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Famous for felines that outnumber its humans, Aoshima is also emblematic of a deeper trend afflicting the country’s rural and island communities
The reason for Aoshima’s nickname was clear before we had set foot on the island. As our tiny vessel slowed to a halt and its handful of passengers prepared to disembark, the quayside was alive with orangey-white blurs – a whiskered welcome party that forms as soon as its members hear the hum of an approaching motor.
The only human here to greet us is Naoko Kamimoto, appropriately dressed in a pinafore with feline designs, who secures the boat with a rope as half a dozen cats swirl around her feet.
Cats lazing in the sun among the Kamimoto’s fishing nets.
A 35-minute ferry ride off the coast of Ehime prefecture in Shikoku – the smallest of Japan’s four main islands – Aoshima is the best-known of the country’s 11 “cat islands”. Despite the absence of a single shop, restaurant or guesthouse, this speck in the Seto Inland Sea has become a must-see for visitors intrigued by a remote community where cats easily outnumber humans.
But Aoshima’s days as a feline-fixated tourist destination are numbered. A decade ago there were about 200 feral cats here – the descendants of animals enlisted by fishers to destroy rodents who were gnawing through the nets they used to catch huge quantities of sardines.
Kamimoto, who moved to the island after she married Hidenori, a local man, believes the number is now closer to 80. They are all aged over seven, and a third are battling illnesses, including blindness and respiratory diseases, caused by decades of inbreeding.
“I know immediately if a cat is missing. If they don’t show up for about a week, we assume they’ve gone away to die and so we try to find their bodies,” says Naoko, 74, adding that the location of the animals’ graveyard will remain a closely guarded secret.
The decline in the cat population is about more than the passage of time, however. Aoshima is the victim of a demographic crisis that is afflicting thousands of rural and island communities across Japan. Almost 900 people lived here just after the second world war, but the number had dropped to 80 around a decade ago, as ageing fishers and their spouses moved to the mainland, leaving their cats behind. By 2017, there were just 13 residents. Today, four are left: Naoko and Hidenori, and another couple who prefer to keep out of the spotlight.
“I’m not looking five or 10 years into the future,” says Naoko. “We just take it one day at a time. But the time will come when there are no people left, and no cats. All we can do is make sure we look after them for as long as we’re here.”
In anticipation of the day when the last resident leaves, in 2018 local authorities conducted a mass spaying and neutering programme carried out by experts from the Ehime Prefecture Veterinary Medical Association.
While one resident opposed to the programme reportedly hid several cats, no kittens have been born since, according to Kiichi Takino, a member of the Aoshima Cat Protection Society, an NGO that monitors the animals’ welfare.
“We’re trying to prevent the worst-case scenario,” says Takino, who likens the island to a feline nursing home. “If the cat population had been allowed to grow while the number of people continued to decline, the situation on the island would have eventually become intolerable.”
While the Kamimotos are in good health, there is no guarantee that they will spend the rest of their days on Aoshima, where there are no medical services. “If it becomes deserted in the near future, and there are still cats left, volunteer groups and individuals will take in as many cats as possible,” says Takino, adding that some could also be housed in shelters.
“It’s really sad, but I think the people will disappear before the cats. The island has almost 400 years of history, but it will become extinct. The best we can do is to look after them until the very end.”
Fumiko Ono, a professor in the faculty of veterinary medicine at Okayama University of Science, says there was no alternative to the sterilisation programme. “Given the ageing and declining population of the island, castration and neutering of cats was the best choice,” she says.
Mrs Kamimoto feeds the cats with food donated by supporters.
Ono, who is part of a team that has been monitoring the cats’ health, added: “It’s difficult to predict, but even if the islanders continue to look after the cats, the feline population is likely to decline as they get older. It may become too difficult to manage the animals, so we believe additional measures need to be taken, such as transferring some of the cats to new homes.”
The signs of decline and decay are visible in the thin strip of flat land that was once home to a small, closely-knit community of fishing families: empty homes with broken windows sealed with yellowing newspaper pages; a discoloured, rotting wooden balustrade on what was once a grand old house. The only school, a walk up a hill past a Shinto shrine where fishers once prayed for safety at sea, is eerily silent.
About 20 tourists boarded the afternoon ferry to see the cats.
In the afternoon, the second and final ferry of the day brings dozens of tourists, who have an hour to explore and play with the cats in a designated feeding area before returning to the mainland. They take photos and empty packets of treats on to the ground, their new furry friends unfazed by another encounter with a group of cooing strangers.
Naoko – known to many as the “cat mama” – is the animals’ unofficial guardian, feeding them twice a day, administering medication and keeping an eye on them while they interact with visitors. “People see images online and think they’re being neglected, but nothing could be further from the truth,” she says. “Some are blind, some are really thin, and others look normal. But that’s the reality for wild animals in a place like this.”
Despite their obvious affection for the four-legged islanders, the couple do not allow them in their home. “We think of them as pets, but they have their territory and we have ours,” Hidenori, 74, says. “Plus they leave hair all over the place.”
There is another flurry of activity when Hidenori, a fisher, returns from the sea with his catch. Spurred into action by the prospect of a fishy treat, the cats stir from their afternoon slumber, some stretched out on concrete warmed by the sun, others curled up in the shade between disused buoys and decaying fishing nets.
“Aoshima isn’t a sight-seeing spot or a cat theme park,” says Naoko, the cats again teeming around their protector’s feet. “It’s still a living, breathing island.”
Japan’s ‘cat island’ falls victim to demographic crisis
