Halloween in Japan

I was supposed to be Catwoman for Halloween but my costume ended up making me look like a cross between Nacho Libre and a dominatrix.


This is what happens when you slap a costume together at the last minute. My friend Zoe, who is an English teacher in the next town over, emailed me Saturday morning to ask if I had figured out what I was going to wear to the Halloween party that night.

“I was thinking that you should go as Catwoman,” she wrote. “All you have to do is wear something black and I’ll make you a mask like this one.”

She attached a photo to the email.


“Oh my god!” I wrote back. “Let’s do it!”

A few hours later, Zoe showed up at my apartment with some black felt and white thread.


I combed through my closet, trying to find something black and slinky to wear. The best I could come up with was a sleeveless black turtleneck and a pair of spandex cycling tights. It was more sensible than sexy. It was the sort of thing Catwoman might wear if she was riding a bicycle rather than prowling the rooftops.

Zoe managed to whip up a mask in record time. This is me trying on the (almost) finished product.


Once my costume was done, Zoe got dressed up as Pippi Longstocking (she had made her costume weeks ago).


We jumped in the car and drove to Kochi City as fast as we could. Luckily, we didn’t get stopped for speeding, although seeing the expression on the police officer’s face when he pulled us over would have been worth it.

Once we got to Kochi, we found out we’d have to walk about 10 blocks to get to the bar where the party was being held. Walking through the streets in full costume on Halloween weekend wouldn’t faze me in Canada. But here? There were hundreds of people milling around and not one of them was wearing a costume.

I had a sinking feeling we were going to attract a lot of attention once we stepped out of the car. Not only were we foreigners but we were foreigners dressed like we were heading to an S&M club. Zoe had to drag me out of the car like I was a dog on the way to the vet’s office.

Those were the longest 10 blocks of my life. We couldn’t walk two steps without someone pointing and staring at us. We stopped men dead in their tracks. They stood frozen in place, mouths open, eyes popping out of their heads. Once the initial shock wore off, a few of them pulled out their camera phones and snapped pictures of us. Other guys would elbow their friends until the whole group was hooting and hollering.

Who knew all it took to get a little male attention in Japan was to walk through the streets dressed like this?


The stares didn’t stop once we got to the party. Every five minutes a different Japanese guy would stop me and ask me to take a picture with him.

Yes, I’m aware of the irony. One week I’m writing about how hard it is to meet men in Japan and the next week I’m writing about how hard it is to fight them off. I’ll never figure this place out.

So many men, so few balls

Remember when I said Vancouver was the worst place in the world to meet men? I take it back. Rural Japan is way, way worse. I haven’t felt this invisible and ignored since the last time I went to a gay bar.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl who bases her self-worth on her attractiveness to men. But it’s nice to have a little male attention now and then (being hit on by pimply teenage boys and the mayor doesn’t count).

I feel like Quasimodo out here. Men cross the street when they see me coming. Construction workers fall silent and stare down at their boots when I pass by. I could jump up and down in the middle of the road wearing nothing but a bikini and the men would still avert their eyes and run the other way.

I decided to ask the male teachers at my school why Japanese men went out of their way to avoid me. Of course, I had to wait until after several rounds of beer and sake since the male teachers are only brave enough to talk to me when they are completely wasted.

“Why do all the men in this town refuse to speak to me or even look at me?” I asked in broken Japanese once they were properly loaded.

“Japanese are shy!” yelled the 27-year-old social studies teacher. “Japanese man has Samurai soul! Samurai are shy!”

I politely pointed out that a truly shy person wouldn’t be screaming at the top of his lungs in the middle of a restaurant about how shy he was.

His response was to yell even louder. “I WILL BE YOUR BOYFRIEND!” He then drew imaginary circles around his nipples while chanting something that sounded like, “Ling, ling, ling, ling, ling, ling, ling, ling.”

The consensus around the very drunk, very loud, very rowdy and very obnoxious table was that Japanese men are painfully shy.

I realized the only way I was going to get a date in Japan was if I made the first move. Unfortunately, this isn’t as easy as it sounds.

For starters, the married men in this town don’t wear wedding rings. It’s impossible to know who’s single and who isn’t without wasting valuable time. I’d strike up a conversation with a cute guy only to have him say, “My wife is on your volleyball team” or “My son goes to your school.”

Not only is it impossible to tell if a guy is married, it’s equally difficult to tell how old he is.

One night after volleyball practice, I chatted up some cute basketball players who spoke passable English. They weren’t shy at all (that should have been my first clue). After about 10 minutes of flirting, one of them asked me to guess how old he was. I gave him a good, hard look and said 28. It was an honest answer so I couldn’t figure out why they were killing themselves laughing. It turned out they were all 19! I got out of there faster than the bullet train leaves Tokyo.

My luck isn’t much better with foreign men. While spending a weekend in the city, I met a guy from Australia. He was tall and lean with rugged good looks and a wicked sense of humour. We hit it off immediately. He even asked for my phone number and offered to take me surfing. Just when things were looking up, he dropped the bomb and casually mentioned his boyfriend. His boyfriend!

It’s hopeless. I didn’t think my love life could be any more non-existent than it was in Vancouver. How does that old saying go? Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, someone throws you a shovel. Yeah. That about sums it up.

One little monkey sitting in a tree

This is Mana, my supervisor’s daughter. She is the cutest kid I have ever met.

Mana is everything a seven-year-old girl should be -- mischievous, curious, happy, brave, energetic, uninhibited, innocent, funny and impossibly adorable.

I love taking her picture and she loves hamming it up for the camera.

We went hiking on the weekend, climbing to the top of a 6,000-foot mountain (yes, a seven-year-old kid hiked 6,000 feet and didn’t complain once. Not only is she cute, she’s tough as nails!).

We took a break for lunch near the top. I pulled out my camera to take Mana’s picture but she stopped me.

“Wait!” she said (in Japanese).

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she dipped her fingers in ketchup and then smeared it all over her face and shirt.

“Okay,” she said, giggling hysterically. “Now you can take my picture!”

Christmas in Borneo!

I finally booked my Christmas vacation this week. Two weeks trekking through the steaming jungles of Borneo! Exciting! And a little scary too (there are giant cockroaches, poisonous centipedes, blood-thirsty leeches and malaria-carrying mosquitoes in Borneo).

I spent the past month poring over a map of Asia, trying to figure out where to go during the Christmas break.

The possibilities were endless. I could lay on a beach in Thailand or go biking in Bali. I could walk along the Great Wall of China or soak up South Korea’s nightlife. I could ride the rails in Vietnam or visit the temples in Cambodia.

I couldn’t decide. I was torn between Vietnam and Bali. But every time I’d study the map, my eyes would drift down to Borneo. Of all the places in Southeast Asia, Borneo seemed the most exotic. But I realized the only reason I felt that way was because I knew almost nothing about Borneo. So I googled it. One website led to another and before I knew it, I had spent fours hours glued to the computer screen, utterly captivated by Borneo.

I suddenly realized that Borneo was exactly where I wanted to go. It sounded like a nature-lover’s paradise. We’re talking thousands upon thousands of different species of trees, plants, animals and insects. (There are 1,200 different species of wild orchids alone!)

There are elephants, rhinos, leopards, monkeys, orangutans, bearded pigs, giant flying squirrels and monster bats (some with a wingspan of more than four feet!). Oh, yes, and HUGE cockroaches. Did you know Borneo is home to the biggest cockroaches in the world? Fascinating! And terrifying!

I was drunk on the idea spending a couple of weeks in the jungles of Borneo. So I bought a plane ticket and booked a spot with a reputable ecotourism company the very next day. The tour takes us into national parks, up untamed rivers, through deep canyons, into massive caves and to the tops of mountains. I am so excited!

Just another surreal day at the office

Although I am technically employed in Japan as an English teacher, that doesn’t really explain what I do here. I’m not so much an English teacher as I am a follower of bizarre orders.

Give a speech in Japanese! Play baseball with the boys! Sweep the floor! Answer personal questions! Wear polyester track pants! Sing karaoke with the principal!

The latest order? Transcribe the lyrics of an obscure ‘80s song. This had nothing to do with teaching English through music. This was a personal favour for one of the teachers looking to expand her karaoke repertoire.

In true Japanese fashion, she went about giving me the order in the most tentative and indirect way possible. She approached me between classes and asked me what kind of music I liked. I listed off a few bands. She smiled and nodded politely. But I could tell she wasn’t really interested. She was only asking me what kind of music I liked so that I would ask her the same question in return. I took the bait, walking right into her carefully laid trap.

“Oh, I love ‘80s music,” she gushed. She ran over to her desk, grabbed four ‘80s CDs and placed them in my hands. Japanese etiquette required me to “ooh” and “ahh” over the CDs for several minutes.

She took a CD from the pile, flipped it over and read the list of songs out loud.

“Which song is your favourite?” she asked.

I pointed to track 4, “Cum Feel the Noise” by Quiet Riot. She smiled and nodded politely. Once again, she waited expectantly for me to ask her the same question in return. So I did.

She pointed to track 11, “Overnight Success” by Teri DeSario. She explained it was a great song but for some reason the lyrics were missing from the CD booklet. She finally blurted out the question she was dying to ask me.

“Could you listen to the song and write down the lyrics?” she asked.

I agreed, thinking she was asking me to do this as a favour in my spare time. But she wanted the lyrics immediately.

“Now is okay?” she asked. If she thought this was an appropriate way to while away the working hours, who was I to argue?

She led me down the hallway to a small office and closed the door behind us. She ushered me over to a desk that was already set up with a pen, some paper and a CD player.

She stood beside me and played the song, pressing pause after every line. For those of you who have never heard the song “Overnight Success,” here are some of the more profound lyrics:

An overnight success. You hold the key to your happiness.
An overnight success. You have the power to rise above the rest. Yeah.

I put the lyrics down on paper while the teacher hummed and sang along, mangling the words beyond recognition. (Yes, hard-working people of Japan, this is how your tax dollars are being spent.)

Unfortunately, the music teacher caught wind of our little project and asked me to come to his class to teach the students how to sing “We are the World.”

I tried to explain that I transcribe bad ‘80s music, not sing it. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer and so I found myself standing in front of 30 slack-jawed 15-year-olds, singing “We are the World.”

Thanks to my new reputation as an authority on ‘80s music, one of the Japanese English teachers thought it would be a great idea to begin class by singing “Karma Chameleon.” And so, for the second time in one day, I found myself standing in front of 30 slack-jawed 15-year-olds, singing an ‘80s song.

This may sound like hell to some people but it’s heaven to me. I love the absurdity of it all. The more surreal it gets, the happier I am. I like to think of myself as a proud follower of bizarre orders first and an English teacher second.

Strombo.com

George Stroumboulopoulos finally has his own website!

It’s a great little place, filled with George’s musings, music and links. Although the site isn’t affiliated with the CBC, it has the same flavour as The Hour -- snippets of information served with a dollop of straight-up, in-your-face irreverence. Yummy!

There’s also a link to my blog on Strombo’s homepage. Which is very flattering but also very weird because my blog is grouped in with a list of esteemed news outlets. The Guardian, Chicago Tribune, Washington Post, New York Times and . . . Hollywood North? Yup. One of these things is most definitely not like the others.

I should probably apologize to the innocent victims who clicked on the link and landed here looking for something informative or insightful. This isn’t that kind of place. This is just a blog written by a Canadian girl living in rural Japan. It's filled with pages of random thoughts on such gripping topics as swimming, politics, pop culture, cycling, guys and life in general. Mostly I just whine about being single and how hard it is to find quality men.

Feel free to make yourselves comfortable and take a look around. Maybe you’ll find something you like. Maybe you won't.

As for Strombo’s site, I'm adding it to my list of favourites and visiting often!

I'm the Leah McLaren of Japan!

In addition to being an English teacher, I am now also a newspaper columnist. I have my own column in the local newspaper. My own column! I’m the Leah McLaren of Japan!

I have complete freedom to write about whatever I want. The only catch is that my articles are translated into Japanese so I have no idea how closely the finished product resembles the original.

I used my first column (pictured above) to introduce myself. But, really, it was mostly just a desperate plea for friends: “Hi. I’m Sarah. If you see me around town, please stop and say hi. Talk to me. Please! Someone! Anyone!”

I’m thinking of taking a more serious approach towards my second column. I’d like to explore some of the over-riding social and political issues in rural Japan. Like the dire shortage of hot, young, single guys in my town. Or why married men don’t wear wedding rings.

Cheeky questions

The students at my junior high school are a contradictory bunch. They’re too shy to speak up in class but they’re not afraid to ask me some pretty bold questions.

I get the same questions every time I visit a new class: Do you have a boyfriend? Do you prefer older or younger men? What’s your type? Am I your type? Which teacher do you think is the most handsome? Do you think I’m handsome? How old are you? How much do you weigh? How tall are you? Are you wearing makeup right now? Do you like beer?

Instead of bailing me out, the Japanese English teacher forces me to answer these questions in front of the entire class.

For example, when one 14-year-old boy asked if I thought he was handsome, the Japanese teacher walked behind his desk, scooped her hands under his armpits, yanked him up out of his seat and marched him (kicking and screaming) towards me.

She stood behind him, clamped her hands down on his shoulders and said, “Look at this boy. Look deep into his eyes.”

[She paused here so that I could look deep into his eyes, which was impossible to do since his eyes were darting all over the place.]

“Do you think he’s handsome? Is he your type?”

Now, there’s no way to answer this without getting into trouble. If I said “yes,” I risked coming across as a pedophile. If I said “no,” I risked crushing the poor kid. I had a split second to choose between being a pervert and being cruel.

“Well, he’s very handsome,” I said. “But, um, he’s a little young for me.”

Bullet dodged. Jail term avoided. Cougar reputation solidified.

And then we move on to less delicate topics, like my weight. Fun!

I brake for soccer-playing pandas

I love the road signs in this town. They make me feel like I’m living in a zoo. My favourite sign is the one warning drivers to watch out for pandas playing soccer in the middle of the street.


A little further up the road is a sign that urges drivers to brake for chicks wearing little yellow hats.


I also like this sign posted by the “poop police.” The mug shot of the dog is a nice touch.


I’m not sure what this next sign means. It’s either warning people not to hang glide near the power lines or it’s an ad for a hang gliding company. (Hang gliding! Power lines! Fun!)

Undokai!

My school held its annual undokai (sports day) this weekend. Undokai is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

It’s a huge event and everyone takes it very seriously. Maybe a little too seriously. I saw two students almost come to blows during practice last week. One boy started screaming and lunging at another boy who he felt wasn’t trying hard enough. Two teachers had to jump in and pull them apart before the punches started flying. I also saw a few girls crying during dance practice because they couldn’t get the steps right.

These kids have been under an incredible amount of pressure during the past two months. This is no touchy-feely “let’s just try our best and have fun” sports day. The only thing that matters here is winning. It matters so much that some of these kids even spent their summer vacation at school, practicing for sports day.

I’m not sure what to think about this emphasis on perfection. It doesn’t seem healthy. But, at the same time, all of their hard work makes for some incredible performances. It’s inspiring to see these kids compete at such a high level but I can’t help but feel there’s a darker undercurrent at play. They seem to be driven not by joy but by a fear of failure. I’m not saying it’s good or bad. It’s just different.

Whether I agree with it or not, all of their hard work paid off. It was an impressive day from start to finish. The students were divided into four teams (red, white, blue and yellow) and competed in all of the events as a group. There were no individual stars.


There were all sorts of different events, ranging from the ordinary (100-metre sprint, three-legged race, tug of war) to the bizarre (parents whipping the students around on a giant bamboo pole).

One of the most entertaining events was what can only be described as the "tire grab." A bunch of old car tires were placed in the middle of the field. Two teams lined up behind white lines on opposite sides of the field. When the whistle blew, each team ran to the middle of the field and tried to grab as many tires as they could, by any means possible. Punching, hitting, kicking, tackling and stealing were all fair game.

I would like to say that I just sat back and watched. But I was forced to participate. Not in the tire grab. Worse. In the 800-metre run. For some reason, girls are not allowed to run the 800 but they made an exception for me. Which means I had to race against the boys, including the male gym teachers.

Luckily, I’m a good sport. So I did it. I ran the 800 in front of all the students, all of their parents and pretty much the entire town. I’m happy to report that I did not come in dead last. I came in second last. I passed a nerdy kid who was dying in the last 100 metres.

Here’s a photo of me running the 800. This is either at the start of the race or near the end when everyone lapped me. Yes, a bunch of 13-year-old boys and one chain-smoking gym teacher lapped me. After almost two months in Japan, public humiliation no longer fazes me.


Some of the sports were judged, such as dancing and cheering. These were the main events and they were the ones that the students worked night and day to perfect. The girls danced.


And the boys did this. I have no idea what it’s called.


Despite the pressure, most of the kids seemed to be having fun. They were screaming and cheering for their teams and were happy to pose for pictures. The kids in the black suits and white gloves are the captains of the cheering squads.


It was a fun day but I’m sort of glad it’s over. I haven’t been teaching much during the past two weeks because most of my time at school has been spent sitting around watching the students practice. I think the kids are secretly relieved it’s over too.

I no longer hate volleyball

I never thought I’d say this but I’m actually starting to like volleyball. Trust me, no one is more surprised by this ironic turn of events than I am.

Up until a few weeks ago, I was a hardcore volleyball hater. Now, I’m buying kneepads so I can dive for the ball like everyone else.

Why the sudden flip-flop? It’s simple, really. The more I play, the better I get. The better I get, the more I enjoy it. I hardly even notice the forearm pain anymore.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no superstar. I still suck. I mean, I’m so bad my teammates banned me from playing in a tournament last week. But, even so, they’re still some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Either that or I’ve got a serious case of Stockholm syndrome.

I think my teammates started to warm up to me when they realized I wasn’t going to give up and walk away. (Finally! People who appreciate my stubbornness!)

I scored a few bonus points when they found out I spent two hours on the train for the sole purpose of buying kneepads at the “local” sports store. They also found out about my secret training on Wednesday nights (turns out there is no secret anything in this town).

But the real turning point came on Saturday night when my teammates invited me out for drinks.


This wasn’t your average night out with the volleyball team. This was a "welcome party" in my honour. One of the girls baked a cake. One of the guys made dinner. Everyone was fun and friendly and went out of their way to make me feel like a part of the team.

Halfway through the night, two of the guys pulled out a pair of guitars and announced they had spent the past three weeks practicing a Canadian song to welcome me. They sat down at the front of the room, plugged in a mike, set up a sheet of music and started playing Neil Young’s Harvest Moon.


Here were two guys who could barely speak English and yet they had gone to all the trouble to learn how to play (and sing) Harvest Moon. Just for me. It was such a kind and thoughtful gesture I wanted to cry. How could I hate volleyball after that?

It’s ironic how a sport that once filled me with fear and loathing has now become the highlight of my week. Believe it or not, I’m actually starting to like volleyball!

Waiting for the typhoon to hit

A major typhoon is about to slam into my town. The outer edge of it has already arrived, bringing torrential rain and howling wind. The windows in my apartment sound like they’re about to rattle right out of their frames.

I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do. I’m all alone. Should I barricade myself inside a closet in case the windows explode? Oh my god. Oh my god. The wind is insane. It's picking up speed. It’s getting louder and louder. I have never heard wind like this before. And the typhoon hasn’t even hit yet.

Holy crap. The utility poles are shaking. The power lines look like they’re going to snap. Stuff is blowing off my balcony. Okay, I’m really scared now.

UPDATE: Well, I survived my first typhoon. Others were not so lucky. At least 10 people are dead and a gust of wind even lifted a train from the tracks. Apparently, typhoons are pretty common and generally not a big deal. But this one was scary.

A "typical" day

06:30: Wake up. Get out of bed.

06:32: Scan the bathroom for cockroaches. See one lurking behind the soap dish. Scream. Run out of the bathroom. Grab the vacuum cleaner. Chase the cockroach around the apartment until it finds a hiding spot the vacuum cleaner can’t reach. Am fully awake now.

06:35: Shower. Turn the gas line on. Hold down the knob on top of the shower heater while turning the crank on the side of the heater. Bend over and look inside the little window on the bottom of the heater to make sure there is a flame. Keep turning the crank until a fire is lit. Turn the shower on. Shiver violently under a steady stream of cold water.

06:45: Get dressed. Wear newly purchased ghetto outfit in order to fit in at school where all of the teachers wear polyester tracksuits.

06:50: Eat breakfast. Make toast by putting slices of bread on the fish grill, as there is no toaster or oven in my apartment.

07:00: Watch Japanese morning “news” on the one channel my TV actually gets. The top story is almost always about baseball, usually the heroic feats of some guy named Matsui. This is followed by a report about a horrific traffic accident somewhere. The rest of the “news” consists of press conferences with American celebrities on tour in Japan.

07:45: Bike to school. Bow to the grannies along the way.

08:20: Attend the staff meeting, which is conducted entirely in Japanese. Try not to look too confused.

08:30: Teach English. I usually teach four classes a day, alongside a Japanese English teacher. I am based at a public junior high school where the students range in age from 12 to 15. Some of them spend the class asleep at their desks; others talk with their friends. Apparently, this is all perfectly acceptable classroom behaviour. Last week, I watched one kid turn around and squeeze the blackheads out of his friend’s nose for five minutes while the Japanese teacher carried on like nothing was happening. Of course, there are loads of kids who are enthusiastic about speaking English. There are even a few who like to scream my name down the hallway. When I’m not in class, I sit at my desk in the staff room, study Japanese and inhale second-hand smoke.

12:40: Eat lunch. The school serves up a hot lunch every day (usually rice, fish and vegetables). The students eat lunch in the classroom. Two students from each class put on hospital scrubs, surgeon’s masks and hairnets, and serve lunch to the other students while elevator music blasts over the loudspeakers.

15:30: Clean the school. The school shuts down for 15 minutes every day so the students and teachers can clean it from top to bottom. The principal blasts frantic classical music over the loudspeakers. His favourite song is Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, which always makes me feel like I’m in the middle of that famous scene from Apocalypse Now. But instead of machine guns, everyone is running around with brooms, mops and rags ready to wage war on dirt and dust.

16:40: School ends. However, almost all of the students and teachers will stick around for another few hours for sports practice. These kids are mind-blowingly good at sports. They take it very, very, very seriously. I peeked in on the girls’ volleyball team and my jaw hit the ground. Each and every one of them was practically an Olympic caliber athlete. Same goes for the judo team, the softball team, the track team. It’s absolutely incredible to watch. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. They train with military precision. There are no breaks. Drills are repeated again and again and again until the kids get it right. Anything less than perfection is unacceptable. This rigorous training probably explains why so many kids are asleep at their desks during the day.

18:00: Bike home. Bow to the grannies along the way. Make dinner. Watch the evening “news” on TV, followed by Full House dubbed in Japanese.

19:30: Bike back to school for volleyball practice with the locals.

20:00: Play volleyball for two hours. Suffer incredible forearm pain and soul-destroying humiliation.

22:30: Bike home. Scan the bathroom for cockroaches. Shower. Crawl into bed. Wake up eight hours later. Repeat.

Super size my ass

I had my first real taste of culture shock the other night.

I went into town to buy a pair of baggy, knee-length shorts to exercise in because the spandex shorts I brought with me are too tight and too short for rural Japan.

I browsed the racks for about 15 minutes before I found a pair of shorts that were both regulation length and relatively stylish (“relative” being the operative word here).

I grabbed a small-sized pair to try on since all the women in this town keep telling me how “slim” I am. Seriously. They are obsessed with my weight. I hear “You are so slim!” at least three times a day.

They eye me up and down, smiling and nodding approvingly while I squirm with embarrassment. After about five minutes of this, one of them will finally say, “You. Have. Nice. Body!” It’s both flattering and creepy.

So I could be forgiven for assuming I would be able to fit into a small-sized pair of shorts. But when I tried the shorts on, I couldn’t get them up past my knees. They were so small I had to double-check to make sure I hadn’t grabbed a pair of child’s shorts by mistake.

The same thing happened when I tried on a medium pair. So I tried on a large pair. This time I was able to get the shorts up past my knees but not past my hips. So I tried on an extra-large pair. And the shorts still didn’t fit! They were stretched so tightly against my butt the seams were about to split.

All I could think was “My ass is XXL? Are you kidding me?”

Adding insult to injury, the store didn’t even carry XXL shorts. So I ended up buying a (large) pair of spandex yoga pants instead because, apparently, I can only fit into clothes that are made of stretchy material with an elastic waistband.

Like I said, it was my first real taste of culture shock.

Going buggy

So far, there are only two downsides to living in rural Japan. One is being forced to play volleyball. The other is being forced to deal with the bugs.

The bugs here are not like the bugs in Canada. These bugs are absolute monsters. They are big and hairy and have teeth and fangs. They slither down from the mountains at night and crawl in through the cracks in the walls.

My voice is hoarse from screaming every time I see a cockroach in my apartment. I can’t help it. They’re always sneaking up on me when I least expect it. The blur of a brown thing with skinny legs and long feelers zooming up the wall or scurrying across the floor makes me jump out of my skin.

I can’t suppress the screaming even though I know I should since I live on top of the town library and my ear-splitting screams probably terrify everyone quietly reading their books below.

But I’m taking steps to deal with the bug problem. I have set up several roach traps in my apartment (one is at the foot of my mattress in case any of the little bastards try to crawl into bed with me while I am sleeping).

I also have the vacuum cleaner plugged in and at the ready at all times. My makeshift bug-killing machine ruthlessly sucks up any cockroach, beetle, centipede or spider that dares enter my apartment. (I also keep a towel stuffed in the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner when it’s turned off just in case any of the bugs try to crawl back out.)

The creatures are omnipresent. You don’t just see them; you can hear them at all times. The cicadas scream all day. The crickets chirp all night. The frogs croak in the rice fields. And I am always hearing little scuffling sounds in my apartment. Or at least I think I am. Either way, I am going completely buggy.