Haikyo

When it comes to exploring abandoned buildings, long lost mountain villages are probably my favourite as they provide poignant hints about the people who used to live there and the lives they once led. Elements that to some degree are also present in the house below.

Abandoned in the summer of 1997, it has stood the test of time surprisingly well — even the floors felt relatively safe which is something of a rarity in old wooden structures left open to the elements.

The calendars, as ever, made the year its occupants disappeared easy to identify, and the photos left behind suggest the property housed several generations of the same family, although considering the obvious age gaps, it’s difficult to say how many of them actually lived there at the same time. What is certain, however, is that it was once very much a home, and then all of a sudden it simply wasn’t.

A couple of weeks ago I posted photos of an abandoned mansion belonging to an imprisoned billionaire. Admittedly it’s a place like no other, but it’s also an absolute world away from the rooms below, providing a stark reminder of how different people’s lives can be depending on birth, luck and outside forces.

When trying and failing to get into another abandoned hotel, we spotted this one up the hill. Its bleakness was striking, and things proved to be similarly desolate once inside. Unusually it was also a hotel that at some point or other had been converted into apartments. When that was I don’t know, but calendars in a couple of the rooms suggested it stopped being used in any way, shape or form in the very early 2000s.

Being late in the afternoon on a grey and snowy day, the light was fading from the get-go, and some of the rooms had no windows at all which limited shooting even further. One rather unsettling room within a room was packed full of kids clothing and toys — the only space on the upper floors that looked like its inhabitants had left in any kind of hurry. All the others were very much like the ones in the photos. Mostly empty, but with signs of life that were suggestive of how tough that existence may well have been.

In regards the photos, they are presented in the order I took them. From approaching the building to making our way up to the top floor. On ground level was the vending machine in what was once the lobby, and just off to the side was a kitchen and small living space which was possibly home to the person in charge. Maybe even the owner. The ninth image and onwards are all on the higher floors, culminating in a large living space at the very top which appeared to be several rooms repurposed into one. The chair left behind, however, suggests that unlike that aforementioned billionaire’s mansion, it was about as far removed from a penthouse as it’s possible to get.

Over the years I’ve photographed the likes of abandoned villages, resort towns and terribly poignant former homes. These and other outings have allowed me to build up a nice collection of old telephone and TV shots, as ultimately it’s time along with what gets left behind that makes each and every place special. That said, the mansion complex below is something else altogether.

When I first saw photos of it several years ago, it obviously piqued my interest, but its then completely intact nature and shiny-floored appearance made it look more like a bizarre museum of the kitsch than an abandoned building worth seeking out and photographing. Unfortunately there still hasn’t been enough time for nature to make any real inroads, but plenty of people have passed through, which has taken the sheen of those polished surfaces and given the whole place a sort of post-revolution, or even post-capitalism vibe.

The real story behind it (or at least its owner) isn’t quite so dramatic, but perhaps predictably it does involve money — lots and lots of money. Known as the Ginza Property King, Genshiro Kawamoto is a real estate tycoon supposedly fond of saying, “I don’t care about taxes. Only fools would pay them.” Words he clearly lived by, as in 2013 he was arrested on suspicion of evading over 800 million yen in payments — a charge that in 2018 eventually resulted in the then 86-year-old receiving a 4-year prison sentence along with a 240 million yen fine. Needless to say Kawamoto challenged the decision, but in January last year a final appeal was dismissed by the Supreme Court and both the sentence and fine were upheld.

What all that means for one of his former homes is hard to say, but considering what has already happened, it’s more than likely the sprawling structure will simply be allowed to fall apart and slowly cease to be of interest. A fate similar to the one that will very likely befall Mr. Kawamoto himself.

It was a little over a year ago when I first photographed this abandoned apartment and dormitory complex. A completely chance find, it was once home to cement company employees relocated to the area — the apartment building to presumably house families, and the dormitory rooms for unattached workers or those who opted to move out there alone.

Returning again after 12 months or so did not disappoint in the slightest, although despite being empty since the early 1980s, one or two things had moved since that first visit, and some parts were roped off, with several new-ish signs suggesting passersby don’t do what we did and enter the buildings. By far the biggest changes, however, were positive ones. The light was much softer this time, and being out in the mountains, a few trees were already in full autumnal mode — the beauty of which made for a striking contrast to the decidedly less conventional appeal of decay and long-term abandonment.

Going back also proved interesting beyond the simple pleasure of photographing a genuinely interesting set of structures. It offered the chance to see things I’d missed the first time, as well as try some different shots and angles. The more manageable light aided those experiments, and the aforementioned seasonal hues made for a few truly unique visual gifts. All of which is more than enough in regards explanation, so here is what 40 years of Mother Nature and abandonment do to former homes and living spaces.

Some of these photos first appeared on Tokyo Times just over half a decade ago, but after recently returning to them, doing some re-edits, and putting the full set together, it seemed like a good idea to once again go back to that sunny day in 2016. It also felt like a decent time to display the full colours of a Hokkaido summer before the winter snow soon sets in.

Completed in 1936, the Esashi train line ran for a scenic 42kms. Stretching from coast to coast, it served small, inland villages, offering a service that for many must have once been nothing short of essential. Times change, however, and the combination of motorisation, better roads and a decreasing population, gradually left the route with an ever-dwindling number of passengers — a situation that meant by 2011, there were only 6 daily services. While presumably still relied upon by some, in strictly financial terms, it simply wasn’t viable anymore, and so on May 11th 2014, the last ever trains trundled along the tracks.

Fast-forward a little over 2 years after closure, and that’s when the photographs below were taken — the order they are in being their order along the line. Most of the track was still in place, and more importantly, so were a few of the unique and wonderfully quaint little stations. Several of them had already been destroyed or repurposed, and down to nothing but sheer good fortune, a demolition crew arrived at the shed-like waiting room in shots 8 and 9 just as we had finished photographing it. A decidedly ominous sign that the rest of the structures would slowly but surely suffer the same fate, and having not been back since, I can only assume that they have. These images then are a personal reminder of a lovely day in the sun, and somewhat unexpectedly, a document of what very likely doesn’t exist anymore.