From Out West #31, July, 1995
Before I left for Japan to cover the unveiling of the world's largest replica of Mount Rushmore, my friends gave me a few tips on local customs. I was advised that I should:
At 1 p.m., on a rainy San Francisco afternoon, I climbed aboard a Boeing 747 and began a crossing of the Pacific. Ten hours later, after two meals and two inflight movies, I arrived with bloodshot eyes at the Tokyo airport. It was 4:30 p.m. Monday -- a day lost, but to be regained later in the week when I returned home.
"Getting through customs can be a nightmare," a tourbook informed. Be prepared to wait 90 minutes in line during busy times." I got through in 20 seconds.
From there, I met a delegation of VIPs from South Dakota who were there, like me, to see the new Mount Rushmore. The group consisted of businessmen, businesswomen, South Dakota tourism officials, the mayor of Rapid City, the governor's wife, the Lieutenant Governor and her husband, three Miss South Dakotas (different contests), a family of Dakota Sioux, a South Dakota state senator, and Yelena Tolchinsky of New York, who became my interpreter. I was the only reporter.
Before boarding a bus, Stan Adelstein of Rapid City, picked up a couple of bento box lunches ($12 each) from the airport snack bar. Our bus trip would be 70 miles but last a few hours because of Tokyo's heavy traffic.
It was raining hard, and we couldn't see well out the window -- too bad because Tokyo was passing by. I did manage to spot a Marlboro billboard, with a giant cowboy sitting on his horse, lighting up his smoke very American-like. Stan passed the bento box lunch around for each of us to sample. Wow! It was better than any fast food I'd had at an American airport. I'm not sure exactly what I ate, but it tasted great.
After two hours on the road we pulled into a rest stop that resembled a rest stop on an American turnpike. In a cafe that looked like a Dennys, I ordered Tonjiru Teishoku -- pork soup, rice -- and a Coke, all for about $5, very reasonable. A nearby fast food stand offered hamburgers for about $2.50. So much for what I'd heard about ridiculously high prices.
I'd later learn, however, that you can easily spend a wad for food or beverages if you don't know where to go. For example, a cup of coffee in Tokyo sells for $6 a cup or more (refills extra). "I spent $12 once," said Yelena, who had recently moved back to New York after two years in Tokyo. The next day, I visited a small grocery and learned the truth about fruits and vegetables. Get this -- $22 for a cantaloupe! Wow!
While walking around one small town, I "discovered" the beverage machines that are on literally every street corner (and usually in-between, too). These handy machines, often with a Coke logo on the front, dispense hot and cold liquids. Coffee hounds can get a small can of coffee, even espresso or a latte, for about $1.20. And it tastes good -- much better than the brown water we get in our vending machines. It's not up to Seattle standards, mind you, but it's better than anything you'd ever find in, say, Arizona, where any liquid that's warm and brown is called coffee. But the price is right considering the same thing in a Japanese coffee house would cost five times more.
After leaving the rest stop and after another hour of driving, and now barely able to keep our eyes open (I'd now been up for more than a full day), we arrived at our modern hotel. We all headed right to our rooms. I quickly collapsed.
My room was traditional Japanese, with two low tables, a tatami (straw mat) on the floor, and a futon mattress with quilt for sleeping. Ten stories below me, a beautiful river flowed by, and on its far bank, bullet trains passed during the day.
The next morning, after breakfast, Yelena and I spent the day with Ominami, the owner and founder of Western Village. He drives a Mercedes, a car you don't see much in Japan. The Japanese drive mostly Japanese cars (makes sense, eh?), most of them smaller than what we drive in America. In about eight total hours on the road, I only noticed one American car, a Ford Taurus wagon. Most all the Japanese vehicles are pint-sized. Even road construction equipment and tractors are perhaps a third smaller than their counterparts in the States.
It's no wonder we don't sell many cars to the Japanese: Our cars are much too large for their roads. Furthermore, the Japanese are huge believers in public transportation. At one point in our drive through Tokyo, I saw eight commuter trains at one time, each headed in different directions.
My first stop with Ominami was at the Nikko Toshogu Shrine, one of the most highly revered Shinto monuments in Japan, and only a few miles from his theme park and the new Mount Rushmore. Ominami felt that it was important for me to see this famous Japanese religious site. Its proximity to his new Mount Rushmore, he explained, would expose Japanese and American tourists to important symbols of both cultures.
We had tea with the chief priest, Hisao Inabi, whom Ominami insisted I interview. I did, but I didn't have a clue what to ask because at this point I didn't know anything about the shrine except it was the site of the original "Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil" monkeys.
I figured it would be pretty insulting to open my interview with, "Gee, I really like your monkeys." So I said the equally brilliant, "I really like your shrine." Then Yelena translated, and he said something like, "Well, I really like it, too," which Yelena translated, and then we smiled at each other, and all the while I'm thinking, "Man, I've gotta get out of here," and I'm sure he was thinking, "What is this Boy Scout doing here?" Finally, after ten incredibly long minutes of such enlightening dialogue, we parted. I bowed fairly deeply as the chief priest is a very important person.
We were then given a tour of the offices of the business end of the complex by a regular priest, who didn't seem at all excited about giving me a tour. Frankly, I don't know who was bored the most -- he or I. I wanted to see the shrine, not meeting rooms where big shots came to rest and attend seminars.
Finally, we entered the amazing shrine area, where I could easily have spent a full day. By now I had learned that this monument honored the soul of the first Shogun, Leyasu Tokugawa (1542-1616), the most prominent warrior and statesman of the Edo Era. Before he died, Tokugawa willed that he be buried as a god. In Japan, it is believed that the soul of a man lives forever. By establishing himself as a god, Tokugawa wished to continue protecting the peaceful Japan he had established.
The architecture of the shrine has a vivid and flamboyant beauty reflecting the spiritual and cultural aspects of Tokugawa's time. Each of the 55 structures is decorated with colorful sculptures, paintings, reliefs, metals and lacquer. I can't describe it: You'd have to see it to appreciate it.
Because we were considered VIPS, we were allowed in a special room where all the Shoguns would come to worship. A square piece of mat, perhaps two feet across, is where they would kneel. I stood right next to it, and felt honored.
Hundreds of Japanese people were saying prayers a few yards away, at the wall where, Yelena told me, "our world ends and the hereafter begins." They looked over at me, the only non-Asian in sight, and must have wondered who I was that I could stand where the Shoguns stood.
I was eager to keep exploring when three words rang out:
"T-I-M-E T-O G-O." It was Yelena. She looked at me and slowly shook her head, apologizing with body language at our brief, 15-minute mini-peek at one of Japan's most revered places. It seemed Mr. Ominami had places to go and people to meet. And I, a highly esteemed American journalist, was not to be left behind.
We spent the rest of the day visiting with his business friends. That night, we attended a party of the Rapid City-Imaichi Sister City Association at a fancy hotel and golf resort. Eighteen holes of golf costs about $250. Golf in Japan is hugely popular, and hugely expensive. I don't suppose $250 is so unusual. There are many golf driving ranges all over -- all encased in nets like huge batting cages. I saw several ranges where golfers would tee off on two to four different levels. As one golfer swang on the bottom floor, three swang above him -- all the balls headed into a vast dotted-white field of green.
At the party, we drank Japanese beer, ate sushi, and I gave out business cards to Japanese businessman, all of whom wore blue suits, the national uniform of modern-day Japan. I really pigged out on the sushi and caviar -- not my regular fare back home in OutWestLand.
The wives of most of these businessmen also attended the party, but they pretty much stayed in the background. Sexism, at least in business, is alive and well in Japan. One exception, however, is on television, where women anchor most of the network newscasts.
Because my articles from Out West are also distributed by the New York Times Syndicate, word somehow got twisted (in translation, I assume) that I was from the New York Times. Several Japanese businessmen approached me and said in broken English, "I really like your newspaper." At first I thought "How the heck do they know about Out West? Our entire Japanese circulation is about 12!" Then I figured out they were talking about the Times. I tried to explain the truth, but I didn't always succeed.
EXCHANGING BUSINESS CARDS
The first thing you do when you meet a Japanese businessman is exchange business cards. This is how they keep track of who they meet. The Japanese businessman will pull out his card first, hand it to you, and then you hand him yours. You then stand there for perhaps 10 seconds, examining each other's cards, even if you can't read a bloody word. You nod at each other like you REALLY, REALLY like the card.
Of course, all the time, there's a lot of bowing going on. When you meet someone, you bow and they bow. You normally don't bow very deeply, sometimes not much lower than a nod of the head. How deeply you bow is based on the status of whom you are bowing to. If the person is important, you bow deeply, although Americans are generally considered politically correct to do a fairly minimal bow -- mostly the head with a little of the upper body thrown in.
THE NEXT DAY
It was now May 30, the day of the unveiling of Ominami's $27 million replica of Mount Rushmore. At 10 a.m., we arrived at Western Village, where we were invited to view a traditional Shinto ceremony, this one involving the blessing of the mountain given by chief priest Hisao Inaba. A hundred yards away, the U.S. Air Force Band of the Pacific from Yokota AFB prepared to tune up. I sat patiently and watched the ceremony, but, of course, I didn't understand a word. Every once in awhile I would hear: "blaaa blaaa, blaaa -- Mount Rushmore," and I felt better, like I understood at least something.
Well, after the ceremony ended, Yelena and I had about an hour to walk around. One of my first treats was to feed 10 yen into a coin-powered, mechanical Panda Bear, which I then drove 25 yards before it halted in its tracks with a yen for more yen.
Western Village resembles Southern California's Knotts Berry Farm of about 30 years ago, before it expanded to compete with Disneyland. It also resembles Disneyland's Frontier Town, but the rides are not as sophisticated. There are many shooting galleries, bumper boats, and a very good "Shoot The Buffalo With An Airgun." A bank of slot machines lines one wall, just like in Reno, although you don't win money, only prizes.
There are several Western restaurants that look so realistic you'd swear you're in Tombstone. I'm not kidding! They're rustic, with deer and moose heads up on the wall. John Wayne would look real comfy standing at the bar.
The streets are lined with old West businesses -- a post office, general store, bordello, stagecoach office, bank, livery stable, newspaper office. Robots in the images of American movie cowboys tell stories, except they speak Japanese. Sheriff Clint Eastwood sits below a Jesse James poster, his feet propped on the desk, and explains how he ran off the bad guys. "This used to be a tough town," he explains. "Now I'm the only one who shoots people."
Stagemaster John Wayne tells about the Pony Express. Lady of the night Marilyn Monroe sits on her bed and explains about how she made a lonely cowboy feel real comfy. Can you imagine Marilyn Monroe speaking Japanese? Dean Martin is a bartender. Charles Bronson runs the general store.Kirk Douglas is the telegraph operator. He taps out Morse code and explains, "I'm sending a message to Kansas -- an order for bullets."
A cross-eyed Robert Mitchum is the priest in the old West church. Clutching a Bible, he gives a brief history of Catholicism. "Many people come here on Sundays," he explains. "The church is the center of the community where people come to gather. We also spread the word of God to Indians."
Out on Main Street, every hour or so, Japanese cowboys stage a sort of Shootout At The OK Corral. They shoot fake ammo at each other and then, one by one, fall to the dirt clutching their hearts like they've been shot, grunting Japanese grunts and groaning Japanese groans. Wyatt Earp would love this.
All in all, the park is very well done, and very accurate. There are little mistakes here and there, like in the frontier gift shop where one deli counter offers "Indean Smorked Cheese."
The Mount Rushmore replica itself is startlingly realistic. It's hard to believe it's not the real thing. Ominami promised the folks in South Dakota that he would do a first class job, and he did.
The mountain is actually called "Mount Rushmore and the American Dome." The "dome," is the three-story building inside the mountain. The first floor serves as a gift shop (like one in or around an American National Park) and a display about the real Mount Rushmore. The second floor offers amusement games, and the third floor is the "State Fair" area, where, each year an American state will be showcased. South Dakota is appropriately spotlighted this year, and it's a well planned, first-class exhibit. The delegation from South Dakota was impressed. I was, too.
The third floor is also where Abe Lincoln holds court. He's all white, a six foot-ish replica of the Abe at our Lincoln Monument. This little fellow, however, rises to deliver a lecture on the history of Mount Rushmore -- speaking in Japanese, of course.
THE DEDICATION
The actual dedication of the mountain began with the singing of the Japanese and American national anthems. The Three Misses, as many of us began to call them (Miss South Dakota Universe, Miss South Dakota USA, and Miss Rodeo South Dakota) sang the "Star Spangled Banner." Then the Air Force Band played. Then, the family of South Dakota Sioux danced, and then a few dignitaries gave speeches, including Ominami. About 500 spectators took it all in.
More than 100 members of the Japanese media were on hand -- virtually everyone who mattered. As far as I could tell, I was the only American journalist. Talk about a scoop!
Afterward, we all paraded over to a big barbecue where we feasted on what must have been $100,000 worth of food (including several thousand dollars worth of melons) and listened to a country western band. Then we drank imported beer (Coors and Bud). And when we were too stuffed to eat anymore we went our own ways to shoot buffalos with air guns, ride the Panda Bear, or see Marilyn Monroe tell about her night with a horny cowboy. A few people shopped for souvenirs. A few others headed over to Indian Theater. I just walked around and looked at everything.
That evening, back in the hotel, we celebrated with Ominami. About an hour before party time, I ran into the Three Misses in the elevator. They were dressed in their kimonos (each guest was supplied with one), looking very lovely. The thought, "If only I were 20 years younger and single," went through my head, but I'm neither, so the thought disappeared faster than bread in a duck pond.
"Chuck, did you know we're supposed to wear kimonos to the party tonight?" one of the girls asked. Didn't anyone tell you?" They giggled. "Sure we are," I answered sarcastically, thinking, "How stupid do these beauty queens think I am?"
An hour later, dressed in the last of my clean clothes, I made my grand entrance to the party.
Everybody was wearing kimonos. The Misses looked at me and laughed.
The next morning, a few of us walked around town for a while, then we boarded our bus for the airport and our return trip home. The best sight along the way was a huge ski area right in Tokyo. It must be 12 stories high! To picture it, imagine a huge slide at a child's playground. But this slide is completely enclosed and as wide as a football field. The slide area itself is covered with snow, making for a giant indoor ski slope. It's amazing!
Something else impressed me: the lack of any graffiti. I didn't see any. How different from an American city, where gang members have left their marks everywhere.
My plane left Tokyo at 4 p.m., and I arrived in San Francisco at 11 a.m. the same day. After a short connecting flight to Sacramento and my drive home, I walked into the Out West office at 1 p.m.
According to the clock and calendar, I would leave Tokyo in three hours.
A Shogun could never imagine.
©1998 by Out West Newspaper
Do you have any comments or update information about this story? Please e-mail Chuck Woodbury.
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