of the pig, specifically the small intestines and stomach, along with shiitake mushrooms and konnyaku.

I know how that sounds. But here's the thing—nakami jiru is actually light and clean-tasting. The preparation is extensive. The intestines and stomach are washed and boiled repeatedly to remove all the fat and odor, until what's left is tender and mild. The soup is seasoned simply with salt and soy sauce, and served with grated ginger on top. It takes hours to make properly, which is why it's reserved for celebrations. When it's done right, it's incredible—a dish that represents Okinawa's philosophy of using every part of the animal, wasting nothing.

And for the kids, there was always sata andagi—Okinawan doughnuts. The name means "sugar fried in oil" in the Okinawan language. They're dense and cake-like on the inside, crispy on the outside, made from a simple dough of flour, sugar, and eggs. We'd grab them while the adults were drinking and talking, still warm from the fryer.

We'd eat, drink, laugh. The week's work was done. And the next week, we'd do it all over again for another family.

The Connection Between Okinawa and Hawaii

I think about those times a lot now. The way everyone just showed up for each other without being asked. No contracts, no obligations. Just neighbors being neighbors.

When I came to Hawaii over 35 years ago because of the Navy, I was really surprised to find sata andagi everywhere. It made me feel at home. That connection between Okinawa and Hawaii runs deep—the food, the values, the way people look out for each other.

That's something I carry with me.