February 2000


Mushi Mushi:
the Insects of Japan		  
One of the benefits, or some might argue, downright disadvantages, of Japan's steamy, stiflingly hot summers is that they allow a superabundance of insect species to thrive, delighting the eye, or making an unutterable nuisance of themselves.
In Japanese, 'insect' roughly translates as 'mushi', but the term also encompasses spiders, centipedes, woodlice and other assorted creepy-crawlies with more than six legs. During my last six-month stay in Osaka, I did meet a number of insects, but we weren't formally introduced. I was so impressed with them that I decided to write this article.
The Nice Guys
I'll start with the more sociable insects. In the early-summer rainy season, or tsuyu, the rare, bright sunny days draw out flocks of dragonflies, a variety of gorgeous chocho (butterflies), including tiger-striped swallowtails, stately burnt-orange monarchs, tiny blues, pale clouded-yellows, and huge, jewel-like, sky-blue and black butterflies (whose name escapes me). The day-flying moths are no less spectacular, some being big enough to pass for major-league butterflies. The Japanese word for moth is 'ga', leading to the awful pun 'ga desu ga', or 'it's a moth but. . .'. Perhaps Godzilla's sworn enemy, Mothra, was inspired by one of these monster moths. Anyway, Japanese moths also come in smaller sizes: micro-moths, clothes moths, hawk moths, tiger moths, and any other variety that you can think of.
Japanese woodlice are known as 'marumushi', or 'round bugs', because, very sensibly, they roll up into pea-sized balls when disturbed. Japan can be a stressful country, and its woodlice no doubt face the same problems as its urban human inhabitants: cramped accommodation, a lack of privacy, and a demanding work schedule. No wonder they assume a foetal position when feeling particularly harassed.
On to beetles. They aren't particularly nice, but then they're not particularly nasty either. They're just very good at scaring the hell out of you as they whirr past your head. The formidable kabutomushi take their name from the kabuto, or samurai head-dress -- a reference to their helmet-like shape. The koganemushi, or golden bugs, have carapaces of bright emerald-green and burnished copper. I came across a dead one lying outside the Sayama house, so I brought it inside, thinking that I would draw it. I stuck it in a box with my pencils, and promptly forgot about it, until, a month later, I accidentally unearthed its desiccated body, and nearly jumped out of my skin.

Semi are cicadas. They're especially active, and annoying, in mid-summer. The larval semi
hibernates underground, where it metamorphoses into an adult. Tree seedlings have occasionally been found growing on the snoozing semi, a warning against sleeping too deeply. In early July, the semi emerge from their dark hiding-places, spread their green gauzy wings, and start to make one hell of a racket. Their dawn chorus is particularly rowdy. How one insect can make so much noise (it sounds like someone trying to play a comb, badly) by the simple expedient of rubbing its legs together, must rank up there with one of life's unsolved mysteries. A whole orchestra of the things is enough to drive anyone mildly crazy. Just remember to sleep upstairs during the semi season.
Despite their numbers, sooner or later, semi are doomed. Most of them die shortly after mating and depositing their eggs. Young children are told not to catch cicadas because the insects won't live long in captivity. Indeed, when I did manage to ambush my own semi, the resulting madly irritating psychotic buzzsaw impression made me drop it immediately. After all, how would you feel if your romantic endeavours were interrupted in such manner?
Not-So-Nice Mushi
I'll start in reverse order, with the least unpleasant creatures first. Japanese ants look much like British ants, but they operate on a much larger scale. Up in the mountains I observed a seemingly endless column of ants snaking across a disused road. The distance from the head of the column to the point where the ants were emerging from the dense roadside vegetation, must have been a full seventy metres. I wondered why the ants were marching in such a bare dry area, exposed to the view of any number of predators. But then it dawned on me that they actually found it easier to travel on such a smooth flat surface, and that they were actively following the road, rather than crossing it. How long the column was, and how many individuals it contained, I could only speculate, but I ruled out sitting down in the immediate vicinity.
To the unfortunate human, ants are a minor plague in Japan. As I have already implied, it's difficult to sit down in a park or woodland without being investigated by at least several ants. They also seek sanctuary in Japanese houses, which is a bad idea. One afternoon my boyfriend's mother announced that she had bought me a mouth-watering apple pasty for lunch. I looked forward to eating it the next day. The time came, and she brought out the pasty from a kitchen cupboard, tearing open the wrapper. Out crawled a platoon of ten ants. It transpired that the ants had sneakily entered the cupboard, attracted by the sugar in the pasty. Ants adore sugar. We had to clean out and fumigate the whole cupboard. Ants are a pain, full stop. But the white variety, termites, are even worse -- they actually eat traditional Japanese wooden houses. Imagine trying to claim that on your buildings insurance.
Working up the unpleasantness scale, we have mosquitoes. At least they don't spread disease in Japan, thank god, but they nevertheless manage to make themselves as irritating as possible. They're most active from mid-June to the end of September, which means that no picnic is complete without them. Among the many and varied layers that make up a Japanese window, there is usually a slide-back mesh mosquito screen. Despite this, some mozzies still manage to get into the house one way or another: through the front door as you go in and out; through holes and tears in the mosquito screen itself; or, if you come from a country where mosquitoes are not endemic, e.g. Britain, because you've foolishly left the window open and not used the screen, or you feel, recklessly, that you need fresh air, or to see a view now and again. Sometimes you will hear a high-pitched whining close to your ear. Sometimes you will feel a prickling sensation, and look down at your leg to find a red spot, which will itch like crazy for the next few days. Small kids in Japan have virtual craters on their legs from mosquito bites. Anyway, you get red weals on your arms and legs -- that's nothing -- things could be much, much worse.
But we've missed out one vital component of the Japanese insect fauna -- the humble cockroach, otherwise known as 'aburamushi' (greasy bug) or 'gokiburi'. Because cockroaches are so common in Japan, there really is no escape besides bug-bombing your flat at regular intervals (remember to leave before the bombs take effect). Before moving into our flat in Sakai, we brought along several boxes of exquisite Japanese crockery: rice bowls, miso soup bowls, plates, sauce bowls, etc. We left them in the empty flat for a couple of weeks. When we finally moved in, we opened up one of the boxes, and out scuttled a huge, hairy cockroach. It was promptly sprayed with insecticide, but it took a full five minutes of frantic struggling before it finally departed this earth. (The next time I used the sole of a slipper to despatch a roach -- it's more humane. I believe that Japanese slippers exist for just this purpose.) After exterminating the offending roach, our next stop was the all-night chemist, where we purchased a supply of roach motels, with the apology: 'zannen desu ga' ('it's a pity but there it is).
Roach motels are cardboard shelters containing a wrapped pile of bait (probably bran pellets which the roaches can 'smell'). The base is impregnated with ultrastrong glue, so that the roach's visit to the motel is likely to be permanent. Believe me, those motels work. I just don't like inspecting them for casualties. They do pose one peculiar hazard, however. The French couple next door had two hamsters. The smaller one decided to make a bid for freedom, and found itself glued to the floor of a roach motel, screeching furiously. Luckily, its owners were able to prise it off the floor of the motel, removing much of its belly hair in the process. For all of you animal-lovers out there, it made a complete recovery and got its revenge by killing and eating a couple of cockroaches.
Well, well, well, lastly we come to the real nasties. . .
Truly Horrible Mushi
Mukade are large poisonous centipedes. They like to live under Japanese houses; in Japanese home-grown vegetables; or indeed anywhere where they might encounter someone to bite. Warning: their poison can put you in hospital. One day, at the Sayama house, my boyfriend's mother brought in a home-grown cabbage from their lakeside allotment. Concealed in its folds were several small mukade. These were swiftly transferred, using tweezers, to a bottle of cooking oil, where they wriggled around pathetically for a while before drowning. (Don't call me a sadist.)
Japanese hornets are less easy to deal with. The largest ones are called 'suzumebachi', or 'sparrow bees', and have been known to make grown men blanch. The average hornet is about twice the size of a regular British wasp, with an undercarriage of long, dangling legs. The best way to cope with a hornet in the house is to close the door of the room quickly, spray a couple of bursts of insecticide, slam the door, and retreat for half an hour or so, after which you can conclude that you've won the battle. Warning: a number of people have ended up in hospital after ignoring this advice.
Disclaimer
This guide is by no means exhaustive, and various Japanese mushi may protest at their lack of inclusion. Personal encounters do lead to a mention, however.

Caroline Needham