So far I have to say that Japan isn’t so much as visiting a different country as it is falling off the planet onto an entirely new one. The general rule is as follows: everything you know that is good and familiar has to be twisted in some way.
If that something isn’t, than it doesn’t matter, you’re still creeped out by the fact you stumbled on something entirely normal, of course of which follows a meticulous inspection of the object to make sure you’re not already losing your mind.
Yes, naturally you know I’m talking about the corn flakes on ice cream (actually not a bad combination when you get used to it) or how a toy store provocatively advertises the newest loli-dating sim. Thus is the land of the rising sun, where bizarre and normal live together in harmony. Results are usually inordinately ridiculous.
That said, yesterday was the opening ceremony of the school I’m attending, and also my first encounter with the crafty gaijin hunter. This particular school is about 70% female, entirely focused on teaching foreign languages, and the third most expensive daigaku in Japan to fund their near-mandatory exchange program. As such, a lot of students there go to see gaijin, some for the first time (which I was shocked to find out—and might be a lie).
But I wouldn’t be that surprised. According to the city ledger, only 3% of the entire population of the city is non-Japanese. I’ve never been stared at before, but a trip on the subway quickly amends that. I could feel every single eye in that car bore into me the moment I got on. Now I understand how celebrities feel.
Or maybe zoo animals. The only problem is this is the wild, and there are people who want your soul. These are called the Gaijin Hunters. They might seem friendly and nice at first, but beneath that hides their insidious intention: to have your baby.
As J, a friend from my university also studying abroad here explained to me, “They’re here to get the M.R.S. Degree.”
“What is the M.R.S. degree?”
“It’s an associates certificate in terms of wedding vows.”
“Oh.”
You have you understand, “N” university is a private school. Unlike in America, private schools are generally looked down upon in Japan. They are for those who fail college entrance exams to public universities and thus have to pay more for an education here.
That said, I’m not talking bad about any of the students here, a lot of them are close friends. However, it means that there is certainly a large population of underachievers (the hip-hop dance club is the largest club in the school).
I was told that the guys actually looking for girlfriends here would have no problem—and I took that with a grain of salt. But they were absolutely right. Immediately the Gaijin Hunters were out in full force at the opening ceremony for exchange students.
Hapless foreigners, unaware of the danger that laid before them and lured by the promise of food, which was quite good though cold (beware of the octopus balls), were led like lambs to the slaughter. What followed could only be described as a massacre. A massacre at the hands of 4’10 ichinensei (first years) with side-pony tails and looking probably younger than they did in high school.
Seriously. The floor had been relatively empty before the non-foreign students arrived, but by the end of it, it was so packed every other word was “Oh! Sumimasen!” (Sorry!). The pride leaders went for the best kills while relegating the less attractive girls to the remains.
Luckily I was with my Japanese friends (which screams off-limits to all but the most daring of the gaijin hunters), but at one point I made a fatal mistake.
I had been spared most of the afternoon, dodging the flanked attacks as they came, but I let my guard down. I should have known better.
There was a girl who looked dead-on like someone we had met the other night (called Tomoko). I yelled out her name and waved, but immediately I knew something was wrong in my gut. The girl, with her dyed red hair, short skirt, and thick eye make-up saw it as a signal to come over. Quickly I realized that this was not Tomoko, as her expression twisted into confusion when I referred to her by name.
“Oname wa nan desu ka?” (What is your name?)
“Sakura desu” (My name is Sakura)
Oh shit. I just invited a gaijin hunter willingly, almost gleefully into a conversation that could very well spell the end of my time here. I could see her eye glitter when I told her my name and she imprinted it onto her memory to yell at me across campus on some dark day to come.
But luckily J was to my rescue. J, an American guy, like me hadn’t packed formal clothes for the trip. Unlike me, he borrowed his while I bought mine, and thus he was stuck with pants much too small (and short), bright pink socks, dirty basketball shoes, and a bright pink polo. Further, he had tucked his pants into his socks (much to our amusement), thus creating probably the most hideous outfit this girl had ever seen in her life.
Using his entrance as a distraction, I told her I had mistook her for someone else (which in hindsight, she probably didn’t understand as I said it hurriedly in English), and we made a hasty exit.
I knew it wouldn’t be my last encounter with the gaijin hunters, but I had escaped with my life, if only barely.
Home 1. Gaijin Hunters 0.
