My bog blog
Before coming to
In reality, being dumped in the middle of the mountains on a Japanese road to nowhere, there is an over-riding ignorance to all things cyber.
For example in school last week I explained the concept of speaking to my parents over Skype. All eyes were glued as teachers and students alike looked on with awe as Ellie the Messiah, prophesised of a future not yet known to Japan-kind.
Internet modems take preference over wireless and it takes three months and five home visits to establish a connection. And my modem has an irritating and inexplicable tendency to wish me good morning at 5.30 every day, weekends and bank holidays inclusive.
They were fucking good mornings before I was rudely awakened by an overly zealous Japanese woman with a suspect helium addiction. However the situation has now been rectified by pulling the plug on these rude awakenings before retiring onto my sweat-stained futon.
A cash culture, there's no pay by card option and most machines charge the equivalent of a pint of lager to draw out my not so hard earned cash. Except for the sporadically available free machines, which close for the majority of the weekend, when the beer piggy bank is at its driest.
Despite all this, the one thing which I find completely unfathomable is the toilets.
Holes in the ground, more commonly known as “squat toilets” are a popular choice for the Japanese. Attempting to balance precariously, while weeing and wiping is a task only accomplishable by those with the stamina of an Olympic gymnast and years of target practice. And wiping front to back is an issue us western girls battle with daily.
Toilet slippers are mandatory in most indoor venues including bars, restaurants and schools.
Having made a vow to never, under any circumstances whatsoever, set foot in a pair of Crocs, I was left greatly disparaged after being forced to break this oath with a urine soaked pair of the offensive items.
Sadly it seems this diabolical choice of footwear has monopolised squatters Japan-wide and a trip to the toilet has, for me, become little more than foot rape.
At a festival back in April, a squatting virgin, slightly beer addled and kitted out in tan pleather boots, I reemerged from a trip to relieve myself with visible flashback.
Worse came for my friend Lucy who peed all over her trousers at school first thing in the morning. Forced to spend the rest of the day smelling like a Wetherspoons regular, she now removes her trousers and socks before tackling the squatter.
After a close encounter with a mosquito, my knees and ankles swelled up to catastrophic proportions, forcing me to move around like a wind up robot for more than three days. This led to nil by mouth at school after a failed attempt to squat saw me making like a dog, weeing sideways on, and almost ripping the plumbing clean off the wall in an attempt to hoist myself upright.
At the other end of the spectrum, there is a range of Western toilets making an appearance in hotels, supermarkets and the occasional school. These are far from ordinary. Mostly located next door to their poo-stained predecessors, they are a sight to behold and predominantly cause, out of nowhere, a chorus of angels to flit into my head and sing hallelujah in harmony.
Sporting heated seats, bum washes, and a “how to use” diagram of a satisfied cherub, taking full advantage of a power jet clean straight up his microscopic bumhole, pasted alongside, they are work of sheer genius.
In training week, we all had our own unique experiences with these washes. Scott, who claims to be good at pretty much everything, perfected it first time. I got the pressure and heat very wrong, burnt my backside and splashed a copious amount of water up the hotel mirror and Lucy stood up before the jet had stopped, soaking the bathroom entirely.
In one school, excitedly, a teacher came running up to me with great news of a revelation she had made since my last visit. She proceeded to lead me by the hand to a western toilet that she had stumbled upon by chance, in a happening on a par with the moment Lucy discovers the magical powers of the wardbrobe in the Chronicles of Narnia. Even better there were no wee-stained crocs lined up outside. I never thought it would make my day to be introduced to a WC.
But sometimes the Japanese do get it very wrong. I was shown to one futuristic loo, which was crammed into a room so small that it was impossible to sit down, or hover. On the verge of having an accident, I tried my best but couldn’t avoid the inevitable as wee splashed all down my thighs. Thank goodness for the inbuilt power hose.
However, there is a flaw in the design mechanism of these gifts from the heavens.
With no visible off-switch, the seats stay heated 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. In summer, it can get very hot and going to the toilet is no longer a pleasant experience but more akin to walking straight into the fiery pits of hell. Especially if someone who has had a heavy night on the beer, has deposited their load before you.
Providing no insulation, the houses are made out of little more than paper, there is no central heating, people insulate their homes with bubble-wrap and winters in the mountains can see more than a metre of snow falling and settling for many weeks.
The only refuge is the heated toilet and entire families have duly been known to close the lid, pop on a table cloth and eat dinner around it.
In classrooms children and teachers sit shivering, aching and awaiting the first stages of pneumonia, followed by almost certain death.
Yet the toilets are as warm as a newborn cow.
The mind truly BOGgles. See what I did there?
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