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ONara: Four Years of Misadventures in Rural Japan
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About ONara: Four Years Of Misadventures In Rural Japan
The surrounding tables looked on, some attempting to maintain propriety with not-so-subtle sidelong glances but most blatantly staring. But the stares had become familiar. I had enlisted in the Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Programme immediately out of college for lack of a better (that is to say, any) plan, and I was now the only living proof many residents of my small town had of the existence of blonde hair, blue eyes, or, indeed, foreigners. My Scandinavian features and purely functional Japanese branded me as an outsider and curiosity to anyone with eyes and/or ears. Yes, the stares were familiar, almost comforting, after my four years here. Less comforting, I thought as I stared into the empty eyes of what the bartender assured me was once an unfortunate sparrow, was how often I asked myself the question “do I bite off the head and get it over with or eat the whole thing in one go? These rousing games of “will the foreigner eat it?” were, if not enjoyable, at least a good icebreaker and a free meal. Some trials were less benign, such as dodging the stealthy kancho attacks of elementary students (akin to violent and surprise prostate exams) or parrying the passive-aggressive jabs from my professional nemesis, the Evil Office Lady. But aside from these annoyances, Japan was overflowing with opportunity for adventure. I threw soybeans at demons, sand at total strangers, and cookies at enraged monkeys. I repeatedly ran in Okayama’s infamous Naked Man festival, froze atop Mt. Fuji, and conquered the deadly Ramen Challenge. I found international comradery in the mutual hatred of the hideous local mascot, Sento-kun, and quiet contentment in curating my three-digit Kit-Kat collection. I witnessed one principal cook a four-course meal with only electricity, and another drunkenly impersonate a cicada (and, if you are not familiar, cicada do not wear clothes). After years of triumphs and defeats (with far more of the latter), I’d cultivated a sense of belonging that
