Japan Days

I worked for Norprint International (a Label Co. based in Boston, Lincs.) for nigh on 27 years, and for most of that time I had a distinct hankering to join the Export Department. On various visits to the factory I’d accost the Managing Director Doug Smith, informing him of my developing language skills, and suggesting that I would be an asset to our international endeavours. “The time’s not right Patrick” he’d say “ But keep it up”.

I had a phone call out of the blue some years later – “ Hello, It’s Doug Smith here, I think the time is right”. As things had developed, Doug left Norprint some time before I had ‘accepted’ voluntary redundancy, and in the meantime became Managing Director of Ko-Pack Europe, a Japanese Company producing Label Printing Presses. One of Doug’s main attributes as a businessman was his genuine interest in the people he worked with, affording him the unique ability to tune into their psyche, sometimes placing square pegs successfully in round holes, and as in my case, keeping people who were successful where they belonged. Until eventually his resourceful memory for people, events, and places would kick in “When the time was right”.

The six months (eventually 18) remit was as a Consultant Product Development manager for a revolutionary new Printing Press, soon to be launched in Europe. The machine was to be called ‘Emanon’. Apparently the Japanese Directors, asked to propose a name, drew a blank, going around the table, each in turn came up with “No name”. Mr. Kobayashi, with his usual panache, said, “So it shall be – No name, but we’ll spell it backwards – Emanon”. So, it was thus that a life rewarding opportunity presented itself to work, discover, and play for some time in Japan.



Jun Kobayashi.

The first thing that would strike you upon being introduced to Jun Kobayashi (JK) was his million dollar smile. Well, perhaps not quite a million, but his array of gold teeth certainly gives an indication of the multi millionaire behind them. His father had owned a successful ticket-making factory in Tokyo before the war, and following the demise of both his father and country supported his mother in resurrecting the company in tune with the renaissance of the nation. Educated in Japan, England, and France, his cultural and language skills stood him in good stead to develop the business, and that he did on a massive scale. With an inherent philosophy of inspiration, presentation, and innovation, he now commanded a vast business empire.

Such eminence of course generally comes with a certain degree of eccentricity, and in this area also JK didn’t find himself wanting. He owned five Jaguar cars (all green) each parked at various centres of activity, Tokyo, Yamagata, Peterborough, Vermont USA, and Singapore. However, he never possessed a driving licence of any kind. Copious consumption of malt whisky, Guinness, and Chris Barber, afforded JK an erratic style of life in which he never singed a credit card slip (anybody handy would do it), travelled across the globe without a stitch of luggage, and bought anything on impulse (antiques, electronic equipment, large jars of organic Viagra even) mostly given away immediately as gifts. On one occasion, a group of us had just arrived in Tokyo on the Bullet Train from Yamagata, and followed JK to a large restaurant, which was absolutely packed. People were squashed up and an extra table was immediately laid for this eminent customer and his guests. As an extensive array of food and drink arrived to fill the table, JK then proceeded to give everything away, and we ended up in the street, outside Baskin Robbins eating ice cream. Both being a bit Francophile, and lubricated with fine malts, JK and I would extend our ‘intellectual’ discussions to the early hours. One of his favourite prose was “In the beginning is my end – In my end is my beginning” (T. S. Eliot). His English professor had written this on the blackboard at the start of the term to the utter confusion of the Japanese students. I think he’s been pondering it ever since.

Tokyo.
People who suffered under the Japanese during the war will recount that they are the most cruel, evil, and vindictive race imaginable. Who flipped the coin? Tokyo has a population of 36 million souls crammed in a space no bigger that New York (19.5 million), the only way it would work is with an inherent attitude of respect and consideration for each individual’s space and environment. They acknowledge each other with a step back, a polite bow, respectfully presenting a personal/business card with an engaging smile. I recall an amusing sight from a gantry at Haneda Airport - It must have been the assembly of some sort of woman’s convention – Hundreds of little ladies continually bobbing heads, and thrusting cards, weaving around greeting each other with boundless fervour. Intensity of traffic in Tokyo must come close to the world record, but a prevailing ‘give and take’ attitude, together with polite deference to fellow drivers (you never hear the sound of a horn) ensures an extraordinary smooth flow of traffic. Just imagine if those people were Italian? There would be utter anarchy. There’s no tipping in Japan, taxi drivers, waitresses, etc. Consider it an honour to serve, and every purchase is scrupulously conducted. I’ve nothing against Italians, but can you imagine this in the tourist area of Rome?

You remember those old arcade machines where you flipped little metal balls into compartments on the face. In Japan it’s called ‘Pachinko’, and the so-called ‘Parlours’ are all over Tokyo. If you can imagine an aircraft hanger filled with thousands of these machines, garish décor, flashing lights, a thick smoky haze, blaring western music, and above all the deafening clatter of metal balls, then you’ve arrived. When you do happen to hit a winning streak, what do you get? – More balls!!! – Millions of them – So much so that they have to come with a little trolley full of wooden boxes to cart them to the cash point. Cash Point? Well gambling’s illegal in Japan, so all you get is a ‘Gift’ token. You have to take this outside, down an alley, and trade with a representative of organized crime.

Mind you, my time in Tokyo wasn’t all spent indulging in Tappanyaki, Saké, pachinko, and Karaoke. My visit did coincide with the tenth anniversary of the opening of the Suntory Concert Hall, and the celebratory performance by the Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra was one of the most remarkable of my musical experiences.

Yamagata.
Built on a ‘Green Field’ site (if you imagine one in Japan), Ko-Pack’s Yamagata factory was constructed in the shape of a giant aircraft (another one of JKs conceptions); the fuselage was the preparation area (print drums, plates, inks, engineering, etc.), while the label production machines were spread out along the wings. Upstairs in the cockpit was the administration hub, and at the tail end was JKs private suite, which was convenient, as he would sometimes walk around the factory in his stripped pyjamas.

This was also my humble abode while he was away. As you can appreciate, print factories are normally messy places, but this one, you could quite literally eat your dinner off the floor, you even had to remove your shoes at the entrance and don slippers.

Don’t they have any homes to go to? Apparently at least, not much. My co-workers at Yamagata had a quite strange lifestyle, extremely diligent and productive in the factory, but completely uninhibited outside, taking the term work hard and play hard to the extreme. To be fair, housing in such an overpopulated environment, resulted in very cramped and flimsy construction. Indeed a colleague at Ko-Pack Peterborough related that having been invited to stay at a ‘House’ used by the many commuting workers (most only went home at weekends), nature called urgently in the middle of the night, and completely frustrated at being unable to find the sliding door, he burst through the wall. The big release for the Ko-Pac boys was the Karaoke Bars, all shapes and sizes, from one-roomed flats to elaborate lounges, each with individual ‘Attractions’. One of the endearing features of these nightspots was the young ladies. Now, these girls are not lap-dancers, strippers, or prostitutes, but professional ‘Companions’, salaried, tax paying working girls (they actually would clock on and off), who were there to flatter, rapturously applaud your pathetic renditions, and play little titivating games. My favourite was nibbling a sausage on a stick (yes, snacks were provided) from each end, until our lips met in an ‘embarrassed’ kiss. Obviously this is the modern equivalent of the Geisha.

“She would like to dance with you” said my translator Mr. Sato “I would be delighted” says I. After returning to the table after 20 minutes of ‘Close encounters’ (you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between us, and we hardly moved an inch), “what did she say Mr. Sato?” – “She say, you very good dancer!!!.” – “Oh!! – Tell her she also is a very good dancer” – “She say, she no go back to hotel with you tonight you have just met, maybe next time”. “Where shall we go tonight lads” said Mr. Sato after work – “Talent, Talent, I cry (this was the club from the previous night)” – “No, we go somewhere else” – Damn!!!. I must say, there was nothing sleazy about these places, all was above board and completely honest. I observed a young lady watering down a whisky poured for Mr. Nishiyama on one occasion, but she had considered he was overdoing it, and as the bottle was paid in advance, lined and signed for the next time, there would have been no advantage. She was quite right by the way, going to the loo later, I was obstructed by Nishiyama standing motionless in front of the door. He had half turned the handle, rested his head on the door and fell asleep.

Right!! Taxi home? Another innovation – Two guys arrive in the cab, one to drive you back, and another to drive your car – Drink driving laws are very strict in Japan.

Yamagata is in fact traditionally a spa resort, with natural hot springs renowned for their health giving attributes. These are enjoyed by a visit to the ‘Onsen’ (the baths). On entry (segregated), you are supplied with a robe and facecloth. The facecloth as it turns out is to cover your willy. Japanese men have very small willies, and whether or not they consider this an embarrassment, the facecloth is held over the crutch once the robe is removed, to be later placed on the head once you enter the water. But first, there’s a whole rigmarole of ritual to go through. Sitting on a three-legged stool in front of a gushing faucet, you fill a little wooden bucket and continually pour it over yourself, until you consider yourself scrupulously clean enough to enter the pool. Can you imagine getting into a giant bowl on mulligatawny soup? -Or could it be Brown Windsor? At first quite unbearable, gradually becoming very pleasant, and ultimately extremely refreshing. Sitting there with my willy exposed to the elements, its cover on my head, absorbing the rich vitamins through my pores, and acknowledging the smiles on the timorous faces that surrounded me, I really considered myself one of the natives. Quite comical in the dressing room afterwards, my co-mulligatawnies tended to stroll around chatting in their underpants. Now, the waist size of the western style Y-Fronts didn’t take into account the fact that Japanese have no backsides, so although the waist fitted snugly, the rest of the garment was left flapping about like a little mini skirt.

Following the famous Mogami river for about 30 miles to the south of Yamagata City, on its meandering way into the Japan Sea, a slight detour takes you up within the realms of the extremely beautiful Mount Haguro, immortalised by the Japanese equivalent to our Rabbie Burns, Matsuo Bashō. Where Burns poetry can possibly be described as all about wine, women, and song, Bashō’s could be described as, well, short. He was the master of ‘Haiku’, the very precious gift of condensing a whole spectrum of emotions, feelings, and observations into very few words.

You see, in the olden days, Japanese poets pleased their emperors by composing extremely long verse that would last sometimes days (yes, even longer than Tam O Shanter). So, they eventually developed a method of punting their wares by composing what would be described as a trailer today. This became shorter and shorter until the trailer became the actual poem.

Mizusawa.

Away to the north, this is a lush green region of the country, renowned for its meat production - Not a lot of it about in Japan!! Didn’t go there for a steak though, JK had just bought out the engineering firm (TOYO KOKI Co.) that had traditionally built his presses, and this was where ‘Emanon’ was to be giving birth.

For me though, one of the most interesting things about the company was its Founder and current President Mr. Toyoji Sasaki, a former Kamikaze Pilot. Oh Yes!! Now, you don’t meet many of them do you? The veteran reunions are renowned for their sparseness and brevity. As a seventeen-year-old Air Cadet he had ‘Volunteered’ for martyrdom at the very tail end of the war. Thirty planes had took off for a sortie immediately to be called back to base as peace had just broken out. Notwithstanding, only half a dozen actually returned to face the disgrace of a failed mission, the rest committing hara-kiri by ditching their planes into the sea. Still flying his own little plane at that time, the employees at the Toyo factory would regard the skies with trepidation every time he came into land on the company airstrip – You never know!!!

The Kamikaze Haiku.

In Blossom today then scattered

Life is so like a delicate flower

How can one expect the fragrance?

To last forever?
(Admiral Onishi Takijiro)

There’s more!!!

Emanon in Europe?

What happened to JK?

Any encouraging comments posted below would prompt me to continue.