The walk up the hill of the Minabe Bairin ume orchards in Minabe, Wakayama Prefecture, is steep and winding, but the effort is worth the spectacular view, especially for those visiting in February: thousands of ume trees — whose fruit is often called a plum but is more closely related to an apricot — are in bloom.
Across rolling hills covered in a soft carpet of pink petals, ume orchards alternate with patches of forest. The town of Minabe is visible at the bottom of the valley and, beyond it, the sea glistens brightly.
The serenity of the view contrasts with the hustle and bustle taking place on the hill. Hundreds of people are getting into position for the mochi throw, a local tradition where rice cakes are tossed into a crowd for good luck.
Mochi throws, dances and other performances are held at Minabe Bairin throughout February to celebrate the rebirth of ume trees as they prepare to bear the fruits that sustain this area’s economy.
In fact, Minabe and the neighboring town of Tanabe are Japan’s top ume and umeboshi (salted and pickled ume) producers responsible for around half of the domestic ume market. Of the 80,000 people who call these towns home, the majority — 70% — work in ume-related jobs.
Local ume cultivation traces its roots to a 400-year-old agricultural system in which ume orchards, coppice forests and pollinators interact as a unified whole. It is a system so remarkable that it earned the recognition of the United Nations’ Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) in 2015, when the Minabe-Tanabe Ume System, as it’s officially known, was declared a Globally Important Agricultural Heritage System (GIAHS). One of just 74 worldwide, the Minabe-Tanabe GIAHS is a rare example of a “living, evolving system of human communities in an intricate relationship with their territory, cultural or agricultural landscape or biophysical and wider social environment.”
When life gives you ume, make umeboshi
Starting around 1620, ume were first planted in Minabe and Tanabe, where steep mountainsides and muddy soil with poor water retention prove unfavorable for rice cultivation.
Ume, umeboshi and umeshu (ume liqueur) flourished as agricultural products instead, to the extent that in the Edo Period (1603-1867), “people started paying taxes (to the local daimyo) in ume rather than rice,” explains farmer Akira Ueno, team leader of Minabe’s Machi Campus Project, which educates young people about the ume system.
Over time, different ume varieties were cultivated, but above all it was Nanko ume, named in honor of a Minabe schoolteacher and officially registered in 1965, that made this area famous. Today, 83% of the ume grown in Minabe and Tanabe is of the Nanko variety. Thanks to its thin skin and soft pulp, it is considered the cream of the crop for making umeboshi, which is the area’s top product, Ueno says.
Before the fruit, though, comes the land that bears it. On the ridges above ume orchards are coppice forests whose ubame oak is used to make high-grade Kishu binchōtan charcoal.
“Selective cutting is practiced, meaning that old branches are pruned to allow new ones to grow,” Ueno explains, adding that tree roots are also preserved to help prevent slope collapse and allow water to be released slowly into the ground. “The water then flows downhill through the orchards to the river and valleys below.”
The soil also stays moist thanks to a method called sod culture, whereby grasses are allowed to grow beneath ume trees (unlike in other orchards where they’re removed to avoid competition for nutrients and water) — in fact, ume orchards aren’t only delightfully pink but lusciously green, too.
Grasses and ume flowers attract honeybees, which in turn play a vital role: Nanko ume trees can’t pollinate themselves, so cross-pollination with other varieties is in the hands of these precious insects.
Even in the final harvest that takes place between May and July, the grasses “act as a cushion for falling fruits,” Ueno explains. The best way to harvest Nanko ume, in fact, is to wait for it to fall once it's ripe and at its sweetest.
“This entire system was already in place well before the GIAHS registration, but thanks to this recognition, farmers can now see it clearly for what it is,” says Ueno. “The designation doesn’t only acknowledge that we’re applying old agricultural techniques but (also) our ability to adapt these to future generations’ needs.”
Making the juice worth the squeeze
Keiko Yamanishi, who lives in Minabe, farms ume and processes it into umeboshi and umeshu. At first, it was just her and her husband running the business, though today they employ 30 people.
Yamanishi, who is in her 70s, is also the president of the Minabe Ume Cuisine Research Association, which brings together local women to promote ume in cooking.
“When the association was founded 40 years ago, ume was eaten mainly as umeboshi with rice,” Yamanishi says. Though she extolls the delicious simplicity of this dish — in Minabe, it is prepared by adding umeboshi directly to the rice cooker — she underlines that the group’s intent is to develop new recipes.
Yamanishi cites activities such as the invention of “ume bishio,” an ume paste that can be added to any meal, and gastronomic innovations such as ume-flavored kimchi.
This creative approach may be needed now more than ever. Notwithstanding the GIAHS recognition, ume production has suffered over time: Across Japan, it peaked in 2013 at around 123,000 metric tons and has declined steadily since, down to 88,000 metric tons in 2019.
Rural depopulation plays a role as does “decreasing demand for ume products because of the westernization of Japanese diets and changing food habits generally,” Ueno points out.
“I eat umeboshi onigiri (rice ball) every morning, but these days there are many different flavors to choose from,” he adds with a chuckle that doesn’t, however, obscure his point.
Takeshi Okazaki, head of sales at Minabe-based ume products manufacturer Umeta, confirms the downward trend.
“Umeboshi is popular mainly with older generations, so we’re trying to promote it with young people,” Okazaki says.
With this goal in mind, Umeta lets members of the public observe the factory in operation and participate in umeboshi-, ume juice- and umeshu-making experiences.
Ueno and Okazaki acknowledge that another potential avenue for reviving the industry would be to turn to exports, which are still limited. However, Okazaki points out that this “would require creating entirely new products,” as foreign palates may not be accustomed to the sour flavor of umeboshi.
For its part, the Minabe Ume Cuisine Research Association was once involved in nurturing ume’s reach abroad by participating in promotional events in countries such as Canada, the United States and Russia. These days, however, the group not only doesn’t travel abroad anymore, but its 20 or so members — all in their 50s or older — have stopped meeting in person because of the pandemic, Yamanishi explains.
Nonetheless, the group’s spirit remains strong.
A few kilometers from Yamanishi’s house, Cafe de Manma, a restaurant operated by umeboshi manufacturer Plum Koubou, is reinventing ume as an ingredient by serving it in Japanese-Italian dishes. Judging by the weekday lunchtime crowd, this nouvelle ume cuisine is especially popular with young foodies.
“We want to show how ume can be used in many different preparations,” says head chef Kimie Kotake, citing crowd-pleasers such as shirasu (whitebait) pizza, doria (a gratin-esque dish with meat and cheese sauce over rice) and Spanish-style ajillo shrimp, all of which feature ume sauces or seasonings.
The secret to eternal fruit
Suga Jinja, the oldest shrine in Minabe, was built over 1,000 years ago, and chief priest Hirotomo Maeshiba is well aware of its place in the community.
“Local people take good care of the shrine because they rely on good harvests, which depend on the weather and, thus, the gods,” Maeshiba says.
Every year, ume is offered at this and other local shrines on Ume Day, a festival held on June 6, the same day Emperor Go-Nara made an offering of ume to a Kyoto shrine in 1545. The occasion is taken so seriously that a local law in Minabe establishes that residents must eat umeboshi onigiri on that day. Along the lines of other food-focused festivities such as National Cake Day in the U.S. or World Pizza Day, eating ume is encouraged and celebrated though, thankfully, not enforced.
Whether new generations are willing to take such ume traditions into the future, however, is still an open question. Yamanishi’s son and one of her daughters are involved in the family business, but others aren’t so lucky.
“Even for those like us who have successors, if they’re not having children, what happens next?” Yamanishi asks.
For Ueno, the answer lies in efforts like the Machi Campus Project, which brings university students into ume farms to learn about their unique characteristics.
“Some farmers tell their children to choose a different profession, but I’m doing the opposite,” he says. “I want to get the next generation involved.”
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