It’s early in the morning, before dawn has broken, but the day has already started for workers at the salt fields. The people who work at the salt fields are known as hamako.
While the town of Takehara is still asleep, the faint sound of sand being stirred can be heard around the salt fields. In the past, this sound would gently coax the townspeople awake as if it were an alarm clock for the area.
As workers’ foreheads dripped with sweat, the morning ocean breeze would come in, cooling them down. The salt fields spent the previous night soaking in seawater, and they’re now completely damp. The damp sand is thoroughly mixed, and thin ridges are formed on the surfaces of the salt fields. The ridges help the water to evaporate more quickly, which results in better salt.
Once the salt fields are prepared, ladles are used to disperse seawater all over the sand. Using these ladles requires the expert technique of a veteran, and using the wrong amount of water can completely change the flavor of the salt. There can neither be too much or too little water. A single person’s experience and skill determines the quality of the final salt crystals.
Each splash of water draws a rainbow in the air, which glimmers for a moment before disappearing. It almost looks like magic. This beautiful phenomenon was one of the unique features of salt production.
During the day, workers continue to stir the sand, water the salt fields with sea water, and use the power of the sun and the wind to concentrate the salinity.
On sweltering summer days, the hamako would try to take their minds off the heat as they worked by singing songs known as hamako-uta. The rays of the summer sun are merciless, and the white sand is blindingly bright.
It is said that hamako used to work barefoot and only wearing a fundoshi, which is a traditional Japanese undergarment. Their hands and legs would get sunburnt and begin peeling, and the salt they worked with only caused more pain. Even though it was difficult work, for the hamako, these struggles were a gratifying reminder that they were alive.
By the time noon rolls around, workers take a pause. It’s now time for a meal.
On the menu is miso soup made with vegetables picked in the banks, white rice, and pickled vegetables. It’s a simple meal, but it satisfies both their bellies and their hearts, and this break feels like a luxury. This is a peaceful time for the hamako to sit together and eat amongst friends.
Their afternoon tasks begin with signals that are made using flags dyed red and white. These signals are given based on the status of the sun and the tide. It’s almost as if the whole town is tuned into the salt’s breathing patterns.
At this point in the day, there’s plenty of salt in the sand, to the point that it hurts to walk through the fields with bare feet.
This salty sand is gathered up to create water that’s highly concentrated with salt. That water is then boiled off in kettles, which results in pure salt.
The process of boiling the salt water continues long into the night, and the workers switch between evening and night shifts. The flame heating the kettle cannot go out, and facing both heat and darkness for long hours was grueling work.
Once ready, the salt is loaded onto ships and transported outside of the town. The ships are loaded during high tide, but if workers take too long, the tide will fall, and the ships won’t be able to sail out. Loading the ships was always a race against time.
The sun begins to set, and the sky turns a rosy hue as the hamako finally finish their work for the day. The glowing light of the sunset makes the white sand in the salt fields sparkle. The countless rainbows that disappeared into thin air earlier in the day now seem like they could be preparing to bring life to these fields the very next day.
As they walk home, workers might notice that all their sweat has formed a white border of salt around their fundoshis. Seeing that would put a smile on their faces, filling their hearts with satisfaction as they’re reminded that they spent another day living alongside the sea.
If you were to ask a hamako why they continued making salt, even though the process was so difficult, they might say, “Takehara’s salt doesn’t just taste like the sea. Our salt is filled with the wind that blows through, the light that shines down, and the hearts of the people. Salt isn’t the flavor of tears. It’s the flavor of life.”
This salt was not only the backbone of the townspeople’s meals, but it traveled far and wide to Osaka, Edo, and even Hokkaido, and it was treasured all over the country.
It is said that whenever salt shipments arrived, people would shout, “Takehara is here!” This salt wasn’t a mere ingredient, but a trove of trust.
Takehara found prosperity through their salt, and eventually the town became known as “the salt town.”
Eventually, Takehara would use its fortune to expand into other areas, such as sake brewing, shipping, and academics. Perhaps these were crystals of new dreams that would lead the town into the future.
Now, as you stand in front of the former Morikawa family residence, please take a look at the courtyard. This area was once covered in endless salt fields. The view was a beautiful beach with white salt and sparkling sand as far as the eye could see.
During the summer, the bright rays of the sun would create countless rainbows, filling the townspeople with hope for the future. Despite that hope, during the Shōwa period, the 300-year-long tradition of salt-making in Takehara would come to an end. This residence was built during that exact turning point.
The head of the family, Morikawa Hachirō, built the family residence in this spot, which was originally salt field no.1. He continued the production of salt, and when he eventually became the mayor of Takehara, he worked to get Takehara station and factories built on land that was formerly salt fields.
Thanks to his efforts, the salt fields were transformed into the new industrial center of Takehara. As the town expanded, the center of activity gradually moved. Because the central area changed so much, the old buildings were miraculously able to remain without going through additional development.
