Exploring the skies has long been mankind’s greatest challenge. It was supposed to be the quest (and no subject demands the use of the word ‘quest’ more than space) that would bring an end to the squabbling and usher in a new world of development and harmony. The space race subsequently kept the two ideological powers of the 20th century at loggerheads, before generally being abandoned in favour of populism and petty arguments.

Space may be the logical next step for travel and exploration, but anyone who has ventured out to the very end of the Prague Metro’s C Line will appreciate that there are still plenty of pockets on the planet that are waiting to be discovered. Levelling this accusation at Haje is harsh, this isn’t exactly the Amazon or the Arctic, but it is still difficult to shake off the feeling that this place is being ignored. Haje is the terminus on the southern end of the red line, in a literal and spiritual sense. If you are disembarking here for reasons other than commerce of residence, you are better at this whole thing than me.

As with many of the extremities of the Prague Metro, Haje was once a stand-alone village that was swallowed up by the big city as the ‘big’ part of that moniker received focus. The Czech capital spread and stretched outwards, swallowing villages as it went, and Haje was helpless. Haje’s story does deviate from this norm, as it became independent as a result of the 1922 devouring. Hostivar became an official part of Prague, but the teeny tiny village of Haje resisted for another 46 years. By 1968 it could hold out no longer, joining the party just in time for the Prague Spring. The village was knocked down and rebuilt, and while I don’t mean any disrespect, it could probably do with happening again.

The space talk at the beginning of this chapter wasn’t baseless, although this far into the book you could be forgive for assuming so. The metro station that opened here in November 1980 wasn’t called Haje, not that there’s anything wrong with that name, but it carried the exponentially cooler moniker of Kosmonautu. You don’t need to be a fluent Czech speaker to work out that translation, but I’ll do the grunt work for you. It means ‘cosmonaut’, and that means ‘spaceman’. I’m talking about individuals that took to the skies and continued, human beings that manage to escape Earth’s atmosphere and experience weightlessness, and not criminally misunderstood hit singles from 1996 by Wolverhampton rockers. The space race has devoured column space and literature, but the interstellar achievements of people from outside the United States and the Soviet Union tend to get forgotten. With that in mind, let’s tell the tale of the first man from outside those two states to head into space.

Vladimir Remek was born in the South Bohemian capital of Ceske Budejovice, a town known primarily for the delicious beer that is produced there. That beer itself comes with yarns to spin, being as it is the original Budweiser. Vladimir Remek’s father was a military pilot, and the boy himself was introduced to the world above the world from a young age, going on his first flight at the age of six. Vladimir was a big fan of planes, but he didn’t dream of becoming a pilot. His aim in life was instead to become a salesman for a pet shop, as this seemed to be the only way that he could get his hands on some exotic fish.

As well as being a would be pet proprietor, young Vlad was an extremely active member of the Pioneers, the communist version of the Boy Scouts. His bubbly personality gave him an infectious air that was tailor made for group activity, and Remek transitioned from the Pioneers into the Czechoslovak Union of Youth. He was an excellent athlete too, not to mention a fine student. I wouldn’t go so far as to referring to Remek as the ‘model student’, but he was certainly in the upper echelons of that discussion. The lure of the skies was too much however, and Remek soon swanned off to the aviation school located in the Slovak city of Kosice.

His development continued, and Remek soon found himself in the cushy position of lieutenant in the Czech Air Force. Not content with a position in a military division, Remek signed up to study at the Gagarin Air Force Academy in Monino, a town just outside of Moscow. His timing was impeccable – the Soviets were gearing up for a major propaganda exercise, a show of strength that would showcase the glorious co-operation and joint achievements of socialism. The plan was a simple one, as all the best plans are. A Soviet pilot was going to go into space, and he or she was going to be joined in the endeavour by another cosmonaut from another socialist state.

This mission had another function as well. It was to coincide with the 30th anniversary of the communist coup in Czechoslovakia, ramping up the pride and joy in what was already a fairly strong propaganda campaign. This practically meant that the Czechoslovak pilot chosen was a shoe-in for the spot, but the authorities still had to go through the rigamarole of the selection process. Vladimir Remek was one of the outstanding candidates, and he made it to the final eight, then the final four, then the final two. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly for the Czech, and not even a command to lose weight was going to slow him down. Remek lost the 20lbs demanded, thanks in no small part to his athletic background, and the individual space race was on.

The final two combatants were put through a rigorous series of tests that included vomit-inducing splashdowns and all manner of weightlessness, although reports that they struggled to collect all the crystals remain unsubstantiated. The tests were completed, and the decision was to be made on who would be the first non-Soviet or American individual to be sent into the murky depths of space.

If you hadn’t put two and two together to get ‘Vladimir Remek’ as the answer to that decision, I fear for your deductive capabilities. Remek clearly got the nod, helped no end by his military pilot father and Czechoslovak citizenship. On March 2, 1978, Vladimir Remek became the first astronaut of the European Union, although the EU was 15 years away from coming into being and Czechia was a further 11 away from joining. Our boy Remek is commemorated in statue form outside Haje station today, although the name of the station has since changed to represent its neighbourhood as opposed to his profession. It would be a little optimistic to say that the youths congregating around the statue today are contemplating space travel however. When I visited there was a young couple sat in front of the statue, him with an arm around her, a glazed look in their eyes that expressed little more than a lack of anything going on behind. The vacant looks were directed across the bus terminal, but whether they knew that was unclear. An open packet of condoms lay next to them, and if you think this is merely a set up for an easy ‘out of this world boning’ joke then you need to get your mind out of the gutter.

In ‘Via The Left Bank of the ‘90s’, John Bills takes the reader on a tour of Prague using the underground network as his guide, from the birth of the city at Vyšehrad through to the Velvet Revolution at Národní Třída and everywhere in between, including blokes who loved orchids and no small amount of executions. This is everything you ever wanted to know about Prague, and then some. Available in our splendid little shop here.