Fruits of his labor, or lack thereof, by Hiroshi Yamauchi

1. At 52 years of age, Mr. Kaga is homeless but refuses to live begging in the shadows of the streets.

2. Mr. Kaga collects aluminum cans off of streets for living; something he says is fitting for him because the area he lives in is so littered.

3. Every can counts, says Mr. Kaga checking up and down, front and back of a vending machine.

4. Dumpster diving is an act Mr. Kaga allows himself to do only early in the morning or late at night when it is least likely to be spotted.

5. Mr. Kaga smashes each can he picks out of trash bin on the ground so that he can fill garbage bags with as many cans as possible. Doing so makes loud enough noise for those who happen to be around, but passersby walk right next to him as if they don’t see him.

6. Mr. Kaga checks weather forecast on public television in a park minutes before he starts his rounds for the night.

7. Nothing but useless trash for most people can literally be golden nugget for others.

8. Day laborers gather in front of a public TV for a live broadcast of horse race, a state-run gamble in Japan. Many in Kamagasaki spend most of the very little money they have on gambles.

9. Mr. Kaga eats a bawl of soupy rice with vegetables at a food ration run by a NPO every Saturday morning. It’s not the best meal you can get in town he says, but filling up the stomach is the first priority. He gets back on line for second or even third bowl when possible.

10. The streets of Kamagasaki give eerie feeling in absence of vibrancy in the air. Graffiti ridden small local businesses are not to thrive for there simply isn’t reliable market.

11. “You have to be careful when you pick a can from a ditch, especially at night”, says Mr. Kaga sarcastically.

12. Colorful and well-lit vending machines in the dark of the night make stark contrast with what Mr. Kaga does for living. Few hours to collect one kilogram of aluminum cans only give him enough money to buy a small sized soda from any one of the vending machines he makes rounds to.

13. “When I started picking cans, I was hesitant to do it on busy streets. I feared somebody might shout at me because I’m doing dirty stuff. But I realized very quickly that nobody gives a damn about it. People don’t even see me when I pick cans on the street right next to their expensive shoes.”

14. After a long day’s work resulting small harvest, Mr. Kaga realizes he’d have to live on few coins in his pocket for the next several days.

15. Ready to take bag full of aluminum cans to recycle agency, Mr. Kaga spends the last few coins on drinks and snacks.

16. Taking bags full of cans, the fruits of few days’ labor, is a rewarding moment for Mr. Kaga.

17. “All that work is worth this much”, says Mr. Kaga with a sigh, followed by a line in self-consolatory tone “but it’s better than nothing”.

18. There aren’t many occasions one can see a smile on Mr. Kaga’s face, except when he goes grocery shopping.

19. Along with his fellow day laborer, Mr. Kaga goes on what they call “a night out” at a corner of a street.

20. “I’ve been doing this for quite sometime. It’s fair to say my life is on edge, and what I do is a balancing act right on the edge, not to fall into the other side.”

Meet Mr. Kaga. A 52-year old homeless man living in Kamagasaki area in south central Osaka City, or Kama for short as locals call it, a 300-meter-square district where rows of weathered day laborers’ quarters stand on littered streets filled with stench.

Though there hasn’t been a verifiable census for decades by any responsible authority, it’s safe to estimate there are between 25,000 to 30,000 day laborers living in this infamous slum-like district, the largest of its kind in Japan.

Mr. Kaga graduated from technical high school in a small town in Nagasaki, a southwest Japan prefecture nearly 1000 kilometers away from Osaka, and hopped around jobs here and there eastward ever since. He ended up in Kamagasaki some 20 years ago, more or less chronicling “The lost decades” in Japan, the long-term recession after the burst of bubble economy in mid ‘90s.

The first half of the life in Kamagasaki was hard but not unexpected. He’d get up 4 in the morning and go to placement office where he and his fellow day laborers would pitch themselves to labor sharks, or put it more legitimately, unscrupulous employment agents. Once deal is made, they would go for a day, few days or a weeklong construction works. The pay would be on daily-basis. He’d come back at night, find himself a spot in a flop house, usually small enough that an adult man can touch walls on both sides of a room with stretched arms. Mr. Kaga would buy day old, fixed combo meals on discount from supermarket for food. He was leading a very modest life, inevitably from financial reasons no doubt, but in undeclared ambition that had he saved money for long enough he’d have got out of the slum.

The financial crisis in the fall of 2008 was a game changer. The construction jobs, the only employment Mr. Kaga knew how to get into and earn very minimum to survive, were dramatically shrunk in scale and cut in manpower. Labor sharks told him, in mid 40s at the time, that he is too old and no longer in need. The most modest life imaginable suddenly became jeopardized. Only option left for him was to go on the streets.

Determined not to be a beggar in the shadows of streets, Mr. Kaga started collecting aluminum cans off of dumpsters and vending machines after tips from fellow day laborers that he could make 120 yen (just about 1 U.S. dollar) per kilogram by taking the cans to recycle agents. He’d put himself in a homeless shelter and eat at food rations and soup kitchens operated at several locations almost every day by NPOs and religious organizations.

On a good day, he’d eat all three meals at soup kitchens, collect enough aluminum cans to fill two garbage bags, earn between 600~700 yen (5~6 U.S. dollars) and buy cheapest pack of cigarette and small portion of liquor. Drinking in small sips with puffing a smoke is the only sign that he has survived another day.

Something meant to be a stopgap measure has now become a final parting shot, says Mr. Kaga with sneer laugh. “I don’t know how much longer I can live like this”.