Loekalization Blog

Forget democracy, dear reader, and allow me to introduce you to the island of Himeshima, a seven-square-kilometer plot of land in Oita Prefecture that time—and apparently modern governance—forgot. Here, in this land of shrimp, sewage, and dynastic ambition, the Fujimoto family has ruled with a grip so firm that even Game of Thrones’ Tywin Lannister would tip his hat in admiration.

Akio Fujimoto, the outgoing mayor—though “Lord Protector of the Island Shrimp” feels more appropriate—has ruled this tiny island for a jaw-dropping 40 years. Let that sink in: Four. Decades. That’s longer than most modern countries can hold onto one political system, let alone one person. And Akio isn’t even the first of his name! His father, Kumao, set the standard with a modest 24-year reign, making the Fujimoto clan undisputed champions of the “Who Needs Elections?” Olympics.

Himeshima doesn’t do messy politics, you see. In a place where about 1,700 souls reside, elections are apparently just a formality. Why bother when the outcome is “Fujimoto wins” 99.99% of the time? Out of Akio’s ten terms, eight were uncontested. This isn’t voter apathy—it’s feudal loyalty disguised as modern governance. As Akio himself said, “Unopposed elections are the will of the people.” Translation? “It’s rude to run against me. I control the shrimp.”

And let’s talk about that shrimp. The economy of Himeshima revolves around car ebi (tiger prawns), and Akio transitioned smoothly from shrimp-company executive to shrimp-village overlord in 1984, when his father passed away. In what can only be described as a dynastic job transfer, Akio became mayor at 41, likely signing his first official document with the ink from his dad’s still-drying pen.

But this wasn’t just about shrimp—it was about people. Akio’s crowning policy achievement? Turning one in every nine residents into a civil servant. Yes, 202 people out of 1,700 are on the government payroll. Forget job fairs—Himeshima perfected the art of government-subsidized work-life balance before the term even existed. “Work-sharing,” Akio called it. “Clever,” whispered every aspiring feudal lord taking notes.

Akio’s reign wasn’t without its trials, of course. Population dropped from 3,200 to around 1,700 during his watch, but compared to neighboring islands that now have fewer people than your average Starbucks, Himeshima looks like a bustling metropolis. And when the Great Heisei Municipal Mergers threatened to swallow up the island into a larger, mainland-run jurisdiction, Akio said, “Absolutely not.” The Fujimoto crest waved high, and Himeshima remained a proud, shrimp-fueled kingdom unto itself.

But every dynasty must have its defining moment. For the Fujimotos, it wasn’t battles or betrayals; it was infrastructure. While his father brought light and water to the island, Akio’s magnum opus was sewers. Yes, he is the Sewer King. “Father brought light and water,” Akio proclaimed humbly, “and I brought sewage.” If there’s a more poetic way to summarize generational progress, I haven’t heard it.

Now, as Akio steps down at the age of 81, the torch—or shrimp net—is being passed to Yasuharu Omi, a former prefectural official who will likely continue the island’s royal-democratic tradition. Omi enters a kingdom where one in nine people works for him, the shrimp industry remains strong, and the sewage flows like poetry. No pressure.

So, they may not have elections, but they do have shrimp, sewage systems, and something the world could use a lot more of these days: peace. Himeshima, this charming little speck of an island, stands as a quirky ode to simplicity, loyalty, and a delightful indifference to modern democratic customs. Long live the Fujimoto legacy, and may its next act be as delightfully absurd as its last. Should you ever find yourself craving shrimp and a taste of whimsical governance, visit this island paradise where democracy hasn’t died—it’s just taken a very cozy, well-deserved nap, like a pair of old slippers you just can’t bear to throw away.