Happy Hare, the Promo Sapiens Part 5

(Click on at the bottom of this page for HH Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4)

Contrary to what you may have heard, heart disease is not the nation’s #1 killer. It is boredom. My attempts to evade boredom often get me into trouble.

Boredom is the benevolent wave that cast me back upon perilous shoals of radio and onto the tarmac of Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow, on the third leg of a world speed record attempt. The airfield was a combination civilian and military installation. A deafening jet whine permeated the field, coming from MIG 15’s landing and taking off.

One evening in early 1969, I warily approached a monstrous plane the likes of which I had never seen. My companions, Japanese and Russians trudged toward it in a long line in which I was the only American. Most of us did not speak a common language but we all shared an unspoken apprehension about this trip. It is a cultural trait that when alarmed or fearful, the Japanese in a group will compensate by giggling in a high pitched tone. Russians grow sullen. and growl. In this line, there was both giggling and growling. I am different. In times of mortal danger, I face death silently and fearlessly, but often lose bladder control.

My innards shriveled at the thought of twelve hours over the towering Siberian mountains in this garbage heap. There were six prop jet engines mounted on a deeply corroded fuselage that looked like it had been to the bone yard, was turned down and was back here again, because it had nowhere else to go. I was relieved to find someone more miserable than I: an aged Russian man who sighed wearily at the prospect of the long trek up into the plane. I reached out my hand and supported him while he struggled, wheezing, up the steep 20 foot stairway ...

Inside the cabin, I was confronted by several forbidding looking Russian “stews” and, when I started to take my assigned seat up front, was shoved by the meanest looking one toward the rear of the plane. My Russian companion, a first class passenger, was not allowed to enter his suite. When he faced her to protest, the same bully, who had manhandled me physically grabbed his shoulders, twisted him around and launched him toward the back. Aeroflot apparently had not told these women that “stews” were supposed to treat passengers like royalty, an obsolete class in Russia.

When we settled in the rear of the plane, I saw that the Japanese had congregated at one side and the Russians the other. I sat with the Japanese.

Before take-off, a Japanese man in a black uniform festooned with brass buttons, appeared at the head of the cabin and spoke in a stream of Russian. Whatever he said was met with grim silence by the Russians. Then he spoke Japanese and when he finished, the Japanese broke into the aforementioned high pitched giggle. Finally, the man addressed me directly.. “Mr Mahtin, (Martin) did you understand what I said?” I nodded "no", startled at being singled out.

“My name is Mr Ueda. I am steward of this airprane. We ask you to sit in the rear on take-off because of weight distribution probrem. This prane once the world’s greatest airprane. It was a Russian Bear bomber, now converted to a passenger prane. After take-off you may go to your seat in the front, but I don’t recommend it. because this prane got engine vibration probrem. On behalf of Aerofrot and Japan Air Lines, my employer, I wish you a good fright. (Flight).

The ensuing trip was as rough as I had feared. I could hear the protesting metallic wails of the fuselage being rent by the Siberian storm just a few feet outside. I could envision this massive plane crashing into the wilds below, creating a crater as large as that infamous meteorite that killed all the dinosaurs millions of years ago. Fear played games with my imagination.

Serendipity put me next to a Japanese foreign correspondent for one of Japan’s major newspapers. He introduced himself as Takeo and told me not to try to remember his last name. During the night I asked about Russia and Japan and he asked about Elvis and The Beatles and American music and my job.

Animated talk between us compressed the twelve hour flight. We were relieved to see breakfast arrive: a hard boiled egg, a boiled potato and a vulgar looking kielbasa with a big glob of horse radish on the side.

Moments later, the ancient plane collapsed intact on the runway. On the way to the exit, Takeo gave me a subtle signal to look to my side. There, huddled on the side in a dark niche sat the stew who had bullied me and the old Russian. She was nursing a black eye.. Takeo had seen me help the man up the gangplank and only now said “That man you helped,” He explained.” is the head of Aeroflot. He complained to Mr Ueda about her bad manners and told Mr Ueda to fire her. I think maybe Mr Ueda also gave her the black eye. The Aeroflot head is in Japan to sign a contract with Japan Airlines which will bring Japanese stewards and stewardesses onto the Aeroflot planes to teach these Russian women how to behave toward passengers. .Mr. Ueda is the first of many,”

Standing in line to leave, I peered through a round port hole overlooking the outside. Just then, a large colorful sign was pressed against it proclaiming “Welcome to Yokohama , Happy Hare.” A stewardess opened the soundproof hatch, abruptly letting in the blare of a band played martial music. When I stepped out onto the platform, a crowd broke into a loud cheer. No one smiles like the Japanese and this crowd was one big smile.

Takeo whispered in my ear. “I have to go, Hare. You are about to be welcomed Japanese style. He actually said, “Sayonara.”

It was like a 1936 American movie. I heard shouts from photographers in the crowd. “Mr Happy Hare. Look this way.. Smile” Another voice in the crowd shouted for me to turn his way and smile. The flash bulbs were firing off like out of control strobe lights..

Then, everyone settled down when an older man dressed in a formal suit walked up and addressed me through a young translator, He said, “I welcome you Mr. Happy Hare on behalf of the Yokohama Chamber of Commerce. Mr. Frank Curran , mayor of our sister city San Diego, has asked us to greet you on your historic trip. We are honored.” He turned aside and barked a staccato command to one of his aides who bowed and motioned me to get into a limousine that had been driven out onto the tarmac.

Mayor Curran’s letter had requested their mayor to show me “any courtesy” which, in Japanese protocol, is like a royal command. When I stood at the car door, a young man in the crowd shouted at the top of his lungs, “Gumbariyo!” Several hundred echoed back. GUMBARIYO!”

“Gumbariyo!,”my translator told me, was the Samurai battle cry of the 18th century Shogun, Tokugawa, to inspire his troops in battle. Roughly translated, it means, “Kick out the jams!”