The very word "lingerie" is a French export -- used from Japan to Holland to Brazil -- but France has been slow to adapt to a changing mood in the global industry which no longer treats expensive underwear primarily as a weapon of seduction.

The shift has been noticeable in recent years in other Western countries, measured most notably in declining sales at Victoria's Secret, the US store that brought sexy lingerie to the mass market in the 1970s and then made billions worldwide by promoting images of impossible physical perfection. 

Judging by its typical billboards and shop windows, France held out longer than others, but could not ignore the change forever. 

"The priority is no longer seduction, it's no longer about attracting men's attention," said Pascale Renaud, who directed a short film to launch this year's French expo, Promincor-Lingerie. 

No photo-shopped sexualised models in her film -- instead it is women of all sizes and ages, exercising, dancing, meditating, riding motorbikes... essentially, being real people. 

"Women are playing things differently these days... We see it in all the publicity," said Renaud. 

"Things that were seen as faults in the past -- a few extra kilos, lines, scars -- today, these are signs of individuality." 

The products featured at the expo were themselves signs of the changing mood. 

Empreinte's plus-size bras were pitched as something "to be forgotten once they are on", while another model in black lace was trailed as "sports chic", with the focus very much on assisting posture and distributing weight. 

Another with straps that can be crossed at the back was specially designed to cushion movements associated with boxing and horse riding. 

"Women complain that they can only find bras that either squash or bother them, or don't offer support. It has taken several years to get here," said its director Noemie Berthaux. 

- 'Inclusivity' -

As with so much else, the pandemic has accelerated the trend. 

With many turning to yoga during the past year's lockdowns, the bra-and-leggings combo has become particularly popular.

Ethical concerns as well as practical ones are driving the change. 

"After #MeToo, pictures of objectified women with large breasts and idealised bums are no longer acceptable," said Brigitte Chauchon, commercial director for Lejaby.

"There's a strong demand now for inclusivity. We are moving away from this model of women with perfect measurements."

That means au revoir to push-up bras in favour of practical shapes, ecologically-sourced materials and maximum comfort.

Glamour still exists, but its meaning is being redefined.

Flesh-coloured tones, once seen as dowdy and unflattering, are "now much more fashionable," said Stephanie Perele, a director at her family's brand, Simone Perele.

"We're now having fun working with transparent designs, adding little details."

"Underwear can be invisible, like a second skin, but still very sophisticated," added Chauchon.

"It's about women who are pleasing themselves, comfortable in who they are, who have their own lives that are free from traditional demands."

neo/er/tgb

© Agence France-Presse

Johannesburg, South Africa | Queueing outside an upmarket Johannesburg clothing store, young fashion lovers hope to lay their hands on the latest sneakers to come out of the United States.

For South Africa's city dwellers, sneakers are more than just shoes.

As a marker of personality as well as social status, they are cared for and worn with pride, and youths compete to hunt down the rarest models from a market flooded with old and new sneakers -- including many fakes. 

"Sneakers kind of tell your story," graffiti artist Rasik "Mr.ekse" Green told AFP as he was spray-painting a commissioned mural on the rooftop of a building in downtown Johannesburg.

Green's elaborate graffiti designs -- which he also uses to redecorate and personalise sneakers -- are highly sought after.

The shoes are often an expression of geographic roots in a country with 12 official languages and dozens of ethnicities.  

"For instance we know Cape Townians love their bubbles," said Green, referring to a chunky, thick-soled Nike design.

And residents of the Johannesburg township of Soweto "love their (Converse) All Stars", he said. "It's kind of a code."

The athletic footwear craze is linked to African American hip-hop culture, which infuses South Africa's rich musical heritage as well as its fashion. 

Collecting and trading shoes has become a hobby in Africa's most industrialised nation, with aficionados known as "sneaker heads".

In 2019, 800 pairs of Reeboks, created in a limited edition in collaboration with South African rap sensation AKA, sold out 10 minutes after their online release.

A South African brand, Bathu -- slang for "shoe" -- conquered the local market with a unique mesh design.

While its low-end sneakers cost 1,300 rand ($84), Bathu came out with a limited edition, the Opel GSI, with only 80 pairs which it sold for 397,000 rand each in June 2019.

"That wouldn't have happened 30 years ago," Green said.

But another designer, Andile "ScotchIsDope" Cele, warned that sneaker fanaticism is "becoming about class."

Paying extravagant amounts for the shoes is "almost like an investment to say, you're helping yourself, so that you can live with these (wealthy) people... almost like 'fake it till you make it' type of thing."

- Worn 'art piece' -

Sneakers have not always been viewed positively in South Africa.

Gangsters terrorising townships during the 1980s often wore Chuck Taylor All Stars, a high-topped stitched canvas shoe manufactured by the US firm Converse.

The sneakers, originally designed as basketball shoes, acquired a "thug" reputation that stuck.

"My parents didn't want me to get a pair because it was mixed up with a certain culture that was for criminals," recalled Hector Mgiba, 28, who has an extensive collection of Converse All-Stars.

He said Converse shoes were also associated with "pantsula", a dance born among young black township dwellers as a form of protest against apartheid, and snubbed by older generations.

"Pantsula" dancers typically wore smart shirts, flare trousers and All-Stars -- perfect for their quick steps and hops.    

Mgiba, a teenager at the time, saved up to buy a second-hand pair behind his parents' back.

"I loved it so much and I wanted to pave my own way to how I express myself," he said.

"The way it fades when it gets worn out, it becomes more of an art piece."

A popular music genre known as Kwaito that emerged in Soweto during the 1990s cast Converse into a new light.

Dancers in colourful All Stars turned the shoe into a symbol of township youth in post-apartheid South Africa.

Today the rubber-soled shoe is worn with both formal fitted suits and casual dress by young South Africans of all backgrounds and skin tones.

- 'Bringing us together' -

As demand for sneakers has grown, local entrepreneurs have become fierce rivals to international brands.

Unable to afford the latest sneakers as a young boy, local designer Lekau Sehoana made his first pair of sneakers from worn-out shoes, old jeans and polyurethane.

His "Drip" footwear brand, launched in 2019, gained popularity with its brightly coloured bubble soles and stretchy material.

Sehoana now uses part of the company's earnings to make shoes for children in townships.

"I guess it's one way of uniting us and bringing us together, as a people, as a country, as different races," Green said.

"Besides all our differences, at least we share one common thing... shoes."

mgu/sch/gd/oho

© Agence France-Presse

Beijing, China | Until recently, few people had even heard of the Chinese billionaire with a gruff reputation who built a fortune on China's seemingly unquenchable demand for his ubiquitous red-capped bottled water.

But reclusive Zhong Shanshan has become Asia's richest man following the stock listings last year of his Nongfu Spring mineral water and separate pharma company Wantai Biological Pharmacy Enterprise, which has tapped into massive demand for Covid-19 test kits.

Zhong's net worth has surged to $85 billion and made him the seventh-richest person on the planet, Hurun Report, a China-based compiler of "rich lists", said last week.

Called a "lone wolf" by Chinese media for his rare public appearances and aversion to interviews, Zhong has achieved one of the fastest accumulations of wealth in history, according to Bloomberg.

He became the first Chinese entrepreneur to enter Hurun's top-ten global rich list this year, leaping out of nowhere to put him hot on the heels of Facebook's Mark Zuckerberg and American investor Warren Buffett.

Not bad for someone who dropped out of school at the age of 12 during the political upheaval of China's 1966-76 Cultural Revolution, and whose later jobs included bricklayer, carpenter and news reporter, according to Chinese media.

Zhong founded Nongfu Spring in 1996 and still owns an 84 percent stake in the company which, according to market research firm Mintel, holds more than a quarter of the bottled water market in China, where many people avoid tap water over health concerns.

In contrast to charismatic Alibaba founder Jack Ma -- who Zhong dethroned as China's richest man -- little is known about Nongfu's billionaire boss aside from his gruff image.

"I don't have the habit of flattery in my personality," he once told Chinese media in a rare interview. 

"I don't like to deal with people and have to drink," he added, referring to a Chinese business culture that encourages excessive wining and dining to cement deals.

His fortunes have risen just as those of Chinese tech companies have slid.

- Political scrutiny -

Ma is now worth a comparatively paltry $55 billion, according to Hurun, after government regulators launched an anti-monopoly investigation into his tech empire, which has pummelled Alibaba's share price and left a massive IPO by financial arm Ant Group in limbo.

Although Alibaba and Nongfu are headquartered in the humming eastern tech hub of Hangzhou, Zhong is not a regular attendee at the city's business events, one local entrepreneur told China Economic Weekly.

A former business partner told state media he once attended an industry conference with Zhong, who "went to the stage to give a speech, and offended everyone as soon as he opened his mouth", without providing details of the offending words.

Alongside Nongfu, which listed last year in Hong Kong, Zhong is also the biggest shareholder in Wantai, which went public in Shanghai.

The group's rapid Covid-19 test gives results in 75 minutes and, according to its website, has shipped more than 10 million kits.

Wantai is also developing a Covid-19 vaccine nasal spray in conjunction with a prominent university.

Wantai is the biopharma arm of Yangshengtang Group, a medical company Zhong founded three years before Nongfu, which specialises in infectious diseases and says it is the largest production base in Asia for HIV diagnostic reagent.

Hurun says the share listings make Zhong one of only a handful of entrepreneurs in the world today to have founded more than one $10 billion business.

Zhong has a stake, investment or board role in more than 100 companies, according to Chinese business data.

But like other high-profile Chinese industrialists, he has to tread a line between commercial success and official scrutiny.

"The Chinese Communist Party wants Chinese businesses to become big and become international, but it also wants to retain some degree of control over them," said Yun Jiang, director of China Policy Centre in Canberra. 

She says no high-profile business people can entirely hope to "escape political scrutiny" -- particularly once they appear on rich list rankings.

bur-rox/dma/rma

© Agence France-Presse

Paris, France | SoundCloud announced Tuesday it would become the first streaming service to link subscribers' payments directly to the independent artists they support, a move welcomed by musicians campaigning for fairer pay.

At the moment, streaming services like Spotify, Deezer and Apple put royalty payments into one big pot and dish them out based on which artists have the most global plays. 

Many artists and unions argue this system is grossly unfair, giving a huge slice of the pie to mega-stars like Drake and Ariana Grande while leaving almost nothing for lesser-known musicians. 

From April 1, SoundCloud will start using a new system in which the royalties taken from each individual subscriber will only go to artists they stream. 

However, this will only apply for the roughly 100,000 independent artists who monetise directly through the site. Musicians licenced from major labels will continue to be paid via the traditional pooled method.

SoundCloud said the new payment system -- known as "fan-powered royalties" or a "user-centric model" -- would empower listeners and encourage greater diversity in musical styles. 

"Artists are now better equipped to grow their careers by forging deeper connections with their most dedicated fans," the statement said. "Fans can directly influence how their favorite artists are paid."

- 'Distortion in value' -

Major record labels are thought to be resistant to "user-centric" payments, in part because the current system allows them to generate massive profits through a relatively small number of huge stars. 

A study by France's National Music Centre earlier this year found that 10 percent of all revenues from Spotify and Deezer go to just 10 artists at the very top.

That has allowed the major labels to amass record revenues over the past year, just as most musicians were thrown into crisis by the cancellation of live tours due to the pandemic. 

French streaming platform Deezer, which has been pushing for the user-centric system for months but has been blocked by label resistance, said SoundCloud's scheme was "a great first step". 

"Deezer stands ready to launch a full (user-centric payment system) pilot and we look forward to having SoundCloud on our side in convincing the labels to do it," chief content and strategy officer Alexander Holland told AFP.

Earlier this year, label bosses told a British parliamentary commission investigating the streaming economy that it may be too complicated for platforms to shift to fan-based royalty payments. 

SoundCloud, which has been trialing the new model for months, said this was exactly wrong -- that its computing calculations took just 20 minutes for user-centric, compared with 23 hours for the pooled model. 

"The most important takeaway from SoundCloud's data is that none of the previous modeling has been accurate, that when you actually run a user-centric system, the rewards to artists that have an audience are significantly improved," said Crispin Hunt, chair of the British Ivors Academy. The Academy has been running a campaign to "fix streaming". 

"It proves the distortion in value that the existing model delivers," he said.

- 'Interesting initiative' -

The French National Music Centre study, which only used data from Spotify and Deezer, found that changing to fan-based royalties would make only a slight difference to the income of smaller artists.

It would take around 4.5 million euros from the top 10 but distribute it very thinly around lower tiers, it said.

But SoundCloud found it made a significant difference. Using the example of an artist with 124,000 followers, it said they would see an increase in royalties from $120 to $600 per month.

It said the overall effect was that 90 percent of royalty payouts would now be driven by 90 percent of listeners, rather than just 40 percent of listeners under the existing model. 

SoundCloud said its positive data may be linked to the particular nature of its users, who tend to be "younger and much more active". 

It was launched in Berlin in 2007 as a sort of YouTube for music, allowing anyone to upload their music, from scrappy garage band covers to dubstep DJ sets. 

This made it hugely popular, with some 175 million users by 2019. But it struggled to generate revenues and landed in legal trouble over the number of unauthorised remixes and covers on the site.

In 2016, it shifted strategy, signing deals with the major labels to provide a premium service with a catalogue similar to those of its rivals. But it has remained a long way off the customer numbers of Spotify, Amazon and Deezer.

er/lth

© Agence France-Presse

Rabat, Morocco |Hollywood's Angelina Jolie and Britain's iconic wartime prime minister Sir Winston Churchill,a keen artist who took inspiration from the Moroccan city of Marrakesh, combined for a March 1 date at Christie's auction house in London.

"The Tower of the Koutoubia Mosque", an oil painting Churchill produced during a World War II visit, sold for £7 million ($9.75 million), smashing expectations it would fetch between £1.5 million and £2.5 million ($2 million and $3.5 million).

Put up for auction by Angelina Jolie, it was vaunted in Christie's catalogue as "Churchill's most important work. Aside from its distinguished provenance, it is the only landscape he made" during the war.

A career army officer before entering politics, Churchill started to paint relatively late, at the age of 40.

His passion for the translucent light of Marrakesh, far from the political storms and drab skies of London, dates back to the 1930s when most of Morocco was a French protectorate, and he went on to make six visits to the North African country over the course of 23 years.

"Here in these spacious palm groves rising from the desert the traveller can be sure of perennial sunshine... and can contemplate with ceaseless satisfaction the stately and snow-clad panorama of the Atlas Mountains," he wrote in 1936 in Britain's Daily Mail newspaper.

He would set up his easel on the balconies of the grandiose La Mamounia hotel or the city's Villa Taylor, beloved by the European jet set of the 1970s.

It was from the villa, after a historic January 1943 conference in Casablanca with US president Franklin Roosevelt and France's Charles de Gaulle, that he painted what came to be regarded as his finest work, of the minaret behind the ramparts of the Old City, with mountains behind and tiny colourful figures in front.

"You cannot come all this way to North Africa without seeing Marrakesh," he is reputed to have told Roosevelt. "I must be with you when you see the sun set on the Atlas Mountains."

A newspaper photograph taken at the time shows the two wartime Allied leaders admiring the sunset.

- 'Truly remarkable panorama' -

After the US delegation had left, Churchill stayed on an extra day and painted the view of the Koutoubia Mosque framed by the mountains.

He sent it to Roosevelt for his birthday.

"This is Churchill's diplomacy at its most personal and intense," said Christie's head of modern British and Irish art, Nick Orchard. "It is not an ordinary gift between leaders. This is soft power, and it is what the special relationship is all about."

Sold by the Roosevelt family in the 1950s, it changed hands several times before passing on to Hollywood dream couple Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in 2011, well before their high-profile separation.

A second Churchill landscape, "Scene in Marrakesh", painted on his first visit to Morocco in 1935, also went under the hammer at Christie's on Monday.

That was painted while on a stay at Mamounia, where he marvelled at the "truly remarkable panorama over the tops of orange trees and olives", in a letter to his wife Clementine.

The hotel today has a suite and a bar named after its illustrious guest. 

ko/sof/hc/kir

© Agence France-Presse

Dakhla Oasis, Egypt | Surrounded by thousands of live scorpions in a laboratory deep in Egypt's Western Desert, Ahmed Abu al-Seoud carefully handles one of the curved-tailed arachnids before extracting a drop of its venom.

A mechanical engineer who worked in the oil sector for almost two decades, Abu al-Seoud decided in 2018 to strike a different path -- producing scorpion venom for pharmaceutical research purposes.

"I was surfing the internet and saw scorpion venom was one of the most expensive on the market," said the 44-year-old, clad in a white lab coat.

"So I thought to myself: Why not take advantage of this desert environment where they roam around?"

Biomedical researchers are studying the pharmaceutical properties of scorpion venom, making the rare and potent neurotoxin a highly sought-after commodity now produced in several Middle Eastern countries.

"Dozens of scorpion-derived bioactive molecules have been shown to possess promising pharmacological properties," said a review published last May in the journal Biomedicines.

It said labs are now studying its potential anti-microbial, immuno-suppressive and anti-cancer effects, among others, hoping to one day use or synthesise them for medicines.

Abu al-Seoud is from the Dakhla oasis, located in Egypt's vast New Valley province and around 800 kilometres (500 miles) southwest of the capital Cairo.

Sand dunes and towering palms surround his laboratory, which he affectionately calls the "Scorpion Kingdom".

"Here, every family has a story about a scorpion sting," Abu al-Seoud said.

To get the animals to secrete venom in the controlled conditions of the lab, the scorpions are given a slight electric shock.

Workers wait 20-30 days between extractions to obtain the highest quality venom.

"What matters is the level of purity," Abu al-Seoud said, adding that one gram requires the venom of 3,000-3,500 scorpions.

- Deathstalker -

The liquid is refrigerated and transported to Cairo, where it is dried and packaged for sale as powder.

The laboratory "is certified (by the government) and has the ability to export this unique product", said 25-year-old Nahla Abdel-Hameed, a pharmacist who works at the centre.

Abdel-Hameed referred to some scientific studies that explored the healing benefits of the venom in curing certain diseases.

Mohey Hafez, a member of the pharmaceutical chamber at the Federation of Egyptian Industries, was more cautious in his assessment of its current uses.

"Scorpion and snake venoms can be used in making antisera," he explained to AFP.

"There is no ready-made medication that entirely depends on the venom as a direct ingredient, but there has been promising research into its uses".

New Valley province boasts around five different species of scorpions, including the sought-after deathstalker (Leiurus quinquestriatus), whose venom sells for up to $7,500 per gram, according to Abu al-Seoud.

While he himself also catches the creatures, he employs residents of nearby villages for the risky activity, equipping them with gloves, tweezers, boots, UV lights -- and antivenom.

The scorpion hunters earn one to 1.5 Egyptian pounds (around six to 10 cents) per animal.

Pharmacist Abdel-Hameed said the arachnids are caught in residential areas so as not to harm "the ecological balance".

"I classify them according to the area where they were caught, the species and size," she said.

Her colleague Iman Abdel-Malik said that although the scorpions could go without eating for long periods, they were given "food and protein to increase the toxin excretion" -- comprised of cockroaches and worms twice a month in the summer, and less during the winter hibernation.

- 'Bad reputation' -

There are plans to breed the scorpions in the future rather than catching them, the veterinarian aged in her 20s added.

About 20,000 of the animals have been collected so far, according to business partner Alaa Sabaa, while the lab has a maximum capacity of 80,000.

He said the first scorpion venom extractions took place in December and January after two years of preparations, and yielded "three grams of venom".

The self-financed project has so far cost about five million pounds, or around $320,000, he said, and has also attracted government support.

They also extract bee venom and sell agricultural products, including aromatic plants.

While Egypt has been producing various types of venom for years, Abu al-Seoud said, it was often done illegally or was of poor quality.

He said he hoped his operation would one day be an antidote to the country's "bad reputation" in the sector.

"We are trying to show off the country's capabilities... through a high-quality product that has been studied scientifically as well as produced and exported legally," he said.

bam/ff/lg/fz

© Agence France-Presse

Timeless ease fills the room as passengers wait to embark on the fabled Blue Train for a luxurious two-night trek across South Africa.

But even in this cosseted world, 2021 intrudes, showing that nothing can escape the grip of the coronavirus pandemic.

Passengers are discreetly ushered off in small groups to a fast-track coronavirus testing centre nearby. 

A negative result, sent by text, is followed by an elegant appetiser lunch -- the final step before "All aboard!" signals the start of the adventure. 

In the background stands the dashing Blue Train, ready to accommodate excited passengers in 19 plush wagons lined with wooden panels and polished brass.

Forty-eight hours of pampering begins as the train rolls out of the station on a 1,600-kilometre (994-mile) trip through the Karoo desert, slicing up the middle of the country to the capital Pretoria.

Arid ochre landscapes gradually morph into rolling hills and green pastures sporadically broken up by mining towns and informal settlements.

The Blue Train is a perfect escape from the cares of the world.

Ironically, most South Africans could never have dreamed of affording its luxury before Covid appeared.

But coronavirus travel restrictions have stemmed the flow of wealthy international tourists that long dominated the train's clientele, mainly from Australia, Britain and Japan.

Service resumed in November with heavily discounted prices. Today nearly all its passengers are from South Africa.

"I grew up knowing there was a Blue Train, it was unaffordable," said Cape Town-based doctor Mashiko Setshedi, accompanied by her 67-year-old mother. "Thanks to Covid it became possible."

Unlike Setshedi, most of the passengers were white couples in their 50s and 60s. 

"Our trip to the US was cancelled in 2020," said Bennie Christoff, a 54-year-old financial advisor, flanked by his wife.

"We are locked in and the Blue Train is one of the things I wanted to do. My grandparents told us about it." 

The decades-old train is run by Southstate logistics firm Transnet African , which has struggled to keep rail traffic smooth since the economic setbacks of the pandemic fuelled a surge in cable theft.

- 'Once-in-a-lifetime' - 

A discounted ticket still comes at a steep minimum price of 23,000 rand ($1,544) -- about four times the average monthly minimum wage in one of the world's most unequal countries. 

"Returning guests are rare," barman Simon Moteka said. "It's often a once-in-a-lifetime experience for them."

Sliding drinks over the counter, the 43-year-old expertly navigated conversation, peppering discreet small talk with the occasional well-placed joke.  

As dinner time neared, a loudspeaker announcement politely reminded men to don a coat or waistcoat and "women to be as elegant as possible". 

Flip-flops and shorts gave way to dark suits and dresses before passengers made their way to the restaurant car, filling the narrow passageway with the scent of perfume.

The sun was setting as diners were shown to their tables, casting a golden glow over the sheep-dotted Karoo whizzing past the windows.

Each dish on the three to five-course menu is paired with a different glass of wine.

Dessert -- deconstructed cheesecake or a lemon meringue tart -- was followed by a shot of grappa or a sweet South African white from Klein Constantia. 

"Nelson Mandela's favourite," said restaurant manager Sydney Masenyani, ramrod straight and impeccably dressed.

The 61-year-old started his career as a senior waiter on a smaller train in 1981.

In 1993, he joined an all-white team of staffers, two years after apartheid formally ended.

His first months were tough. Tall and shy, Masenyani was often teased.

Four years later, Mandela himself stepped on board to launch a new, fully revamped Blue Train, flanked by US music producer Quincy Jones and British model Naomi Campbell. 

"It was wonderful," Masenyani recalled, vividly describing the red carpet and the nervous bodyguards.

"Motorbikes on the road, helicopters," he glowed. "We took photos with him."

The highlight was serving Mandela his favourite chocolate fondant "with a passion fruit heart" and a sweet South African dessert wine.        

"In fact, he was sitting at the same table as you," Masenyani gleefully told the AFP journalists.

"That's what he tells everyone," joked a passenger overhearing the conversation.

- Invisible fairies -

Some satisfied diners retreated to their freshly made cabin beds. Others headed to the observation car with its outsize windows, the lounge or the club for a nightcap.

Once on board, everything from the first morning coffee to a midnight cigar is included in the ticket price.

Cash is banished -- passengers are asked to tuck their wallets away and "surrender to the luxury of the show."

Time becomes fluid. Between meals and naps, the day is spent reading, playing cards and making new friends.

Every evening, invisible fairies tiptoe into the cabins while dinner is served. 

They bring firm mattresses down from nooks in the walls and stretch fresh-smelling duvets tightly across.

From fluffy pillows, one can turn to the window and gaze at the moon-lit landscape rolling by under a starry sky.

Tucked under the blankets, a hot shower or bath awaiting in the morning, passengers rocked by the gentle motion drift off to sleep. 

ger/sch/sn/tgb/ri

© Agence France-Presse

The Japanese town of Taro had sea walls that were supposed to be able to survive almost anything the ocean could offer up, but the 2011 tsunami still brought utter destruction.

A decade after the deadly waves unleashed by one of the most powerful earthquakes in recorded history, the lesson learned in many coastal towns was: build higher.

That has left a legacy cast in concrete along hundreds of kilometres of Japan's northeastern coast -- with a few notable exceptions where communities have rejected the imposing barriers.

Before 2011, people in Taro assumed their walls would withstand just about everything.

"Taro had built a perfect town to prevent disaster," 63-year-old local tour guide Kumiko Motoda told AFP.

The town adopted sea walls as early as 1934, after being engulfed by huge tsunamis in 1896 and 1933.

Its 10-metre high barriers, running 2.4 kilometres (1.5 miles) in total, were known collectively as "The Great Wall" and came with 44 tsunami evacuation routes, equipped with solar panels to keep the lights on.

Roads were designed with clear views for evacuees, and residents were supposed to be able to get to safety in less than 10 minutes, Motoda explained.

But the 16-metre wave that arrived on March 11 made quick work of those best-laid plans, streaming over the walls and partially destroying them as it carried away homes and cars.

Across Taro, 140 residents were killed and 41 remain missing. 

After the disaster, Japan's government asked coastal regions in the area to consider constructing or rebuilding protective walls, eventually setting aside 1.3 trillion yen ($12 billion) in funds.

In all, 430 kilometres of non-contiguous barriers will be built, with construction around 80 percent complete.

- 'Disaster-prone archipelago' -

The structures have reshaped the coastal landscape, screening long sections of the sea from view.

In Taro, the walls are now up to 14.7 metres high and run for over two kilometres.

At their base, residents must crane their necks to even see the top. For a glimpse of the ocean, they must climb more than 30 steps up a staircase that looks like it leads directly to the sky.

Experts say the barriers are worth it, offering two key protections: bouncing back the power of the waves, which reduces damage, and buying time for evacuation.

Even a few minutes can count for everything, said Tomoya Shibayama, a professor of civil and environmental engineering at Waseda University.

"There were many moments (in 2011) where these few minutes of time decided whether people were able to evacuate or were caught up by the tsunami," he told AFP.  

Newer designs incorporate wider bases and reinforced inner walls to stop the barriers being toppled and better absorb the force of multiple waves.

Heights have been adjusted based on new predictions of the highest waves that could occur in once-in-a-century tsunamis.

Other lessons have been learned too, with improved warning systems, computer simulations to map evacuation routes and relocations of communities.

While the barriers aren't enough alone, Shibayama said, they remain necessary.

"There is always a risk of natural disasters," even if communities relocate. "Japan is a disaster-prone archipelago," he warned.

Taro's experience in 2011 showed the walls are not a fail-safe solution.

"There were people who didn't evacuate, thinking the tsunami wouldn't reach them," Motoda noted.

- 'This is my home' -

The initial warning described a three-metre wave, and by the time it was upgraded to a 10-metre warning, power outages meant many missed the alert.

A large quake two days earlier had also only produced a minor wave, possibly lulling some into a false sense of security.

"The sea walls are here to buy time for people to evacuate, not to stop a tsunami," Motoda said.

Motoda, whose mother remains missing after the tsunami, believes the walls serve another poignant purpose: keeping bodies from washing out to sea.

"I feel she would have returned home if the sea walls hadn't been destroyed," she said.

But the walls are not without controversy, and some communities have rejected being cut off from the sea, regardless of the risks.

The tiny fishing village of Mone in Miyagi lost 42 of its 55 houses in the 2011 tsunami, but instead of building a wall, it decided to move.

"The only way to protect our lives when a tsunami comes is to evacuate to a higher place. Whether there is a sea wall doesn't matter," said local oyster farmer Makoto Hatakeyama.

The village, which lost four people in the tsunami, relocated 40 metres above sea level.

Hatakeyama, like many fishermen, actually headed into the sea in a bid to protect his boat. He survived only by swimming to a nearby island.

He believes sea walls can offer a false sense of security.

"There is nothing you can do about a tsunami... Humans should understand they live in a place where natural disasters such as tsunamis and quakes happen."

And losing a direct connection to the ocean isn't a sacrifice he's willing to make.

"This view, this community's wind, atmosphere... There's almost nowhere like it in Japan," the 42-year-old said.

"(The sea) is my identity. It makes me feel calm. This is my home."

nf/sah/kaf/gle

© Agence France-Presse