Turning Japanese? I really think not..

As the months I stay in Japan draw on and I grow more and more acclimatized to the country’s cultural and behavioural differences, the thought of returning to the UK fills me with dread ever more.

I have developed a tendency to make strange noises for no particular reason, curtsey in the corner shop and cheer over enthusiastically at the simplest of conquests, like button bashing my way to success with a photocopier. What have come to be involuntary responses to daily situations would see me lose the respect of family, friends and colleagues back in Blighty.

While on the orient, it is perfectly acceptable for grown men to attend weekend cooking events kitted out in homemade, personalized Hello Kitty aprons and maintain excitement levels telling of borderline retardation at all times - in England even the Queens of Soho would disown them.

Yet as they jump up and down, cheering emphatically as I dice an apple, I find their enthusiasm utterly endearing.

The situation intensifies as we move on to the gymnasium for a spot of ping pong. No matter how bad our serves and how many points are scored against us, they cheer like monkeys on ecstasy, shouting phrases of encouragement such as; “you are magic serve” and “bat job good.”

The excitement of exploring new cities is accelerated by the very fact that, being white, everyone wants to be your friend. Children point at us in shops while adults openly stare for extended periods of time.

Unaware of their subliminal racism, no matter how unnerving it may be, it is difficult to be offended. Especially when nipping into a bar for a swift pint turns into an evening of free drinks and banter with locals who want to know everything about you and a conversation cobbled together through a pocketsize phrasebook.

Many westerners miss out on these experiences. In true American style, why stray from what you know? Arriving in new cities, their immediate reaction is to seek out the Western bar for a burger and a pint, passing up a whole array of culturally superior venues where strangers remain friends they will never meet.

These so-called Gaijin bars are the equivalent of scooping up all those waifs and strays still lingering as the day-glo lights rise at 3am in the seediest clubs along Blackpool seafront in the vain hope of finding a someone to take home to riddle with every venereal disease known to man – as well as some that aren’t – and dumping them together in one sticky, smoke stained room.

Musical preference in these venues is similar to what blared from the blacked out windows of souped up Pergeouts owned by 18 –year-old motorists who frequented the kerbsides outside English high schools circa 1992.

This bargain bin meat market is not as appealing as fraternizing with the locals, which is the reason I wrongly assumed people came to Japan in the first place.

It pains me that such a wonderfully diverse and patriotic culture, paved with traditionality and pride can be totally wasted on the stereotypical lager swilling Westerner abroad.

Slugs and snails and pregnant fish

Considered one of the most highly acclaimed cuisines globally, Japanese fodder had a lot to live up to if it was going to rank anywhere close to the extravagantly lavish concoctions conjured up by my own mother – who is capable of recreating any meal she’s ever enjoyed worldwide by the memory of taste alone.

An overrunning habit from a misspent youth, surviving solely on beer and anything vaguely edible to provide sustenance (including kebab meat salvaged from biffa bins and freeze dried milk by the spoonful), during the Withanail and I-esque student days means I can stomach most things.

And after eight months living in this country, I can vouch that there is nothing wrong with the food. It’s perfectly palatable, even the pregnant fish served up at lunchtime, eyeballs and all, are actually not that bad.

But slapping a whole fish on a plate does not exert any degree of effort. And here we unearth a running theme.

Slicing up a live squid or a fillet of raw fish and assembling it in a pretty(ish) formation on a polystyrene tray does not constitute cooking and, therefore, cannot put the country’s “chefs” in the same league as our very own pig faced Jamie Oliver’s three page guide to making the perfect fish finger sandwich.

Invited to a cookery class in my Junior High School, a student was to teach me a traditional, and very old, recipe using sweet potatoes. Honoured to be let into a culinary secret of a land so far from home, my disappointment upon discovering that the entire process involved boiling the potato whole, slicing it into discs and leaving it on a baking tray over the weekend to dry in the sunlit bug fuelled air, was difficult to mask.

Asking if any seasoning was involved I was told, in no uncertain terms; “No Ellie-sensei, we like to eat natural.”

Which is fine, but don’t label this feral practice a recipe. In the same vein, I cook every morning when I peel my banana.

In preparation for a family party, one of my colleagues explained the foods she would prepare – rice, rice, more rice, and – the piece de resistance - gyoza dumplings.

By the Japanese standards I had encountered so far, I was impressed, until she continued to explain that she would be buying premade Gyoza, because it is “very difficult” to extract a ready-made dumpling sheet from a packet, spoon on lumps of minced meat and fold it over into little pasties.

From a generation hell bent against waste, my grandmother would overcome this great barrier of difficulty to do similar with left over pastry and a bag of raisins.

Attending a cooking class this weekend, we were the entertainment, as the unsung Japanese masterchefs observed us cubing apples to stew before spooning into circles of packet-bought puff pastry. Rightly they were flabbergasted at our outstanding proficiency with a knife and a chopping board, which saw their enthusiasm soaring to unforeseen heights.

We also made chocolate fondue, with dipping products including dried squid, fishy cheese, carrots and cherry tomatoes, which were annihilated by the locals like a pack of sugar addicted rabbits.

Most weekends, as I’m off for visits to various towns and prefectures across the country, fellow teachers will religiously, and without fail, pipe up – “You must try the udon.”

Kagawa, Okayama, Kobe, Kochi, pretty much everywhere is allegedly “very famous for its udon,” possibly one of the most used phrases in the Japanese vocabulary.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, udon is an oriental artform, and a lengthy and difficult process to master.

Take a bowl of water, add a stock cube and some thick noodles, simmer for two minutes and pour into a bowl. If you’re lucky you get a raw egg to crack over the top.

Another highly regarded dish is tempura. We treated ourselves to a pricey and lavish tempura meal in Hiroshima at a top end restaurant to celebrate the forming of new friendships during training week.

There’s not much scope to make a clear differentiation between cheap and expensively deep-fried microscopic slithers of vegetable, doused in enough batter to encapsulate a small child.

Needless to say we were left both lighter in the purse and terribly disappointed.

It is also frowned upon to err from what is expected when eating the poor man’s fish and chips. There is a strict regimental technique to devouring this delicacy. Rumour has it that dipping your food into condiments in the wrong order was once punishable by death.

Raw fish, pregnant fish, fly ridden spuds, I would choose a British Fry Up every time.

Slurping my way to success - almost

Following our dice with death at October’s Danjiri, it was uncertain as to how this month’s traditional oddities of the orient could exceed expectations.

Yubara’s annual noodle eating contest certainly did its best.

Invited to enlist by one of my teachers, presumably to provide some “white person” comedy value, I gladly obliged.

A proudly patriotic country, Japanese people are stereotypically under the belief that no one else can do as they do. Non-Japanese infiltrating local life are instantly assumed idiotic and taken pity on.

Congratulated by genuinely surprised locals on a daily basis for my chopstick using prowess, as well as tasks as menial as wiping a tray or flushing a toilet, in rural Japan closing a sliding door warrants a standing ovation.

On occasion this can work to your advantage. Sunday’s competition was just one of these occasions.

Arriving early, the tension in the air was high, nerves were shaking and contestants sombre faced at the prospect of the challenge which lay ahead.

Last on the list, we had to wait for realms of children and men to compete in the soba slurp off.

A natural born winner, this time was not wasted.

Instead I assessed tactics.

First up were two of my larger, to be more precise morbidly obese, students who return for a minimum of third helpings during a typical school lunch time, and one featherweight child.

As the unlikely trio assumed their positions, chopsticks poised, I predicted the pecking order; fattest kid first, less fat but still of gastronomical proportions second, and whippet legs third.

Sadly the future heart attack victims, who didn’t use the dipping sauce provided, began regurgitating noodles into their palms, retching and on the verge of developing lack of oxygen induced brain damage. Meanwhile the wimpy kid took the lead, becoming the clear winner.

This scenario was repeated time and time again as tensions grew fast.

Another fat child learnt by the error of his peers’ ways, adopting the dip-slurp method, leading him to unprecedented victory.

The judges called our names and I took my place behind 500 grams of stone cold soba noodles, cracking the chopsticks and ready for action.

Quietly confident, no one was aware of my secret weapon, a mouth large enough to accommodate 20 grapes or a clenched fist.

The whistle sounded.

Despite getting off to a sloppy start due to an incident with the chopsticks, I gathered speed. Using tactics gleamed from earlier competitors, I crammed to the sound of a kindergarten child, who had earlier attempted to flog me an enormous jar of her Grandfather’s overpriced honey under the guise that she loved me, squawking her good luck wishes, which induced a fit of hysterics.

Determination took a hold and I powered through regardless.

Hearing the commentator repeating my name, I knew I must be nearing success so began stuffing handfuls of noodles which had slopped onto the table into my mouth, throwing my hands into the air to signal I’d finished to the sound of the cheering crowd, chanting my name.

Waiting for my opponents to catch up, I eyed dip-slurp fat kid tucking into a family sized polyester tray of Yakisoba, visibly eager to maintain his portly physique.

Finishing first with a time of 2minutes 53seconds, the next group in our heat was called to the table.

Sending out negative brainwaves throughout their round, I willed no one to beat my time.

One wizened, five-stone grandmother, immune to my magical powers, finished with a time of 2minutes 15seconds, putting her in first place and demoting me to a sloppy second.

Unaware what her secret weapon was, she clearly needed the food to insulate her frail bones against the Siberian winter currently travelling to the valleys of Yubara. But I still felt a sense of defeat. A feeling I can only assume is experienced by those straight A* students when they disgrace their overly ambitious parents as well as the entire extended family when they fail and get an A in General Studies, suicide being the only admirable action to be taken in such an eventuality.

Luckily I had good friends around to pull me through one of the darkest hours of my life so far.

More positively, we have gained local celebrity status. White people entering a noodle contest has been the talk of the town. At the hairdresser’s on Monday the owner disappeared, re-emerging seconds later with the newspaper, overtly excited that he was in the presence of such a local hero.

Next time, I will win.

Death becomes them

Late October, the season of the village Danjiri festival, which takes place in rural locations throughout Japan.

Grown men don headbands, cloaks, skinny jeans and frog boots and, in 20-strong teams, ram into each other with enormous wooden floats, simultaneously growing paralytic as the sun sets.

My initial reaction, this sounds incredibly dangerous, especially after a fellow teacher mentioned in passing, and remaining completely blasé:

“Ellie sensei, a man died at the festival two years ago.”

Such a tragedy hitting England would have seen a blanket ban on Danjiris from that day forward. However in Japan the childhood oblivion to recognize danger seemingly stems into adulthood.

The front of the floats, decorated with willow sprigs and flags representing the nations of the world, are carved to a sharp point to intensify impact. But the drunker the contestants get, the lesser their judgement, leading to a heightened number of hair-raising moments.

Our closest comparison is the village gala in which visiting queens wave at each other, engaging in a vicious smile off as they parade each other’s habitat. While the biggest risk being the threat of multiple face spasms, the Japanese Danjiri competitors may well die.

They also take their sport very seriously, with a number of full blown fisticuffs resulting from instances of failure to adhere to the rules.

Each float contains young boys beating bells and drums as well as a few fighting veterans, and future whiplash victims, who sit on the front, waving fire lit lanterns around, and banging each other on the head as the sake tightens its grasp.

Most of these older teammates are either drunk or hint that they’ve been released from geriatric care homes for one-night only to attend the sporting event, at which they sit with vacant glints in their eyes similar to that of a confused toddler.

As the tonne-weight floats collide they swing sideways, straight into the path of roadside spectators, who are saved only by a one-man deep wall of strapping festival scouts.

In a closing ceremony, the floats unite and contestants climb onto the roofs. In England we would scrabble for sweets or chocolate at this point.

In Japan, a tasteless rock hard substance called Mochi which, the first time I came across I mistook for novelty soap, is distributed to the masses. Upon discovering it was edible, I popped it in the cupboard with a view to working out what to do with it on my return from a fortnight away. By this time it was covered in green fur, the solution was obvious, and I flung it into the bin in disgust.

It transpires it should have been put it in the microwave, transforming into a red hot gloop, which can only be compared to munching on a soft boiled Pritt-Stick. And so it transpires that the original plan of allowing it to grow mold before disposing of it is a far more palatable option.

Yet the Japanese scrabble to their knees to collect as much of the multi-coloured crap as possible.

Again, the oblivion to danger is highlighted as the mochi is not just thrown but propelled from mini rocket launchers along with streamers, lulling me into a false sense of security as I stare at the pretty colours before being smacked on the head with force one not just one but three lumps, which have been sent airborne with the power of a cannon.

No law suits, no event bans, the Japanese mentality is that if you attend, you are liable for the fate that becomes you. It would be great to see this ethos infiltrating the degenerative streets of outback America, where they think it legitimate to claim against McDonalds for scalding their legs when attempting to drink hot coffee while driving, and worryingly winning the case.

We only have ourselves to blame if the next our parents hear is that their offspring has been steamrolled to death by a giant wooden cart containing 20 inebriated men.

With the language barrier, this would probably be lost in translation and they would never actually find out how we met our end, rather draw the conclusion that the company had sold us into Kyoto’s Geisha industry for a tidy sum of 100 Yen a piece.

Driving me crazy

One of the most mind boggling things that I have come across in the past seven months is the unfathomable concept that is the stereotypical Japanese motorist.

Rumours that there’s as much chance of a person passing their test within the generous figure of ten attempts as there is of Saddam Hussein being canonised, are confirmed by our American colleagues. Due to some legal loophole and when they intend on staying in the country for more than a year, US workers must sit the nation’s test, which they repeatedly and without exception fail.

Adding to the list of contradictions, of a country people fall in love with for its contradictions, is the overt recognition that the driving test difficulty factor does not tally with the peril which ensues once a newly qualified motorist is set free on the nation’s roads.

Big on conformity the general consensus is that, as one does, everyone else follows suit. Parallel parking in supermarket car parks is the standard and anyone deviating is considered taboo and subsequently frowned upon. Unless, like me, you’re a foreigner in which case it is acceptable because you are an idiot.

In a car park as empty as The News of the World’s bank account, I park leaving once space between me and the only other vehicle, badly, with my wheels overhanging the space between.

As I am walking toward the store I spy another motorist pulling up alongside my own car, which has just been delivered back to me following work to repair the impact of a hit and run, before attempting to reverse into the space between - which is in fact only half a space because of my inability to conform to the strict regimental parking ethos.

Meanwhile another shopper has arrived, and is making attempt after failed attempt to reverse park between two white lines amid a sea of vacant spaces. Shaking my head in despair I look back to see that potential car crash has aborted mission and is also doing his best to back into the space at the other side of my shiny, newly fixed automobile.

Indicating occurs after a driver has slammed his brakes on and turned the corner, seeing gaijin such as yours truly forced to swerve into on-coming traffic in an unexpected and involuntary impulse reaction.

Habits of white transit vans on winding country lanes suggest that they are universally problematic. Trundling along with speeds fluctuating between 30 and 40kmph – the equivalent of an Ellestimated 18-25mph, is frustratingly dangerous, especially when you haven’t allowed yourself an entire morning to travel to work.

Yet these would-be Formula One racers wreak havoc at road works. Seemingly oblivious to red lights, they carry on straight through at the same break neck speeds into the inevitable stream of oncoming traffic, causing road closures, diversions and heightened stress levels of Ellie Mays. I exaggerate slightly, none of the above has ever resulted from a white van man’s rash actions but there is a strong probability that I will one day soon find myself entangled in this unfortunate sequence of events.

Not only are the motorists a menace to society, so too are the location of petrol stations. A country dominated by mountains, toll roads are the main gateway and most popular access route between two points. On a long journey a car can be on the highway for the majority of the day. Yet petrol stations are as commonplace as Anne Widdecombe’s sexual encounters.

To leave the toll to fuel up before re-entering increases the price, seeing a raised proportion of potential breakdowns with empty cars chugging to a standstill as people eke out every last millilitre in the vain hope that, like a mirage, a petrol station will appear on the horizon.

Invariably it never does.

We have encountered the dangers of absent petrol stations first hand when I was almost mauled by a dog before being rounded up and shot by the Yakuza as is accounted in an earlier blog.

There is a vending machine on the top of Mount Fuji but no fuel resources in the most essential locations countrywide.

Despite all this the longer I am here the more, like everyone else, I accept Japan’s flaws with a shrug and the fleeting thought, which provides a perfectly legitimate excuse for all the inexplicable idiocy which is the glue holding the country together.

“That’s Japan for you.”

Sake paves the way to world peace

Despite the onset of Autumn, and the orange leaves and morning mist with which it comes, last weekend’s O Sake Matsuri has seen my crush on Japan blossoming, like an spring Sakura, into a full blown love affair.

Relaying the festivities to my favourite homosexual, Robert, he looked on with as much puzzlement as a heavily pixilated image all the way from England can, and said; “is everyone in Japan a spastic?”

On reflection, the behavior that ensues when Japanese and Westerners unite would see one admitted to an isolated padded cell and lobotomized immediately in other parts of the world.

Pointing and shouting Japanese words for anything in the peripheral vision is commonplace and encouraged by native speakers, who cheer emphatically, before returning the sentiment with the pidgin English they were taught back in school by heavy drinking social degenerates similar to ourselves.

After one too many sakes, and still with over 900 of numbers 1-1,000 to sample, despite its juvenility, we think it more than a little funny to ask for a number “69”, a joke shared by the paralytic 40-something next in line.

“I, know, 69,” he barks out like an angry Rottweiler, with the obligatory high five before continuing to act out the position, sticking his tongue into his cheek to emphasise the fact that there is meant to be an engorged penis in his mouth.

I’m sure he is one of the first to collapse.

Meanwhile our friend’s girlfriend, the beautiful and hilarious Akiko, is apparently having trouble of her own in the toilet. She’s dropped her Sake cup in some mud and one hundred and one other festival goers are offering their assistance with the very important job of cleaning it.

My tan pleather boots’ first outing since early spring see far better results after a visit to a Japanese-style toilet than back in March, seeing my splash back-free endeavour applauded as I emerge from the squat of doom.

Grown men lie like the war dead sporadically throughout the festival ground. Perfect candidates for ritual humiliation from Westerners, we pose for photographs before balancing whatever miscellaneous objects are to hand on their sleeping persons in an easy game of Human Buckaroo.

Such non-confrontational, good humoured fun is entirely acceptable in the peaceful sake-fueled world that is the stereotypical Japanese weekend.

A parallel universe to that taking place across land and sea, where it is frowned upon to so as much as crack a smirk on public transport, let alone socially interact on any greater level with total strangers.

Throughout the day grown men run up, cheer in our faces and force hugs on us, yet it doesn’t leave us feeling invaded as it would back in England, possibly because they don’t attempt to slip a digit up your nether reasons at the same time.

Taking minimal alcohol for the stereotypical Japanese person, gender inspecific to reach levels of instability, leads to an added bonus that there are no queues and no waiting times at the various sake stands.

Some may say this is a perfectly harmonious combination that allows us sake seasoned westerners to swallow shot after shot of the sickly fortified rice serum until we reach levels on a par with our already comatose comrades of the orient.

The mother of all holidays

Leaving my aero-phobic father to　survive　off　sad　bastard　ready　meals　and　nice　crusty　jam-topped bread for the best part of a fortnight,　my　mother　stocked　her　suitcase　with　Monster Munch, baked beans and advent calendars before departing to see her dearly beloved daughter on the other side of the world.

Thinking myself hysterical, I borrow a pen from a security guard to create a sign to give my mother a heart-warming welcome to the east. However stood at customs, sniggering to myself as I hold up a sign reading “Fuck Face Banks” as the South Koreans and Japanese spill past, there is no sign of my mother. The amusement soon turns into boredom, followed by frustration and finally utmost conviction that she has come to an untimely end en route, meaning my snacks may also never arrive.

One and a half hours later, it emerges, escorted by a security guard. She tells me they needed the address where she was staying. She didn’t have it so kept saying “monkeys, there’s monkeys there.” As though expecting this would encourage them to waive their strict policy and allow this crazed white person across the border.

After 90 minutes of miscommunication, they ask if they can search her suitcase where, lo and behold, a huge piece of paper with my address lies alluringly on top of the stash of goodies.

Having promised my mother glorious sunshine and insisting there was no need to pack a cardigan, let alone a coat, I suppose she maybe a little irritated to be led from the airport lobby and out into a howling and very rainy Typhoon.

We eventually get to bed at 1.30am. I’ve overdone it and am pleased that her jetlag will mean my first lie in for months.

I feel a strange nudging at my shoulders at 7am. Sitting bolt upright I look around, dazed and confused, and get the shock of my life when I turn to see my mother’s face, inches from my own.

“I can’t sleep” she exclaims like a child on Christmas morning, “I’m too excited.”

“It’s 7 o’clock in the fucking morning, go back to sleep;” I hiss, not being the friendliest of people at this hour.

So she insists on talking incessantly for the next half hour until I am well and truly in the living world at which point she begins snoring mid-sentence.

Loudly.

Attempts to fall asleep again are futile so I drag myself off my futon to tidy up around my comatose mother.

Loudly.

Unfortunately her snoring would force chanting woman out of her trance, so there’d be more chance of waking Sadam Hussein.

Eventually I wake her at 1pm and we explore my village, where we are accosted by children before being encouraged by a fisherman to take a clothes-less dip in the public Onsen amid a gaggle of geriatrics giving full frontal views of their wrinkly bits. We politely decline.

Taking mum to my local for a drink in the evening, we are plied with hot free sake. The gentleman from the Hanzaki festival, (who joined in with our Who Am I? post it game mentioned in an earlier blog) is propped up at the other end of the bar. He repeatedly pulls this face………

Which he somehow remembers from his previous photo-shoot with the gaijin.

Highly inebriated and tired of pulling faces, he proceeds to click a pair of scissors, with the speed and precision of Sweeney Todd as he hacked his victims to death, to produce all manner of paper insects.

Meanwhile the father of Yuki, one of my students, keeps falling onto my shoulder like a felled tree, giggling, emanating breath like a syphilis ridden whore in my face. At last orders, we flee before one of them has chance to unload the contents of their stomach on us. My mother is fairly unsteady herself by this point and I decide the mountain air would be beneficial.

On Sunday, we go to see the monkeys, which still aren’t back from their jaunt. Then we meet my friend Tomoko who, on first sight, fickle mum seemingly prefers to me.

Monday, we take on the challenge of Mount Daisen. Despite the heavy rain, mother refuses to pack a waterproof. We arrive, and she’s cold so we spend the next hour searching for a cheap rain cover to keep her dry. This setback means we only make it half way up the mountain before many intrepid voyagers warn us to head back down before it gets dark. My mother has the balance of a spasicated deer so I decide this is highly advisable and vow to tackle the mountain again at my earliest convenience.

Tuesday morning, she comes to Kindergarten class to see my weekly ritual of being physically abused by a gaggle of over excited three to six year olds. In the afternoon I work while the mother stealing Tomoko moves in on her prey, offering to take MY mum out for the day. Seemingly I’m the only one who suspects ulterior motives.

In the evening we attend Ekaiwa, my adult English conversational class, where we’re presented with grapes the size of a baby’s fist which taste completely of red wine, and two wooden toys. The majority of the lesson is spent trying to send the toys airborne while mum chats to the unfortunately named confectioner Mr Fukushima about the art of rice pudding, which ironically is unheard of in Japan.

On Wednesday my mother does what she should be doing and cleans my apartment. Sadly many items have now gone awol, including my National Health Insurance card. She is worse than my old flat-mate Guillaume, who threw my clothes in the communal Biffa bin and concealed rotting bags of household waste in my wardrobe. He is French. This explains why French people smell.

Thursday and off to Kyoto! The highlight of mum’s day? A charity shop in Tsuyama, which sees us almost miss the coach. Like a fly to a cowpat, extracting my mother from a charity shop once she’s in full throws is like taking a baby from Michael Jackson.

Upon arriving in Kyoto, we find a grotty little joint where the food is fried on hotplates in front of you. All is cosy and homely until a convoluted Mauritian comes, settles in next to us and begins commenting on the ‘artwork’ of the glorified omelette being currently being cooked up. Unsurprisingly he is single, childless and safe to say friendless as he travels alone.

Friday, we see a golden palace, which is gold and shiny and many people take photographs of. Then we walk up to a rock garden, which turns out to be five rocks in a sporadic formation which looks more like a giant has accidentally dropped them from his pocket when pulling out a tissue to catch an untimely sneeze rather than having any artistic involvement. But many people are sat on the edge of the overshadowing temple, admiring their exquisite beauty.

Next we go to a Ninja Restaurant, located amid a labyrinth of underground mazes. We’re led by a bona fide Ninja to our own private booth where card tricks and coin magic is performed before our eyes. I have a habit of ruining magician’s tricks, mainly because it is so glaringly obvious how they are done. It takes all my strength to keep quiet when I see the “disappearing coin” clenched between the fingers of his upturned palm.

Saturday and off to Nara, the next city along from Kyoto, where we battle our way through a herd of man eating deer to see an oversized Buddah whose nostrils alone are the size of an obese teenager.

We spend the best part of the day here before heading off to Gion in the evening to eat dinner on Tatami mats by the river. Choosing Japanese style tapaz from a basic menu, we were confused as to why the locals seem to have a far more appetizing selection on their plates. Until we were informed that there is a different menu than chewy beef and deep fried crap for the Japanese. Cheated, we feel like the poor relations.

Sunday, we head off to Fushimi Inari Shrine, which consists of rows upon rows of orange arches each donated by someone important. Another mountain. Again we only get half way up.

Mother has been telling everyone how great my Japanese is. Trouble is, she can only say eight words, and one of those is forbidden. So she has no idea what I’m actually saying. I could be saying “your dead dog smells of cabbages and semen” and she would applaud my efforts.

I confirmed how far I’d come when I asked if we could have our takeout sandwiches toasted. When we boarded the coach home, I retrieved an ice pack from the paper bag, which was sandwiched between the sandwiches to keep them cool. I don’t know how I get it so wrong.

On arriving back in Tsuyama, we go to a traditional floor seating restaurant, which mum now seems to favour over the table and chairs she has long since grown accustomed to. On the way out, the child in her insists on sliding the doors open and shut. Something she’s always wanted to do, apparently, although I doubt very much that it has been her lifelong goal.

On Monday we go to Tomoko’s for tea, despite my better judgment that this lady is spending far too much time with my mother.

The whole family is there. Husband, grandmother, great grandmother and the three children. Luckily Tomoko spends most of the evening in the kitchen, but still my mum is seemingly more in love with her than her own flesh and cranky blood.

The set up is the Japanese equivalent of the stereotypical British northern family. Great grandmother in the corner, smiling at the children and chipping in the odd quip, while the rest of the family wreaks havoc on the house.

Some three years ago a friend of the family recommended that, if the opportunity ever arises, my parents must see Kodo, a famous Japanese Taeko drum group, who previously played at the Grand Theatre in Blackpool.

So imagine her surprise when the very same company turns up at Yatsuka Elementary School, in the backside of nowhere to perform for the children, Ellie Teacher and a very special guest, Ellie Teacher’s mum.

During the performance some students show grave concern for my mother who, overcome by emotion, begins crying because she doesn’t want to go home. Presumably because she’ll miss Tomoko.

Expecting a local amateur drum group, we were blown away by their power, precision and I by the lead drummer’s Godlike physique. Speaking to the troupe afterwards, it transpires they will also perform for The Queen at next year’s royal command.

Saying sayonara to the drummers, we go outside to watch as the children assist with this year’s rice harvest. A child gives mum two aubergines, exclaiming “presento”.

In the evening we settle to watch Memoirs of a Geisha to relive the Kyoto experience and, next morning awake at an unearthly 5am. I drop mother off at the airport where we shed a tear or ten. This is all rather odd as we don’t even like each other all that much. Perhaps she’s closing her eyes and thinking of Tomoko.

On the way home, the toll gatemen come bounding out of their booth shouting “saishin kudasai” (photo please) or words to that effect. I agree and they poke their heads through the window to pose for pictures with the only white in the village.

As reward I’m presented with tissues and a bookmark capturing the geriatrics in the aforementioned onsen.

Sometimes timing in life is so utterly perfect. My cooker broke when I was making a nice hot cup of tea for Mummy Banks. Obviously no mother would leave their child hobless, or indeed foodless. With mum gone, my fridge and cupboards are stocked to capacities capable of feeding James Corden for an entire morning, and a shiny new hob now graces my minimalistic kitchen. These items play a constant reminder to her greatness.

I think mum’s had fun. And I think my poor dad is going to suffer as a result.

The Hangover

There seems to be a running theme at Japanese Matsuris (festivals), which take place throughout the country almost daily during the month of August.

Each town celebrates with its own special kind of quirkiness and, following the Hanzaki festival recounted in an earlier blog, we were unsure as to how Kochi City's could possibly compete.

As always we were on a strict budget, so made the frugal decision to drink Extra Strong Chu Hi, the poorman's White Lightning, priced at 202 Yen for a king-sized can.

We cannot be held accountable for the debauchery that ensued.

Unbearably hot, our sweat was sweating, dripping from the ends of our hair and down our shoulders, where a mosquito met an untimely death by drowning in a tragic attempt to feed on my blood. While we melted, the Japanese glowed radiantly despite the skinny jeans, boots and cardigan combinations they elegantly sported. It remains a mystery how they manage to get these items on in such humid conditions, when a pair of trousers would get stuck on the sweat seeping from my big toes alone. I truly believe this level of discomfort was a contributor in our failure to recollect the occurrences of the evening.

The morning after the night before, I opened my rucksack to discover all manner of inexplicable items, including an outfit, clackers and fans.

In a scene similar to the closing credits of box office hit "The Hangover," I retrieved my camera, certain I hadn't taken any photos.

And how wrong I was as I scrolled through, vague memories flooding back.

The photos have been taken in an enormous underground restaurant/shopping centre, where grown men are snapped asleep on the floor outside the toilets, being accosted by an extrovert transvestite, who puts Gok Wan on a par with Nick Griffin.

A man dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow, who had apparently been milling around the city for many days in this garb, also features, accompanied by a lesbian and a raging queen with more make up than the entire population of Liverpool. I later recalled asking numerous people for directions to Jack Sparrow; "Jacku Sparrow wa doko desu ka?" with each eagerly directing us with a smile and knowing glint of recognition in their eyes.

There is photographic evidence of a teenaged girl dressing Lucy in the mystery outfit, followed by snaps of her fleeing the scene. We also met Father Christmas, I may have even told him in all sincerity that I no longer have a chimney so I'll leave the door unlocked. Luckily I don't think he spoke English. This is followed by another shot of the extrovert transvestite, cooling me with the garish yellow fan.

Which had also found its way into my bag.

Video clips of wobbly dancing, youth terrorisation and ear piercingly bad singing is next, and the moment I’m handed the clackers is also captured.

Which also found their way into my rucksack.

One of the most lovable things about the Japanese is their sense of fun, they know how to have a fucking good time with no violence, no trouble and no hostility. You can fall asleep by a toilet and no one judges or tries to rob you, the most they'd do is throw a blanket over you and pop a pillow under your head.

I would write more about this festival, but I can't.

For this, Extra Strong Chi Hi is to blame.

If you are ever to visit Japan, and should take just one piece of advice, let it be this.

Never underestimate the power of the Chu.

On your marks, ready, die

The biggest and most dangerous event in the school year, Japanese Junior High sports day, is terrifying and, if introduced to England, a law-suit waiting to happen.

On Wednesday, the school I teach at was all set for a day of carefree fun and games in the baking hot sun.

However during the course of the day two children were carried off in stretchers, one before the opening ceremony had even got going.

Japanese culture places emphasis on the team rather than individual, meaning there are no events singling contestants out.

First was a game where dozens of cardboard boxes are piled in the middle of the arena. On the whistle the children, in teams of five, compete to make the tallest tower, seeing students balancing precariously on each other’s shoulders as they jump up and down in attempt to throw more and more items on top of their growing stack.

Inevitably a handful of children end up at the accident and emergency tent, queuing to be attended to by the school nurse, after plummeting to the gravel all weather pitch from great heights, and with great force.

Next comes to human pyramid. A mismatch of young boys, of all shapes and sizes, clamour on top of each other to form three structures, each five-storeys high. At this point I am reassured by the safety mats that have been hauled onto the pitch, until I realize that this is to help give the pyramid topper that extra bit of bounce to launch himself half way up his stack of wobbling peers, making the ascent to the summit far less arduous.

In a grand finale, the entire male population of the school, summing up to a grand total of more than 70, creates one enormous pyramid, which is quite a spectacle to behold.

Incredibly, there are no falls and no visible injuries, but one child struggling to walk, is subsequently bound with ice-packs, most likely having suffered irreparable damage to his back.

Next is the adult’s tug of war, which I’m encouraged to join in. I love tug of wars so gladly take on the challenge. Sadly I don’t understand Japanese at the best of times, especially not an excited referee, rambling away so fast that his mouth is a blur.

So in the “get set” position, when the whistle goes I don’t stand up when everyone else does, resulting in the force of forty incredibly competitive grown men and women seeing the rope smack into my face, sending me airborne for a second or two before crashing to the floor. For fear of being bullied for the rest of the year, I stand up, pretending it doesn’t hurt, and grab hold of the rope. My incredible strength sees us win.

I spend the next 30 minutes with an ice pack firmly attached to my chin, where a delightfully black bruise has now formed, with the school nurse shouting “chin egg” and pointing and laughing.

Next is a diabolical four song dance act, dreamt up by a group of third year girls. Out of sync, unimaginative and distinctly lacking in enthusiasm. Even the 68-strong dance troupe look visibly pissed off at their peers' lack of choreographic skills, as they perform what looks very much like a geriatric aerobics class routine.

The final round, grab the hat off your opponent’s head, is a vicious tournament involving a child wearing a cap, sat on another’s shoulders, supported by a person on either side, sprinting around as quickly as possible and beating the crap out of each other in an attempt to get the caps of each other’s heads. While The Eye of the Tiger plays in the background.

As the final whistle blows, another girl is stretchered off and the remainder leave the battle field in a scene similar to the homecoming of surviving World War One soldiers

It was at this point that I had to vacate the nurse’s tent, surrendering my bag of ice.

Earlier in the week, in one of my primary schools, I had been enlisted to take part in gymnastics practice in the hall. Not having the greatest sense of balance, I fall over in a strong gust of wind.

So having a small fat child on my head, two obese kids yanking my arms on one side, and two skinny ones on the other to form a strange fan shape, it took every ounce of strength to remain upright. Before I knew it, another child was lunging towards me in a handstand position. The fat kid on my shoulders was supposed to catch her ankles, but it missed, instead two feet crashed into my face.

My entire future flashed before me, mainly comprising images of Japanese prison cells and daily molestations from sexually depraved murderers. Thankfully I didn’t kill anyone, the child got down from my shoulders unscathed and I remain a free woman.

Back to Junior High.

The teachers invited me to joint their post-sports day Enkai (party), and of course I gladly obliged.

Now it is scientifically proven that Japanese people cannot handle their alcohol anywhere near as well as us Brits. So after two pints of beer, pretty much everyone is legless and thinks it a great idea to re-enact sports day. We’re split into teams. Unluckily, and being the lightest, I am pressurised into climbing on top of a table, with a chair on top, to the top of the stack of inebriated teachers.

Fortunately I cannot stand as my head is already grazing the ceiling, much to the amusement of those sat safely on the carpet below.

Next a pile of noodle pots are put in the middle of the room to recreate the box stacking game. My team is the clear winner, partially due to the fact that the vice principle is sat cross-legged, like a toddler surrounded by building blocks, stacking the noodles randomly while rolling as many as possible under the tablecloth so that he can later hide them in his bag and take them home.

With breakages, cuts and bruises, sports day is dangerous, and a strain on the Japanese health care service.

Saying all that, it’s fucking good fun.

Early to bed, early to rise, buggers a man, and then he dies

Japanese people survive off little sleep.

The apartment block opposite me has an outdoor light, which shines directly through my wafer thin curtains and onto my face as I make futile attempts to drift off into the land of nod. If my eye mask slips during the night I awake immediately, convinced through delirium, that the mother ship has come to transport me home.

Even my internet modem speaks to me at six every morning, to deliver the day's news and throughout the year an array of creatures and insects take shifts to deliver their own version of dawn chorus, generally before dawn. Frogs have recently been replaced by Cicadas which cackle a jovial cackle, as though laughing at my misadventure.

In hostels over the summer, it is seemingly acceptable to hoover the dormitory as the sun rises and in Muroto, where Lucy lives, a five o'clock siren sounds every day, simply to let people know that it's five o'clock.

Despite all this, nothing could prepare me for the utter frustration following heavy rain on Saturday, which saw me rudely awakened by a fellow teacher's text, urging me, at 6am, to be careful. What harm can come to me in my bed, when I'm ASLEEP, I do not know.

At 6.30am, and just drifting back into a much-needed coma, sirens shrieked into action, wailing away for more than half an hour, causing me to wrap my pillow around my head in utter disdain. Despite the possibility that they may well have been evacuating the area; losing the will to live, I freely welcomed death.

Eventually the sirens ceased and I relaxed back onto the pillow, sinking into the blissful silence. But it was short lived as a man with a microphone proceeded to bellow in foreign tongues outside the apartment block.

Then chanting woman started up, like clockwork, followed by the shuffling and sliding as my next door neighbour began her daily furniture moving regime.

It was safe to say we were not being evacuated. But also highly unlikely I was getting back to sleep. So, reluctantly, and at 7.30am, I rose from my stack of futons.

On a Saturday.

Leaving me buggered.

It's times like these that I miss the tranquillity of London.

Alcohol-fuelled nudism

On August 8th each year, the quirky nudist colony in which I live, littered with pyromaniacs and seasoned alcoholics, becomes even stranger still.

Throughout the year I have witnessed workmen fashioning an enormous Hanzaki (salamander) to take centre stage at Yubara's annual Hanzaki Festival.

The usually quiet streets of Yubara undergo a stampede of parents and children, who have joined forces to celebrate the creatures, usually residing in the rural rivers running through the valleys of outback Japan.

What starts as a pleasant family occasion will quickly escalates into full-scale hedonism and debauchery. Setting out from my apartment at 4pm, we go to the local Salamander museum where the metre-long beasts, disguised as large grey rocks and invisible to the untrained eye, are cramped into fish tanks which would instil chronic levels of Claustraphobia in Nemo.

We are beckoned to a table, already overcrowded with pensioners, sat cross-legged and cross eyed, in the museum courtyard by an incredibly inebriated local, imploring us to help them drink their sake. Most cannot sit up straight, instead rolling around like Weebles, crashing their craniums on all manner of objects, from drinks coolers to paving stones.

We decline their offer and move on.

Sitting with our feet dipped in the river, the evening's mist settling on the water's surface, cranes wading mystically in the distance, all is calm and serene as we watch the dance troupes marching past, music blaring, followed by three giant papier mache Salamanders, being wheeled along by a host of strapping young gents.

I'm discovered by some first year students and led by the hand away from my friends and into the abyss of the crowds to meet their parents.

But it is once we have finished ooohing and aahing at closing hanabi (fireworks) ceremony, when the kids start leaving and I finally find my friends, that things take a downturn, into a drunken version of the Wicker Man.

We go to the local bar, where I kidnapped Edwina, the clown, from the squat toilet during my first month following a binge of 22 bottles of Sake.

It transpires that the bar is owned by the parents of two students, a girl and boy of elementary school age, who are, as a special treat, allowed to serve us pint after pint of beer, which feels wrong on so many levels.

Soon the father comes to sit down, encouraging his son to come too, and learn English from the Gaijin.

And so the eight-year-old sits amid the haze of smoke and lager spillages, chatting away with a level of maturity far superior to the drunken westerners who have overtaken the bar.

Not long after the father instigates a photo shoot with the kids, beers in hand, which would have seemed entirely inappropriate if it wasn't for the vast quantities of alcohol consumed by this point.

Following the photos, the well known, "who am I" post it game ensues. Seemingly amused by the gaijin with yellow stickers attached to their foreheads, decorated with foreign scrawlings, the aged friends on the next table decide to join in, covering their faces in sticky labels, before carrying on drinking, seemingly oblivious to their adornments.

Soon it is closing time.　We say our sayonaras and, deciding that midnight is too early to retire home, venture on to the outdoor, mixed onsen situated along the riverside overlooking the dam at the top end of the town.

We strip off and soon find out that the rocky path leading to the steaming outdoor bath is slippy, seeing all attempts to cover our modesty disbanded in favour of attempts to remain upright.

The water is scorching and despite our best efforts to endure the heat, bubbling gently like live-lobsters simmering away on the stove, the temperatures soon become unbearable.

Aborting mission, Scott's friend Matt discovers that his flip flops have disappeared and a group of naked Japanese men offer their assistance, running up and down the rocky path, searching in the moonlight before proudly presenting a pair of shoes to the drunken token white people. But they're not Matt's, which are later found exactly where he left them.

Eager to practise their English, the boys get dressed when we do and follow us along the river, where we are waylaid by the sfestival tage and giant salamander, which has been abandoned at the water's edge. Stopping for another photo-shoot one of the men, Hiro, expresses an interest in Lucy. His friends encourage from a close distance "kiss her, kiss her." This embarrasses Hiro to such an extent that he lays down on the floor and ROFLs (for those of you unfamiliar with the iliterate new wave of so called "text speech", reserved only for chavish youths and cunts, "Rolled around on the floor laughing"), before pulling himself to his feet and kissing her, like a washing machine on a fast spin, traumatising unfazable Lucy.

Hiro texts Lucy a few days later - "Hello Lucy, do you think me a boy? Japan people look young to the Western eye. I am 30. Maybe we could email sometimes."

I think she may be in love.

She’s a gaijin, she’s a legal gaijin, she’s a northern lass in Japan

A recent visit from one of my oldest and dearest friends from back home highlighted just how great an extent the downright bizarre has since become my utterly mundane.

Calamities struck from the moment of touch down at Hiroshima Airport.

Global beliefs, that Japan’s impeccable transport infrastructure places it as world leader in all things kinetic, were questioned when we entered the toll road. With rocketing prices following the atrocities in the north of the country, toll roads have a real impact on the bank balance. With nowhere to turn around when you finally realise that you are heading in the opposite direction from home and, to make matters worse, straight towards a bridge costing the equivalent of £30 to cross, it is a major disadvantage to be plagued with the navigational prowess of a visually impaired mole when travelling in Japan.

And to make matters even worse, we were running on empty.

Ironically petrol stations are scarce on toll roads, the main gateway between prefectures.

Down to the last bar, we creep steadily along at 30kmh in an 80kmh zone, eking out every last millilitre. Eventually we find an exit, and using terrible Japanese attempt to ask where the nearest petrol station is located.

Convinced the gatekeeper has told us to follow the road for 20 metres, we disappear into the darkness down an unlit, seemingly uninhabited long and winding country road to nowhere.

Twenty minutes later, the final bar now flashing violently and a distinct smell of burning coming from the engine, there is still no civilisation on the horizon. Visions of sleeping on the side of the road with rapists lurking in the forest plague our thoughts. As it’s been a long time since there’s been any male interest coming my way I gladly volunteer to take one for the team.

Then, in the distance, is it a mirage, no it’s a real city? Down a long, spiral road.

Freewheeling the entire way, we draw up next to a wooden shack café with a shaven headed, heavily tattooed man stood outside. Rushing from the car to ask him where the nearest station is, a pitbull terrier appears from nowhere and attempts to rip off my face. In sheer terror, I run for the safety of the car as the man shouts “chotto matte” - (wait a little) and disappears.

Suspicions that these strangers are Yakuza sparks fears that the end is nigh. Fuelled further as skinhead returns with an equally dubious-looking friend, armed with a scooter, which he mounts and starts up, beckoning us to follow to our almost certain deaths.

Less than a minute later, we take a right turn, inducing an Hallelujah moment on a par with those Western Toilet instances.

A petrol station.

We rummage around for some Haribo to offer this Good Samaritan. But when we look up our knight in black leather has disappeared into the darkness with so much as an arigato.

We are saved and my involuntary stint of celibacy continues.

It seems the gateman actually informed us that the station was 20 kilometres away, and not 20 metres.

Hungry and craving wine to block out the terrors of the night thus far, we stop at a local shop for supplies.

Entering is like walking onto a hybrid set of Disney Pixar’s A Bugs Life and a David Attenborough documentary.

Insects with faces and eyes the size of frisbees, in an array a colours, shapes and sizes greet us with wide, menacing smiles turning the shop into an obstacle course we are forced to duck, dive and somersault our way around.

Upon finally returning to the apartment, three hours later than scheduled, I throw the door open, welcoming Catherine to my humble abode only to be greeted by the scream of an imprisoned cockroach as it leaps over our heads and to freedom over the balcony, plummeting into the infinite depths of the thicket below.

Looking out of my apartment window, a spider the size a newborn child’s head has taken up residency on the property opposite, less than two metres and once single pane of glass separating it from the futon I had laid out for my guest.

A trip to the riverside the following day was when I truly realised just how far removed my norm is, in fact, from normal.

Hula-hooping next to a riverside foot-onsen, overlooking an indoor hot-spring where elderly residents, male and female alike, go to chill-out in their birthday suits, sparked the interest of two drunk, toothless old men.

After peering through the windows of the building, they dressed and staggered, in a way suggestive that it was a struggle to walk even before they started on the extra strong Chu-hi (the Japanese equivalent of Special Brew).

As they accosted us, pulling the hoops out of my hands, and doing their best to impress, in our peripheral vision we could see another man setting fires along the riverbank before walking off, leaving us in the midst of a blazing inferno.

The three things that Japanese bumpkins like doing best are

Drinking

Taking their clothes off

And burning things

Often simultaneously.

This scenario washed over me until I realised the confused yet amused look on Catherine’s face, which was made even more comical when a huge van with a microphone big enough for ET to finally make that long-overdue call home, began blurting out all kinds of over-zealous gibberish, breaking the serenity of the valleys of Yubara further still.

On the walk home from our ‘quiet’, mainly wine-based picnic, we encountered a snake which, sadly, had come to an untimely end, strewn across the road up to my apartment. I could tell that, for Catherine, it really was like home from home.

One thing I had promised we would do during her stay was to visit the monkeys at Kamba Waterfall just minutes from my house. Ranking in the top 100 most beautiful places to visit in Japan, with monkeys of all ages waiting to greet you, I had built the excursion up just a little too much.

When we arrived, the monkeys had gone.

Talking to Lucy later that day, it transpired that there is an unusual and considerable high monkey presence, sunbathing on the road-side in her town, Muroto, some eight hours away by car.

Evidently the furry little fuckers have been taking full advantage of the cheap “ju hatchi kippu” summer holiday train ticket to take a trip to the seaside.

Next to Kyoto, land of Geishas.

Armed with a camera to capture them in their natural habitat, Catherine makes a bolt across the road to snap proof of her first sighting.

Which turns out to be a man, in drag. Who has, despite the layers of white stuff, the most obvious 5 o’clock shadow ever viewed by the human eye.

Coming from the North of England, Catherine’s reactions throughout her stay scream volumes of just how far the oddities of Japan stretch in relation to other, seemingly similar places around the world.

She ensures me she had the holiday of a lifetime and there are many amazing things we did do, which I haven’t blogged about as they are, quite frankly, too normal.

All that remains to say is that, scratch the surface and Japan is high up there in the realms of the quirkiest places to live on this rock which we are all lucky enough to inhabit.

Paradise Lost

Taking full advantage of the once in a lifetime opportunity we are currently experiencing, we decided to say Sayonara to the mountainous beauty of Honshu and Konnichiwa to Japan’s “little bit of paradise”, embarking on a 12-day island hopping adventure to Okinawa.

Landing in a place incomprehensibly hotter than the heat we have now grown accustomed to, we were looking forward to the white sand beaches, clear blue seas and beach parties, which all the guide books had promised.

So upon catching a bus into Naha City on the main island, we were surprised to come face to face with what was more akin to a run down version of Beirut.

Booked into a hostel which hadn’t seen a cleaning cloth since the 1970’s, we made a vow to leave on the first ferry to an island strongly recommended by fellow travellers the following morning.

Rising with the cicadas, we escaped to Tokashiki where we were indeed rewarded with an idyllic beach, azure seas, peace and tranquillity. But prices per person for one night in even the cheapest hostels started at around 6,000 yen, the equivalent of £45 English pounds, no food included.

On a budget tighter than Shylock’s purse, and left with no alternative, we were forced to camp near to countless schoolchildren on an overnight visit for a far more affordable rate of 1,000 yen.

Taking to the sea, the hazy bubble of tranquillity immediately burst as we were swamped by schoolchildren, mesmerised by the token Westerners so far away from home. Climbing on us, splashing water in our faces and screaming in a combination of Japanese and broken English, the afternoon turned from paradise into little more than a crèche. A situation unaided by Scott, who continued to vie for their attention long after they finally lost interest in us.

Kitted out in bikinis, we provided a great contrast to other beach dwellers, who looked like they were about to embark on an artic expedition. With every inch of flesh covered, they transformed the beach into the direct opposite of a nudist colony. Many were in the sea clad in items of clothing far exceeding the total baggage allowance I was permitted to bring to Japan for an entire year.

As the sun set over the beach, more stars than I have ever seen littered the sky, with one after another plummeting to their deaths, symbolising the end of galaxies millions of light years away.

Again an ideal setting.

That is until two young boys began skinny dipping and doing all they could to get us involved. Rumours of Okinawan Japanese youths, breaking the prudish stereotypes of the mainland, most certainly rang true. But despite warnings that people are far more liberal on the island, nothing prepares you to have your knee humped like a cocker spaniel by a skinny, incredibly drunk, 21-year-old.

The next morning we awoke covered in sand and drowning in our own sweat to discover that ants had claimed colony over our faces. It was only at this point that it came to our attention that the campsite was also infested with poisonous Okinawan snakes.

Having stared death in the face, and survived, we returned to Naha.

And the next day, to Kume, which the guidebook promised contained “everything you need for the perfect Okinawan holiday.”

Finding a more reasonably priced hostel at 2,000 yen per night and backing onto Eef Beach, the “best beach on the island,” we were relieved to have found somewhere we could finally relax.

As far as hostels go it was stunning, clean and spacious, with the added bonus that snorkelling gear was all inclusive. And so to the beach. Snorkels at the ready, we ran down to the promised white sands of Kume.

And were confronted with litter, seaweed and razor sharp coral which could cut through diamond.

Despite these drawbacks, and having spent 6,000 yen on the ferry trip alone, cash was dwindling and we were determined to make the most of our time on the island. Entering the sea, it seemed feasible that a person could hobble through coral and reach Australia without the water level reaching anything over thigh-deep. Crouching, we attempted to snorkel anyway but the water was so misty that it was impossible to see anything at all. I did manage to spot two fish and then screamed, gesturing our designated danger symbol as what could only be a huge lump of faeces bobbed towards my head.

And so we evacuated the waters of Kume.

Leaving the beach, we noticed a large stone slab engraved with the words “Eef, voted in Japan’s top 100 beaches.” Needless to say, this left us speechless.

Expenditures on our adventure had left us no cash for meals out. As we drank cup-a-soups for dinner that evening, I realised the advantages of my overpaid, under-stimulating job back in London as Japan had reverted me to levels of poverty we had not known since the Withnail and I-esque student days. We wallowed in self-pity, uncertain when or where our next pint would come from.

The following day, money was scarce and we were forced to return to the main island and sweat it out until our flights home.

Again the guidebook displayed a beautiful photograph of the island’s one and only beach. And so, as a final extravagance, we forked out 150 yen each to hail a taxi to transport us to yet another of the island’s utopic highlights. Letting us out at the other side of a slope leading to the beach, the taxi sped off and we made our ascent.

And so it came into view on the horizon.

A man-made beach.

Overlooking a motorway.

With strict borders the size of a public swimming pool.

At this point it was impossible not to laugh at the utter failure our holiday had become.

Yenless from futile efforts to seek out paradise, we were left with no option but to change our flights, come home early and live off rice and water until pay day.

Children of Japan - Part 2

I find it remarkable that, a group of 14 year olds I have been teaching for almost four months now, 14-year-olds who have been learning English ever since they could say Konnichiwa, did not, until last week, realise that their English teacher is, in fact, from England.

Upon being informed of this startling revelation they exclaimed, in Japanese translated by my co-worker, “No! Really? But you speak English so well.”

It transpires they were under the impression that, devoid of language, people from England are all doomed to a life of muteness. Meanwhile the English taught in Japanese schools actually originates from a larger land, which has only existed in its current form for a handful of years. And that the Americans invented and developed our beautifully diverse native tongue in this relatively short space of time.

Tar me with the brush of overt patriotism but to have something so important, which has been nurtured over the centuries under the influence of the likes of Chaucer, Shakespeare and countless Mills and Boon contributors, I feel a little disgruntled that its origins are being misrepresented on the Orient.

While English has been unfairly assigned to a culture of lexicological rapists, who transform the poetic into the downright crass, their lack of knowledge of my homeland does raise eyebrows as to what on earth these children have been taught over the years.

Frustration vented, there are countless observations I have made about Japanese children since my last blog entry.

Despite brushing their teeth vigorously after every meal, posters threatening the effects of tooth decay slapped along corridors in schools everywhere - as well as mirrors to check the end results - most children still look like they have been feasting on permanent markers.

Sugar laced toothpaste, with more white stuff than a family-sized bottle of coke, could have something to do with this generation of morbidly halitosis suffering tots, who will undoubtedly be wearing dentures by the age of 25.

And the problem does stem into adulthood. One lady, who was talking to me from good two metres away, with a mouth like a derelict graveyard, caused me to do a sick in my mouth after catching a whiff of the raw sewage smell emanating from her face. Even the tramp in my earlier blog’s false teeth were rotten beyond repair.

This problem has escalated to such an extent that the Toothfairy doesn’t visit Japanese children. She can hardly develop the Tooth Castle conglomerate with mountains of mouldy gnashers.

In the unlikely scenario that the Toothfairy doesn't exist, God forbid, it is doubtful that parents could afford to slip 100 Yen under their offspring’s pillow every time a bit of its tooth crumbles away.

This discovery that Japan is Toothfairy-less was made during one of my self-introduction classes. On the verge of circling the room, shaking hands with all the delightful tots, I spied one particularly grubby little boy spitting blood and mucous followed by a tooth into his hand. Stopping the class, excited that the Toothfairy would be paying him a visit, I was surprised to see him throw the tooth straight into the bin. And so ensued a wildly animated description of the winged money giver as I flitted around, re-enacting her daily work.

Hopes to abort the handshakes were scuppered when the aforementioned boy firmly attached himself to one hand, while another boy, who I'd earlier seen sneezing a huge lump of green stuff into his mits, grabbed hold of the other.

A major disinfection operation was undertaken immediately after class.

A further observation of the stereotypical Japanese student is their inability to dress themselves in anything close to suitable attire. If I could speak enough of the language I would highly recommend that parents invest in an English phrase book before taking their offspring shopping ever again.

Wandering into school wearing T-shirts brandishing such slogans as “I want to be loved long time,” and; “Sweet girl, Sweet loving,” is far from appropriate for the classroom and, to put it bluntly, a paedophile’s dream.

Additionally the general attire is suggestive of

a. A blind mother

or

b. A Gok Wan-style ambush en route to school

The prize for the worst dressed child to date goes to a goofy fourth grade elementary boy – or at least I think he’s a boy.

Kitted out in pink and yellow Simon Cowelleqsue chequered trousers, hoiked under the armpits with legs at half-mast, teamed with a shocking pink T-Shirt tucked in tightly at the waist. The look was finished off with shocking pink socks pulled up under the half-mast trousers and dazzlingly white trainers.

What were his parents thinking?

With teeth larger than his head and milk-bottle bottom spectacles, he is geek-chic gone badly wrong. Considering there is no "right" way to achieve the Shoreditch dickhead car crash craze, it may be difficult to imagine just how tragic this poor soul looked.

Tears in the classroom　are　still　commonplace.　At　the　tail　end　of　last　week,

a　perfect　day in one of my favourite elementary schools was tarnished by a very spoilt, and very disruptive 11-year old.

Habitually vocal he deliberately calls out wrong answers, runs riot around the classroom and refuses to speak to me during practice time.

So when he ran out of playing cards, playing Janken Champion (rock, scissors paper) he burst into tears because I asked him if he could ski before surrendering him another card.

One by one his comrades joined forces until the entire class was staring at me with an unnerving presence reminiscent of the children in Wyndham’s ‘Midwich Cuckoos.’

An eerie silence followed, forcing class to finish 15 minutes early and the homeroom teacher to offer a grovelling apology back in the safety of the staff room. I really must learn the Japanese for “Harden the fuck up.”

Junior High offers worse problems, a prime example being highlighted only last week when oral examinations transformed mouthy teenagers into little more than zombies.

Two examples that stand out are the 13-year-old, who I genuinely feared was about to draw a scimitar from beneath her pinafore dress and embark on a full blown slashing rampage, and the third grader who simply stared at me through her thick fringe for a good five minutes, like one possessed until I plucked up the courage to send her back to the classroom, scoring her a big fat zero. Considering her post school-aspirations highly likely consist of securing a checkout job in the Japanese equivalent of the Pound Shop, it is doubtful that a qualification in conversational English is top of her agenda anyway.

Back to the perfect day in my favourite school. Earlier in the day, and teaching “do you have a….various stationary/furniture items" saw children lifting their scissors, pencils, chairs and desks over their heads. At one point I inadvertently cleared the room by asking “do you have a unicycle?” at which point I expected them to reply "no I don't."

Instead, and with dazzling enthusiasm, the classroom vacated as they ran to the shed, returning brandishing their unicycles shouting "yes I do, yes I do."

It is moments like these that, despite their oddities, the children of Japan reduce me to tears. Call it a slip of the frosty exterior, but even on the mornings when I feel like death is nigh, the moment I see their excited faces, carrying their enormous schoolbags, reducing them to no more than human snails, I realise why I get out of bed.

I went to school today and geek chic male was wearing a denim skirt and lace leggings. And the first sign of sunshine and the fat, initially intimidating sixth grade boy, was sporting a pink T-shirt and breasts.

With summer comes some startling surprises.