NO BINS, NO EXCUSES

Japanese sports fans have earned global admiration for their magical ability to clean up after themselves before leaving stadiums. They don’t just toss their trash - they meticulously gather it, sort it, and leave the place better than when they arrived. It’s basically a post-game cleaning ritual, like a victory dance, but with garbage bags.

This comes as no surprise to anyone familiar with Japan’s school system, where children are taught that cleaning their own classrooms and hallways is part of life.

Yet, as impressed as visitors are by these disciplined manners and Japan's spotless public spaces, they are equally baffled - and often frustrated - by the total absence of public dustbins. "How are the streets so clean when there's nowhere to throw anything away?" is a question foreigners ask, usually while clutching an empty coffee cup they've been carrying for three hours.

The answer? Take your trash home.

It's a philosophy ingrained in Japanese society, a blend of discipline, responsibility, and a logistical nightmare for visitors. After all, if sports fans can manage post-game cleanups, why shouldn't the average citizen do the same after their daily coffee run?

But there's the twist: Japan did once have trash cans everywhere. When I visited the country in the early '90s, bins were as common as [something funny]. Then came 1995.

Following the Tokyo subway sarin attack by members of a domestic cult, public bins were removed - not because bins were involved in the attack, but because authorities feared they could be used to conceal explosives. And once they were gone, they never came back.

Why? Possibly because officials realised they had stumbled upon an incredible cost-saving strategy disguised as a security measure. No bins means no maintenance no overflowing trash, and no need to pay workers to empty them. Genius.

Fast forward to today, and Japan's waste disposal system is now part scavenger hunt, part endurance challenge. Trash bins do exist, usually at train stations or parks, but finding one is like spotting a rare Pokémon - thrilling, but unlikely.

Even convenience stores, once a safe haven for disposal needs, have mostly removed their public bins. Their message? "We appreciate your business. We do not appreciate your trash."

Why the change?

One reason is cost-cutting - because nothing says efficiency like shifting disposal responsibility onto customers.

The other is misuse, as people were increasingly seen dumping their household rubbish there.

As to WHY people would go out of their way to take their own household rubbish to a difference place, is, however, a complete mystery to me.

After all, this is not Switzerland, where a ten-pack of 35-litre bags can cost as much as 25 EUR, and where I could understand why people may want to sneak by without paying. But here?

And while Japan's waste discipline is admirable, there are still some rebels lurking among us.

Enter my wife, self-appointed "head of the local waste enforcement division" (unofficial title, but well-earned).

Earlier this week, she discovered an entire bag of household cans and bottles dumped in a bin next to a vending machine across the street - a bin clearly designed for vending machine waste only. Outraged, she swung into action, printing and laminating a bilingual warning sign with the energy of a woman who refuses to tolerate trash-based anarchy.

She has, in fact, become quite the wizz when it comes to producing high-quality signs.

After all, this wasn't her first time going into battle, and who can blame her? Because if everyone were to turn a blind eye and think that it's someone else's job, where would that lead, right?

So, we've actually got our own small neighbourhood watch going, in order to keep our street clean. Even the kids next doors heave joined the fight - using chalk-based shaming tactics on delinquent dog owners.

 When someone failed to pick up their poodle's poo, the kids marked the exact spot, writing: "27/04 - The day a poo was made here."

The perpetrator (the owner, not the poodle) surely saw it the next day, a masterpiece of passive-aggressive education.

And then there's the tale of the abandoned bike.

Over a year ago, on my morning walks along the nearby river, I spotted a bike in the grass. After several sightings, it became quite obvious that its owner had decided to get rid of it, presumably too lazy (or too cheap) to dispose of it properly (against a charge).

Since then, it has endured storms, been knocked over countless times, only to be propped up again by someone probably taking pity on the metal beast.

Then, one fine day a few weeks ago, its basket suddenly sported discarded rubbish bags! Some delirious individual must have thought that in the absence of public bins, it would make an ideal rubbish dump!

A couple of weeks later, after stormy weather, the bike had been blown over again, spilling all the rubbish onto the ground. Come the following week, the bike was upright again, with the rubbish beside it. And a few days later, the rubbish had suddenly miraculously disappeared - though the bike was still there...

The way things are going, the poor bicycle may continue its existence in the exact same spot for years or decades to come, unless authorities will respond to my wife's request and haul it away at some point.

So yes, Japan has mastered cleanliness, but even in well-mannered Japan, there are ill-mannered exceptions to the rule. And if you think you can sneakily dump your trash where it doesn't belong, just know - the neighbourhood police are watching!