Nestled on the eastern coast of Kyushu, Oita Prefecture is a land of steaming hot springs, ancient shrines, and a culinary tradition that has captivated travelers for centuries. While global attention often focuses on Tokyo’s neon lights or Kyoto’s temples, Oita offers a quieter, deeper connection to Japan’s soul—one that feels increasingly relevant in a world grappling with overtourism, sustainability, and the search for authentic experiences.
No discussion of Oita is complete without Beppu, the undisputed king of Japan’s onsen (hot spring) towns. With over 2,000 natural springs pumping out 130,000 tons of geothermal water daily, Beppu is a living testament to the earth’s raw power. But what makes it truly special is how locals have woven this resource into every aspect of life.
At the "Jigoku Meguri" (Hell Tour), visitors witness surreal landscapes of bubbling mud ponds and turquoise sulfur pools—nature’s own art installation. Yet beyond the spectacle lies a deeper philosophy: the Japanese concept of "toji," or therapeutic bathing. In an era where burnout and digital fatigue dominate global wellness conversations, Oita’s onsens offer a low-tech antidote. Locals swear by morning dips before work, claiming it boosts longevity—a claim backed by Oita’s high concentration of centenarians.
As Iceland’s Blue Lagoon struggles with overcrowding and Bali’s water crisis worsens, Beppu presents an alternative. Many ryokans (traditional inns) here use a "kakenagashi" system, where water flows continuously back into the earth, minimizing waste. The town even harnesses steam for cooking (try the "jigoku mushi" steamed pudding) and heating public facilities—a lesson in geothermal innovation that could inspire renewable energy projects worldwide.
Move over, Kobe—Oita’s Bungo-gyu is a carnivore’s revelation. Raised on citrus-infused feed (thanks to the region’s abundant yuzu farms), this marbled beef offers a subtle citrusy finish. In a world where industrial farming faces scrutiny, Oita’s small-scale ranchers prioritize quality over quantity, aging beef for weeks in humidity-controlled rooms. The result? A steak so tender it practically dissolves, served best at family-run spots like Tenyu in Usa.
Before "plant-based" became a global trend, Oita’s Buddhist temples perfected meatless dining. Shojin ryori (devotional cuisine) at places like Futago-ji Temple transforms local veggies into art: bamboo shoots simmered in sake lees, lotus root stuffed with miso, and "dangojiru"—a hearty miso soup with hand-cut noodles. With the UN urging reduced meat consumption, Oita’s heritage offers blueprints for sustainable gastronomy.
At this 1,300-year-old Shinto shrine, ancient meets ultra-modern every October. Priests in Heian-period robes parade mikoshi (portable shrines) alongside drone light shows—a symbolic fusion even the Vatican might envy. The climax? A yabusame (horseback archery) ritual where riders in samurai garb shoot targets at full gallop, their arrows whistling past crowds of smartphone-wielding tourists. It’s a poignant reminder that culture evolves without erasing its roots.
In the tiny village of Tashibunosho, locals scale a 20-meter tower of burning cedar branches during the "Shujo Onie" festival—a 700-year-old exorcism ritual. As wildfires ravage California and Australia, this controlled inferno feels eerily prophetic. Yet here, fire is revered, not feared. Elders speak of "hi no kami" (fire deities) who purify the land—a worldview that might hold keys to rethinking humanity’s combustible relationship with nature.
In Kuju’s misty highlands, fifth-generation craftsmen still split bamboo by hand to make "beppu takezaiku" baskets—so finely woven they can hold water. With fast fashion’s environmental toll under fire, young designers are flocking to apprentice under these masters. The result? Bamboo sunglasses at Paris Fashion Week and iPhone cases sold in Milan—proof that heritage skills can thrive in modern markets.
Oita’s "kurotani washi" paper, made from mulberry bark, was nearly extinct until UNESCO recognition sparked demand. Today, artists use it for everything from shoji screens to haute couture dresses. In an era of disposable everything, this 1,200-year-old craft represents slow creation—each sheet taking weeks to sun-bleach by riversides.
Deep in Oita’s sacred mountains, ascetic monks called yamabushi still undertake "shugyo" (spiritual training)—sleeping in caves, chanting under waterfalls, and foraging wild herbs. Their philosophy? That hardship breeds clarity. As Silicon Valley rediscovers psychedelic retreats and digital detoxes, these mountain hermits chuckle knowingly. Some now lead "forest therapy" hikes for stressed urbanites, blending ancient Shinto rituals with mindfulness techniques—a fusion that could redefine wellness tourism.
While Kyoto battles "sightseeing pollution," Oita’s villages employ subtle resistance. In Yufuin, no billboards mar the thatched-roof lanes; instead, ceramic shops hide behind unmarked wooden doors, rewarding only the curious. It’s a deliberate choice—one that prioritizes preservation over pandering. As Venice implements tourist taxes and Barcelona cracks down on Airbnb, Oita’s quiet defiance offers another path: tourism that doesn’t scream for attention.
From its sulfur-scented alleys to its firelit festivals, Oita whispers an invitation—not to check landmarks off a list, but to linger, listen, and let the land’s slow rhythms recalibrate your soul. In a world racing toward homogenization, that may be its most radical offering.