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Droves of braying donkeys were once the backbone of Pakistan’s commercial hub Karachi, but growing upkeep costs and the surging sprawl of the city are putting them out to pasture.Jittering donkey carts have long been essential for aftermarket transport from southern Karachi’s wholesale bazaars, nested in narrow streets preventing regular vehicles from accessing their trove of wares.For low-income workers, the beasts of burden provided a path to financial stability — their resilience, low overheads and integral role guaranteeing a modest and stable profit to live off.But punishing inflation has made feed costly whilst the city has exploded in size, accommodating around 50 times more people today than before Pakistan’s independence, with vast distances testing the animal’s limits.”We continued the work of our fathers, but I want my kids to study and do something else,” said Mohammad Atif, the warden of a donkey called Raja — meaning “King”.The 27-year-old spends up to 750 rupees ($2.70) on hay for Raja per day. It used to cost just 200 rupees, the same amount Atif pays for a plate of food he splits with a colleague on increasingly common slow days.”Now you can’t make a living in this line of work,” Atif told AFP in the colonial-era Bolton Market where everything from spices and water to cutlery and construction equipment is sold.A good shift may earn him up to 4,000 rupees, far short of the expenses of his dependents and donkey.- Heyday over -There are just shy of six million donkeys in Pakistan, according to government estimates, one for every 40 people in the country.Local animal broker Aslam Shah told AFP the majority were in Karachi, which exploded into a megacity of more than 20 million people after mass migration in the partition of Pakistan and India.But the 69-year-old said they’re no longer a desired commodity at an animal market held each Sunday.”Sometimes weeks and months go by without us selling a single one,” he said.Bolton Market springs to life at mid-morning as shopkeepers lift their shutters, and housewives in apartments above lower baskets from their balconies to collect orders of foodstuffs.As customers prepare to leave, post-sale negotiations begin on who will win the work of hauling shopping away. But most donkey carts are empty with their owners and animals idle.The carts were once so dominant on roads that the government issued them licence plates. But the metropolis has sprawled with expressways and overpasses off-limits to animal carriages.”I have been told there is lots to carry and that I would have to travel to the other side of the city to deliver goods,” said 21-year-old Ali Usman, in envy of a three-wheeled motorised rickshaw being loaded with rice sacks.”It will take me three to four hours,” he said. “In this time, the rickshaw will have made two trips so the work has not been given to me.”- Stubbornly remaining -Noman Farhat, a wholesaler at Empress Market, built in 1884, said he tries to give some work to donkey owners every day — a small act of mercy despite their impracticality.”They are a part of our culture, and I would be loathe to see them go out of business,” he said.One Karachi animal welfare activist who asked to remain anonymous said increasingly long journeys and poor road conditions are knackering the animals.”Due to a lack of resources, donkey owners use rope or a piece of cloth in place of proper harnesses leading to severe chaffing and skin wounds,” she said.Mistreatment can also cause muzzle mutilation that restricts eating, she said.But some stubbornly believe donkeys will remain at the heart of Karachi.”Despite the harsh conditions they often face, these animals are an essential part of the informal economy,” said Sheema Khan, manager of Karachi’s Benji Project animal shelter.”It is still the cheapest form of transport,” she said.At a wholesale market, pointing to his two sons and grandson loading rice and wheat onto their carts, Ghulam Rasool is inclined to agree.”This work will never end, it will endure till doomsday,” said the 76-year-old.”So what if there are two or three days of no work? There will always be someone who needs us.”

Fujio Uemura has to rest after driving fish all night to Tokyo, under new rules that trucking firms and experts say are crippling Japan’s logistics sector and risk pushing up prices for consumers.The regulations are aimed at easing the stress of the badly paid hard slog of trucking, and making it more attractive to young people in ageing Japan, where some 90 percent of goods are transported by road.”Before, I’d drive as long as I could before taking a break,” said Uemura after his 1,000-kilometre (620-mile) journey from Oita in southern Japan with his load of fresh fillets.”Long hours don’t bother me. It’s my job,” the slim 59-year-old told AFP after leaping athletically down from the cab of his refrigerated 10-tonne vehicle.Since April, truck drivers’ annual overtime has been capped at 960 hours, or 80 hours per month on average, alongside new rules including on break stops.Previously, there was no effective limit and many drivers worked around the clock to expand their meagre take-home pay.But it can be a lonely and unhealthy life, with long, irregular hours on the road contributing to high rates of heart disease and strokes.Despite its importance to the world’s fourth-biggest economy, the trucking industry occupies a weak position in Japan’s economic hierarchy.Truck drivers generally work 20 percent longer than the average worker but earn around 10 percent less, or around 4.5 million yen ($30,000) per year. Almost one in five works 60 hours a week or more.- ‘Urgent issue’ -Most of Japan’s roughly 63,000 trucking businesses are small players with 10 or fewer vehicles, and even before the new rules most struggled.They survived by cutting prices or offering free loading and unloading, often by hand. Drivers frequently wait for hours at no extra cost to customers.But the new rules are the final straw, said Haruhiko Hoshino, a senior official at the Japan Trucking Association.”Reducing drivers’ work hours means turning down jobs. Turning down jobs means that items will not be delivered,” Hoshino told AFP.Without meaningful reforms Japan by 2030 will lack the capacity to move as much as 34 percent of its domestic cargo, according to a study often cited by the government.”The government is tackling this issue with all of its strength,” transport minister Tetsuo Saito said last month, calling it an “urgent issue”.The effects were already visible with reports of airports struggling to secure enough aviation fuel earlier this year and fruit and vegetables arriving late.Firms have teamed up to share lorries, an unthinkable step before the new rules, while dairy companies are looking at standardising containers.The government’s answer to what has been dubbed the “2024 Problem” is for companies to cut trucking firms some slack and not to insist on discounts and freebies.- ‘We are the victims’ -But ultimately the answer is for users and ordinary consumers to pay higher prices, said Hiroaki Oshima, professor at Ryutsu Keizai University.This could be a headache for Japan’s new Prime Minister Shigeru Ishiba after elections on October 27.His predecessor Fumio Kishida suffered from poor popularity in part because of inflation squeezing incomes.”In the end, who, right now, should pay for their fair share? I believe it’s the society, it’s those who send and receive cargos, it’s consumers,” said Oshima, who is also a senior advisor at NX Logistics Research Institute and Consulting.Uemura used to spend mornings collecting fish products at various places in his home region and brought them to Tokyo on his own.Now his employer Portline Service sends separate drivers for the pick-ups before Uemura drives off for Tokyo in the afternoon.Portline’s boss Katsuya Doi said this costs him an additional 1.3 million yen ($8,750) or more every month.”We are the victims. It should not be just us or our clients who have to bear the cost,” he told AFP.Doi is working with rival firms to share assignments, negotiate fee increases and host public seminars to encourage consumer awareness.Nonetheless, Uemura’s 35-year-old son is taking to the wheel after quitting shipbuilding.”I told him that this is not a job that lets you sleep a lot,” Uemura said with a chuckle. “You earn more with your hard work.”